The Jakarta flood

Korrie Layun Rampan

He had been whistling all afternoon; several of the other riverbank slum dwellers wondered why Bejo was suddenly in such a good mood. He had earlier been too sulky to talk with his neighbors.

"Got a lot of orders, kang (older brother)?" asked a woman. "Be sure to share them with us, OK?"

Bejo only smiled. Actually, he was tired of living on the riverbank. The putrid smell of the stagnant water filled with sludge and rotten carcasses that filled the cracks of makeshift homes was hard to bear. But that occasional disgust was gradually dulled by exhaustion and hunger. His struggle for survival was greater than any fight against the stench and filth.

The sleazy, crammed neighborhood was not a proper place to dwell in, but he simply had no choice. At first he was driven off from his shanty under the bridge because it was a drug trafficking area. Later he had to leave the gate of a traditional market due to its planned conversion into a modern mall.

Then he was forced to abandon the edge of a garbage dump as the site was controlled by a property magnate. After more than a dozen evictions, he settled at his riverside abode.

It was all thanks to Gimin's help.

Bejo would never forget Gimin, for he would have been burned by the fire if he had failed to rescue him.

A fire had raced through the slum area and he had been fast asleep under a burning ceiling until Gimin dragged him out. He was still groggy from weariness after a day's scavenging as he stumbled out on the searing soil.

Hundreds of houses were razed to the ground that night. The rumors were true -- the disaster was due to arson. Inevitably, the location was fenced several days later and hardly a year passed before highrise structures were already erected as a commercial center.

He was indebted to Gimin, who took him to the riverbank after the fire seven years earlier. He had toiled in Jakarta for 10 years following the flooding of his village for a reservoir project.

With little education, Bejo managed to survive by doing casual work. He knew how to farm, but there was no more land in Jakarta that needed cultivation. Through Parjo, he got to know Gimin. Amid Jakarta's tough and squalid atmosphere he could still find a man as kind as Parjo, who gave him food or a bag of rice now and then. He thus settled on the bank with a deep sense of brotherhood.

The riverside community was growing bigger, with new settlers outnumbering those leaving the area. Every day sounded and smelled the same at the site: dangdut music blared from cracked radio and TV sets, children's and men's shouting and scolding, the cries of hungry babies, stinking muck and ribald laughter. It was hard to distinguish the kids from the stray animals passing back and forth along dirty paths and foul ditches. Occupants, animals and their surroundings mixed together.

Bejo looked at the sky, which was almost always overcast in Jakarta due to the high pollution. But the moist air brought by the wind made the area fresher.

He was mumbling about Tholib for a moment. The identity card he ordered was not yet ready while Gimin had warned him to prepare for a hasty exit.

"Tholib asked for twenty-five thousand rupiah," he said as he glanced at Gimin. "It was only twenty last year."

"But have you given him the money?"

"I had to borrow some more from Parjo. I had only twenty."

Without an identity card nothing could be settled. As a slum occupant, Parjo had only obtained a seasonal card. He had no place to return home, in fact. His village, too, had become a reservoir. In Jakarta, like the other illegal residents, he was always suspect, a potential criminal.

"The identity card costs keep rising," he said again as he looked at Gimin, who was an experienced settler in the capital, bold enough to get married with two children. He was capable of supporting his family by relying on casual work.

"The cost of living is soaring as well," remarked Gimin nonchalantly, "let alone the illegal fees."

Though fake, such a card would serve to certify its holder's legal status and Bejo would thus be free to pursue a better livelihood.

"But isn't the ship sailing next week?" Bejo asked Gimin with a curious look.

"It's already scheduled," Gimin assured. "Now all that's left is your identity card, for a safe journey."

"Tholib promised it would be ready tomorrow," he said.

Gimin was indeed his savior. The latest offer was like he had stumbled upon a pile of gold.. One of Gimin's former fellow villagers -- after leaving the riverbank for five years -- told him about making a better living in Kalimantan by growing secondary crops.

