The Jakarta flood

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