Zarisa

Zarisa

By Korrie Layun Rampan

The river was like one that flowed somewhere under the skies
of this country. "Is it the one in my dream? No, it's certainly
not but I must have seen one like it before somewhere in the
interior of Jambi, Riau, Irian Jaya, in Bengkayang district,
Katingan, around Tamiang Layang, Aceh or near Poso." I just
couldn't figure out where.

But the river flowing before my eyes seemed so familiar,
making me wonder why it looked so much like one I had seen
before. They were like twins, difficult to distinguish from one
another. "It is the first time I have come to this place, isn't
it?" And I have come here because of Zarisa's letter.

Yes, that's right. The letter. I still had it in my pocket
along with Zarisa's handwritten map, because I did not want to
get lost in this place that the girl from Empas told me about.

She told me once she was not really from the district. She had
only been born there. A long time ago her grandfather, along with
his son, who was then three years old, moved to this village from
Jombang.

"That son is my father," Zarisa said in her letter, like a
famous person confessing in a biography. "But my mom is from this
place called Tonyooi. She comes from one of the villages that end
in Asa. That's why she can speak the Tanyooi language, though not
as well as the native people," she carried on in her letter. "If
you really wish to see me, you can come anytime. The house is not
far from the red water river."

I was perplexed. Who should I ask for directions? Would I not
be laughed at or frowned upon for asking directions to a girl's
house in such an isolated village? The villagers would be
suspicious about my going to a girl's house. They would ask if I
was a friend, a relative or a stranger with some evil intention.

I wished I had asked the ojek (motorcycle taxi) driver to help
me find the house. At least I would have had someone to talk to.

He was an ojek driver, so he must have known the area. I only
knew for sure that I had set foot in Empas village because I saw
a sign at a school with the name of the village on it. The sign
confirmed I had arrived in the village I was looking for.
Moreover, the red river Zarisa mentioned in her letter was right
before my eyes.

The river was only about four meters wide. The water flowed
swiftly over a shallow bed toward the sea. Above the swiftly
flowing water was a simple wooden bridge. Nearby was another
wooden footbridge leading to a two-story house on the far side of
the river. No one knew why the house had been built there,
perhaps to give the owner easy access to the water. I couldn't
imagine what would happen to the house if the river flooded.

But I was sure the owner knew more about the river than I did.
He probably could predict any flooding with a great deal of
precision. I asked a woman who was bathing in the river, "Whose
house is that on the riverbank?"

The name she mentioned reminded me of my elementary school
teacher in Samarinda. I began to wonder. Could my teacher live
here? Has he retired from teaching? And what about that sign in
front of the house proclaiming "Village Chief"? Has he been
elected village chief?

"Yes, he is the one," the woman said. "But he has just gone
back to his hometown to see his wife because she is still
teaching there and his children are still studying at the
university."

I was happy to hear this and I thought that Zarisa's house was
only a stone's throw from here. I examined the structures along
the banks, newly built houses and crowded stores. My sense of
direction convinced me I was going in the right direction and
only had to walk a short distance to find Zarisa's house. But It
was not the house that I was really looking for. My sole
intention was to see Zarisa.

All of a sudden I was overcome with the feeling that I was
acting silly. I asked myself, "Why am I behaving so foolishly
just for girl I have never seen before?" I was a man madly in
love with an unidentified woman. I didn't know whether she was
disabled, blind, suffering from leprosy. I was not even sure if
she had a flat or pointed nose or whether she was cross-eyed.

But I tried to console myself, reasoning that I was only
visiting a friend. There was nothing wrong with that, right? I
was visiting someone I met from the radio after our friendship
grew through letters and telephone conversations.

And I thought that Zarisa had been fair in admitting that she
had made her calls from a public telephone in Melak, because
there was no telephone network in Empas. I got back on my
motorcycle, though it always scared me because I had had a bad
accident in Jakarta. In the village of Empas, the streets were
almost always deserted. I came across very few other motorcycles.
I saw a few cars in Melak and Srimulyo, but only one in front of
a jewelry store in Empas. Most of the time I only saw forests and
deserted streets.

A man in Sumber Rejo told me Zarisa lived near Bunyut village,
south of the river where the Javanese migrants had first settled.
He added that only a few of them remained there.

I headed for the location. I felt the bike tilting to one
side, making the wheels veer wildly on the uneven and pitted
road. The New Order government had built proper roads only in the
big cities. In remote areas, people still traveled on poorly
constructed roads. The New Order seemed to ignore the pain of the
people who had to use these unpaved roads. They built roads in
small towns, but only of poor quality and just to cover up their
corruption.

I started feeling sorry for myself and regretted that I had to
witness the conflicts in Maluku, Aceh, Sampit, Poso, Pontianak
and Palangkaraya that claimed thousands of lives. Why are
corruption, collusion and other evil practices still committed
here just to satisfy personal interests? And when will freedom be
enjoyed by all our citizens?

I arrived in front of a house that looked exactly like the
one Zarisa had described in her letter. I was sure it was her
house. She described the shape, color, address, door, windows and
even the shape of the roof and the tiles. "You won't miss it,"
she said in her last letter. "There are only three houses there.
One is my father's and the other two belong to my brothers. Dad's
house is in the middle. There you are. I live there."

"Are you looking for Zarisa?" asked a woman who introduced
herself as Zarisa's mom. "Where do you come from?"

I told her I had come all the way from Jakarta to see Zarisa,
a girl I knew only from the radio, letters and telephone
conversations. I told her we had fallen in love and I had come to
propose to her.

"To propose to Zarisa?" the woman said dejectedly, her
expression turning sad. So you're her boyfriend from when she was
studying in Samarinda?"

I nodded. "So you don't know .... You're name is Salman?" she
asked in a mournful voice.

"Yes," I replied.

"But Zarisa went to pick you up last week. She said she was
going to see you in Samarinda."

"A week ago," I murmured to myself. "But I only got a permit
yesterday and I just arrived here."

"Zarisa went to Samarinda a week ago, saying she would wait
for you at a set place. But she never made it. Her boat sank on
the Benjua Pihun River. Zarisa has been lying there for a week
now."

"Zarisa went to pick me up?" I said to myself. "But she died
on her way to shower me with love."

My voice became hoarse, muffled with pain.

--Translated by Faldy Rasyidie