The River's Song

The River's Song

By Seno Gumira Ajidarma

Dawn was breaking beyond the forest. Still drowsy, I saw it from behind the awning of the boat whose motor roared like a hungry dragon. The journey still wasn't over. When had I left Tenggarong? The Kelinjau River twisted and turned amid the forest, its banks sometimes denuded and heaped with logs. For a day and a night I had lounged about in this boat. I thought we would soon arrive at Muara Ancalong. In my notebook I had written "a journey to examine my heart." My fantasies had evaporated, taken by the wind to wherever it would carry them. I thought of Jakarta, of the many-colored lights along the streets, of a hostess' bawdy laugh during a disco number at a bar.

A hornbill flapped its way across the river. At that very moment, Sureni, the steersman's wife, stuck her head out from behind the mosquito net.

"How far along are we?"

"We've passed Senyiur," her husband, Zaelani, answered while turning the tiller with his foot. A persistent mist hung over the river; the bank was dotted with bathers. I scooped a handful of the water flowing past the boat and wet my face. It wouldn't be too long before we arrived at Muara Ancalong, I thought. That meant that we would soon be parting ways, as the boat was bound for Wahau while I was heading for Tanjung Manis. The river forked after Ancalong, one branch to Wahau and one to Tanjung Manis.

The sun rose higher and the forest, which just a while ago had been a dense black, became a cool shade of green. For millennia the forest had been unchanged. An otter peered shyly from the underbrush, while above, in a towering tree, proboscis monkeys turned their heads around like people in a daze. Sureni rose with a start and walked, hunched over, to the stern; the boat's cover was not high enough to allow a person to stand upright. Another head appeared beside the mosquito net, followed by yet another. I heard phrases of Kutai Malay, a language I could not understand well if spoken quickly. A baby cried. The two people quickly tidied their mosquito net and rolled up their mattress, thereby creating an open cabin and transforming the vessel back into a proper riverboat.

The boat's movement created waves that rippled towards the bank. I sat cross-legged on the side of the deck, trying to imagine what was within the forest beyond. Viewed from the river, it was difficult to get a sense of the destruction of the Kalimantan forest. The one or two timber camps we had passed gave a poor reflection of the grave destruction which had occurred. I knew for certain that the impression would be far different were I flying overhead in a plane chartered from Samarinda.

The journey seemed endless. The engine sputtered and Zaelani pulled the rope above his head four times -- ting, ting, ting, ting -- as a sign for Bosu in the engine room to spur the engine to full speed ahead. As if to make up time and reassure me, the boat gathered speed. But Zaelani appeared to be uneasy, too. He looked at his wife and she stared back at him.

"What time will we get to Ancalong?" I asked.

"Maybe another hour and a half."

Several outboard-motor boats from the opposite direction zipped past. Maybe Ancalong was not too far after all. Along the river such boats were always found near settlements. I laid back. Whether quickly or slowly, we would arrive eventually. I closed my eyes, letting my thoughts fly to Mastri and her incredible smile.

The boat was twenty meters long and perhaps four meters wide. Two families on board I had met in Tenggarong. Apparently they were related. I was now the only passenger headed for Ancalong; the others weren't going far, only to the nearby settlements of Sebulu and Muara Kaman. Zaelani and Sureni appeared to be recently married, but Sod and Risa had two children, who were now fast sleep in cloth hammocks slung beneath the boat's cover. From their facial similarities I gathered that Soda was Sureni's elder brother. Sureni was forever busy in the cook-house. Yesterday, the boat had stopped long enough to buy fish from a seiner. The boat was its owner's sole source of income, taking on and dropping off passengers the length of the river. In the interior, the river was the artery of communication. But the boat was equally ready to become a floating home, especially so in the evening, when the mosquito nets were hung, not only to ward off mosquitoes, but to serve as a family room. The netting was not the see-through kind, but was made from unbleached cotton, so closely woven that one could not see what went on inside it.