"Through hard work here," scrawled Yono from the interior of Kuaro, Tanah Grogot, in his letter to Gimin, "we will earn more than we imagine, with clear prospects. We'll be reaping rewards for our old age."

Gimim showed the letter to Bejo and Parjo, as well as the other scavengers who had gathered. Most of them responded scornfully.

"Dreaming of working as farmers? We're working our fingers to the bone collecting trash right now, so never think about cutting down forests to open up the land," said one.

Bejo, however, could trust Gimin and Yono. It was Yono who first asked him to join but he had no money to board a ship.

"Take Kambuna or Kerinci at Tanjung Priok," Yono wrote. "You'll be in Banjarmasin after two and a half days of sailing. Go by bus to Tanah Grogot. I'll meet you in Kuaro."

Bejo felt if he was already in Kuaro.

"I've prepared land for five to 10 families," continued Yono. "Soybeans or green peas can be grown as starting capital before rubber or coffee."

Bejo was heartened.

"The rubber I planted nearly five years ago will have a harvest next year. There's around five thousand trees."

His eyes focused on the letter. His friend couldn't be lying. Moreover, the letter was addressed to Gimin, who also came from Yono's village in Ambarawa.

To Bejo, Yono was already a wealthy businessman. He was imagining the amount of money from the rubber harvest.

"A waterfall stream can be channeled through plastic tubes for irrigation and fish breeding. In Tanah Grogot and Balikpapan, gold fish is highly commercial."

He was thrilled. After being poor in his village until he was 17, plus another 10 years of adventure in Jakarta, he would change his fate by joining Yono.

Gimin was seen as a thoughtful chap. Why didn't Gimin try his luck with his family instead of telling him, Parjo and the others to do so?

Bejo had been very busy for a week. He had been selling all his belongings except cooking utensils, a mattress and pillow.

"Just save your money in a bank," Yono had added. "Don't bring along cash, you can collect it in Balikpapan. We don't need much money here. If any, you'd better buy top-range chickens..."

Bejo's head swam with great, dizzying thoughts.

With almost all his personal property sold as capital, he ignored the lure of ads or the sweet words of young women eyeing his money. Local people knew him as a diligent worker who was careful with his earnings.

He was whistling again in the dark evening.

After a tiring day's selling, he looked forward to visiting a bank when his identity card was ready the next morning and, as Yono had advised, buying his ticket, with some money left for the Kuaro bus fare and food expenses.

As he calculated, the amount he had earned for seven years from scavenging and casual work was enough for the trip, the purchase of chickens and crop seedlings as well as several months' costs until harvest time. Yono would certainly be ready to lend him some to cover any shortage.

His whistling competed against the bellowing dangdut singers in the riverside neighborhood. He put his bundle of money under his stained mattress, on which he lay with his pillow. Gimin, Parjo and two others would accompany him to the bank to deposit his money for further use in Kuaro.

Bejo was sound asleep. In his dream, he was sailing aboard Kambuna across the Java Sea to the Makassar Strait before reaching Balikpapan. The sea was so tranquil that he wished to immediately leap onto the beach of Kuaro where Yono lived. Huge waves suddenly swirled, rocking the ship and pouring water over him. He was soaked.

He woke up in a shock.

Water was everywhere. He turned out to be floating on his mattress. "Flood! Flood! Flood!" The slum people were screaming along with the roaring sound of roaring water.

He groped for his bundle, but it was gone with the flowing water. His hut was carried away by the flash flood!

Once again, he desperately groped under the mattress, only to find water soaking the mattress.

His pack, and the money, had all vanished.

Where were Gimin and Parjo?

The strong current dragged his mattress further. He was about to sink, remembering that he was unable to swim.

Where were Gimin and Parjo? He had no strength to shout out loud. His mattress was gradually sinking.

Water was everywhere under the city street lights. Its roar came like the sound of cavorting devils in hell.

He recalled a glimpse of the reservoir water flooding the entire land in his village, sweeping away everything he owned.

And the water this time? He felt he was sinking further, dragged by the whirling current downward...

-- Translated by Aris Prawira