The sun rose higher but not a single house appeared, not even a notched-log ladder leading up from the water's edge to the top of the bank, indicating a village. I noticed that Sureni had replaced Zaelani at the tiller. Zaelani slept soundly as though nothing untoward could happen. The river current ran swifter the farther upstream one went. The forest became denser. We should have arrived at Muara Ancalong by now, I thought. But although I waited, it never appeared. I became uneasy, though the others seemed quite calm.

Sureni appeared from the stern. "Join us for food," she told me.

I said nothing but moved forward, stooping as I made my way past Risa, whose younger child was suckling at her breast. The older child rocked, asleep in her lap.

Our meal was hard and crusty rice with a bit of fish, but I ate ravenously amid the roar of the engine.

I started with surprise, realizing that the sun was far to the west. Where were we? I hadn't fallen asleep and however slow the boat, we should have arrived by then. But there was Soda, sitting quietly. He couldn't have taken a wrong course. Wahau was just beyond Ancalong; there were no alternate routes.

I had to ask: "What's taking so long to get there?" But when Soda turned towards me, the look in his eyes was one I would never forget. His eyes, as if made of glass, were motionless, not even blinking, as if they had no soul. I dropped my gaze and looked around me. Everyone seemed to be in a daze, as if fatigued by an exhausting task.

Overhead, the sun sank closer to the horizon, but the sky's growing beauty heightened my sense of isolation. I felt more and more uneasy. The forest grew darker and more mysterious. The river's surface shimmered red in the evening sun. Soda still appeared transfixed and I tried to calm myself by thinking I must have misunderstood the journey's distance. I knew that this boat did not regularly make the trip downstream. Thus, these people were not fully conversant with the river's numerous bends. Perhaps my worry was just a feeling I had, mixed with a little fantasy. On a journey such as this a person can feel he is floating, suspended somewhere between joy and sadness, fear and courage, loneliness and curiosity.

The motor chugged as the boat traced the river's bends. Twilight was not all that red; it came in clumps of dark clouds, followed by drizzle and wind. The awning was lowered, but not before my trousers were wet from the sudden rain. The sky turned suddenly dark and Zaelani took over from Soda at the tiller, steering the boat confidently. The yellow light of reflective lanterns tried to penetrate the darkness. Outside it had become pitch black; I couldn't see even a meter ahead. Now and then submerged tree trunks scratched the boat's hull. The rain hissed down, heavier and heavier.

This new phase of journey was one I had no choice but to follow through if I were to win my struggle with anxiety, this nightmare of shadows. Somewhere between sleep and watchfulness I heard a clear and soothing voice. Maybe it was just the sound of the water cleft by the prow of the boat, a song of constant rhythm, gentle and friendly. But sometimes there were other voices. Zaelani tried to wipe the glass of the window in front of the tiller. Now the night was misty outside and the boat's lanterns were turned toward the bank to help us maintain enough distance from the shore to keep us from running aground. I searched in my pockets for a kretek, my clove cigarettes, but they were gone. I remembered that in my backpack were some filter cigarettes given me on the plane. They tasted foul, but I searched for them anyway. I couldn't find them.

The wind howled and the infants began to cry. One, after Risa put him to her breast, immediately settled down, but the other child continued to cry while crawling here and there. I tried to sleep, and between the muffled sound of the engine and the murmur of voices, my dreams were indistinct: each time I awoke, I found myself still on the boat in a situation not much different from that in my dream.

Hours passed; I saw no sign whatsoever of habitation. There were no logging company camps. There were no villages. There were no encounters with rafts of logs filling the river's course. And there were no more boats of the Dayak people with their elongated ear lobes. There was only the interminable forest, to the right and left of the river. In time the rain changed back to a drizzle. Ting, ting, the bell rang twice, a sign for Bosu to reduce speed and pump the water from the bilge.

If only you were here, I said to myself, thinking of Mastri and wondering if this journey would have filled her with happiness or fear. She was in Bali, quite possibly dancing for tourists in a big hotel at that very moment. And I was here. How could I suddenly find myself here, caught in darkness?

"An adventure is good only when you're talking about it," she insisted, "not when you're experiencing it." That indeed seemed to be the problem. An adventure is attractive after it is over. And its attractiveness depends on the way the story is told, like a film you don't want to end, even after the final scene. But it does not end, even as reality continues. And this would never end. I jumped up, remembering the glassy, soulless eyes of the others.

"You'll never make it to Wahau!" I screamed. "Listen to me, you'll never reach Wahau! We should have arrived at Ancalong yesterday!" The others turned slowly towards me with cold looks. The drizzle had died and dull rays from the lanterns made their faces immobile, like totems. Even the two children seemed stiff. For a moment I thought they looked at me with pity, but their gaze implied they didn't care. They kept silent. I felt drained of strength and returned to the side of the boat, completely alone.

The engine continued to roar, as if all was in order. The wind blew, caressing my tense face. I was tense. Yes, I did think too much about myself. Maybe I wouldn't make it to Tanjung Manis, but that, in itself, was not important. What was the problem if I never arrived? Or if I never returned to Jakarta? To never return home. No, that was no longer important. Why did everything have to end with going home? What is home? What to do?

Mastri's performance was probably over. She would leave the hotel and return by van to Ubud. I couldn't stop thinking of her captivating smile, though not the one she wore when she was dancing. It was a pity she was married, though that was not really a problem. Anyway, I was married too.

Soda took over the tiller from Zaelani once more. Strange there was no question on their faces, as if it were not peculiar that we had not arrived at Ancalong. Sureni and Risa put up the mosquito net. I spread out the rush mat which they had lent me and lay down. Zaelani joined Sureni inside their tent. The air seemed extraordinarily cold. I wrapped my arms around my chest, hugging myself as tightly as possible.

Outside, the rain came again, heavily.

I didn't know how long I slept, yet, when I opened my eyes, the world was changed. I accepted that I really would not arrive in Ancalong. There was no need to question the matter further. My fellow passengers beamed with pleasure. Soda held the tiller in a relaxed and easy fashion. Sureni blinked happily. Slowly onward churned the boat, the sound of its engine a purr. The children appeared contended and calm.

The morning light shone beautifully. Zaelani was very happy. What had taken place? I was going to ask Risa but her attention was on her baby. She looked so Madonna-like, the scene so tender, I hesitated to disturb the mood. I felt I must be more resolute. Forest flanked the river's edge, the thick foliage gleaming silver, drenched by the morning light. Dewdrops fell, one by one, spiraling downward from the leaves and disappearing into the river.

No, we were not going anywhere. Certainly not upstream. This river had no headwater. There was no upstream and no longer a downstream either.

Bosu's face shone so brightly. I would have no more terrifying nights. Our world would be like this forever, glowing constantly. This was no adventurer's tale. This was reality itself.

The river ran just as it had yesterday, just as it had since its creation. When Zaelani took over the tiller from Soda, I saw that their eyes held so much passion I wasn't sure of my own feelings. Zaelani pulled the rope four times -- ting, ting, ting, ting -- and the boat surged forward on a sure course. Sureni tidied the mosquito net which had been taken down but was not yet folded.

Translated by E. Edward McKinnon.

Seno Gumira Ajidarma is deputy chief editor of Jakarta-Jakarta magazine. Born in Boston, the United States, in 1958, he is also known by the name Mira Sato. The River's Song (Nyanyian Sepanjang Sungai) is taken from Manusia Kamar dan 14 Cerpen Lainnya, Haji Masagung, Jakarta, 1988. This translation first appeared in somewhat different from in Manoa (Vol. 3 No. 1). It appeared in Menagerie I and is printed here by courtesy of The Lontar Foundation.