by You Jin
As I thought about this, a big wave suddenly surged toward us. Nelson deftly avoided it, and the little boat skimmed over it, plunging lightly down on the other side. I saw the tip of a rock peep out from the water’s surface, and he stood up, pushing off from it with his foot. The boat shot off, wobbling. Relieved, I sighed, and noticed again the white sole of his foot, the paleness making me very sad.
The Strange Encounter on Burni Sibolangit
HAVING THE CHANCE to meet an elderly gentleman who had been through life’s ups and downs on the top of Burni Sibolangit, in Indonesia’s northern Sumatra, was really a stroke of good fortune. Every time I think back on it, I am amazed all over again.
It was September, and Burni Sibolangit (at 1326 metres high) was extremely cold. We had arrived at six in the evening and eaten dinner at the hotel. After dinner, Risheng and I put on our thick sweaters and went out of the hotel, planning to go to a small market nearby and look around.
The road out from the hotel did not have any lights. It was very dark, with little moonlight falling through the trees, shining on the uneven road, with one bit lit and the next dark, making it feel a little eerie. We walked slowly, breathing in the fresh, cold air. When we had walked a short time, we suddenly heard sounds of merry music not too far away. We gazed at where the road split into a smaller path, and saw a little wooden hut at the end of a little dirt road. There were colourful lights hanging from the roof, and the silhouettes of people moving about both inside and out. The music was definitely coming from there. Whilst the surroundings were submerged in boundless darkness, the well-lit house stood out.
Curious, Risheng and I walked towards the house. Perhaps because it had rained not long before, the path was muddy. Carefully avoiding one puddle after another, we came to the front of the brightly lit place and peered inside. It was a lively, happy gathering. The noisy laughter turned the poor village into something warm and welcoming. At this moment, a smiling elderly person came toward us. He wore a black hat on his head, and an elegant, if outdated, grey overcoat. The dark brown face bore signs of his age. So did his rheumy grey eyes.
Risheng greeted him in Malay. He looked us over and asked, “You aren’t from around here?”
“Oh, we’re tourists from Singapore,” Risheng said. “Are you having a celebration tonight?”
“Yes. My youngest daughter is getting married today,” he said, barely able to contain his joy. “It’s lucky you came here from such a distant place. Will you come in and sit down?”
We took off our shoes outside, then went with him up a short flight of steps and into the house. Everyone in the house looked at us with curiosity. He waved to them and said, “These two visitors came from Singapore.”
We sat on the floor and immediately were dazzled by a sea of colour. All the walls were covered with brightly coloured sarong cloth, and on the cloth were pinned red flowers with leaves attached. The fragrance of flowers filled the room. The floorboards were covered with green and red checked straw mats. In the centre of the hall, against the wall, were two high-backed rattan chairs. What surprised me were the two “fruit pillars” on each side of the chairs. I guessed that these tall, round, yellow pillars were actually the core of the trunks of banana trees. There were all sorts of fruits hanging from the top to the bottom of the pillars, many of which I did not know: red, orange, brown, yellow, and purple, all bright and beautiful.
When we had sat for a while, someone brought out a tray and served us hot tea in small round cups. The old man raised his cup and said in Hainanese, “Drink! Make yourself at home.”
Risheng and I were very startled. But before we could ask, he leaned toward us and said, “I’m Chinese, like you. Hainanese.”
His skin, his features and his dressing were all misleading. We thought he was Indonesian. I never imagined that he was actually Chinese.
“I’ve lived here for forty-six years.” He continued in a low tone in the Chinese dialect. “When I was twenty-five, I came here from Hainan to work and have lived here for decades. I got married and had children here. This has become my real home.”
“It was the same for my father,” Risheng told him. “More than forty years ago, he went from Hainan to Malaysia to work, and he settled there.”
“Your father’s also from Hainan?” he asked, keenly interested. “What is his name?”
Risheng told him. He gasped and pulled a pen from his pocket. Asking me for a piece of paper, he wrote three Chinese characters, Lin Ting Shi, and handed it to Risheng. “Is that how you write it?”
Risheng nodded. The old man asked excitedly, “He’s not very tall, and has a round black mole on his neck?”
Risheng nodded again and asked, “You mean you know him?”
“Not only that. We’re quite close. We are from the same village!” he exclaimed. His aged eyes suddenly shone with tears. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and, controlling his emotions, asked, “I remember that your father is two years younger than me. I think he should have retired by now, right?”
“He passed away four years ago,” Risheng said.
Without a word, the old man bent his head and looked at the ground. Two rivulets of tears suddenly flowed from his clouded eyes. After a long time, he said, “Life is hard to predict. Forty years ago, we both left Hainan for foreign places to work. I never imagined we would not see each other again. I have lived on Burni Sibolangit a long time, and rarely saw Chinese people, much less had any Chinese friends. But I never dreamed that your father would remember me so well after so many years, that on the day of my daughter’s wedding, he would ‘send’ you from such a distant place to congratulate me.”
So many amazing coincidences occur in this world that words can’t really explain. Our encounter with this old man was one good example. He waited for his emotions to calm down to tell us that after he came to Indonesia, he had worked as a farmer. Whilst he was not wealthy, he had enough for food and clothing, and all his basic needs were met. When he was twenty-eight, he married an Indonesian woman and had six children. The oldest was now forty and the one who was getting married that day was his youngest daughter.
“What about your wife?” I butted in. He signalled to an old woman sitting in the corner, and she got up and slouched over to us. Perhaps it was the fact that she had borne so many children, along with the difficult life of manual labour that made her look very old. Taking my hand and offering a toothless smile, she said in Malay, “Welcome!”
After she’d said this, she retreated shyly back to her place in the corner. The old man said apologetically, “She’s not very sociable, please forgive her. She is the only one at home who can’t speak Hainanese. My six children all learnt from me. They can understand and speak.”
Risheng told the old man briefly about all that had gone on in his father’s life in Ipoh. In the middle of our conversation, the guests suddenly clapped their hands fervently. Following their lead, I turned and looked into the room. Oh! The bride and bridegroom were coming!
The bride wore a black outfit with golden print. It consisted of a low-cut blouse with a tight bodice, matched to a brown batik sarong. She wore a string of heavy, shiny white pearls around her snowy neck, and her soft black hair was knotted into a long thick braid, that hung down her chest to her waist. What was interesting was that her whole braid was covered with tiny white flowers, the brightness of spring unabashedly held in her hair. The groom wore clothes of the same colour and material as the bride’s dress, a white shirt with a brown tie to match a batik sarong, and he had a cap with a golden floral rim on his head. This was traditional Indonesian wedding dress.
The tall, thin groom escorted the graceful bride to two high-backed rattan chairs, and they sat down, a picture of elegance. People stared at them intently. The groom nodded to the crowd and smiled, whilst the bride kept her head bowed, a shy smile on her face. The groom was young, the bride younger. I studied her face carefully under the light. I found that she had a very likeable face. It wa
s not a dazzling loveliness, but rather a delicate prettiness.
Just now, their appearance was like a pause, “freezing” the waves of noise in the house. But as the minutes ticked by, the noise resumed. Before long, it grew rowdy again. Then, several people sitting next to the “fruit tree” started picking the fruit and tossing it to the other guests in the room. I received a huge tomato, very full and bright red. When I bit it, juice exploded from it. I looked around and noticed that the other guests also had their mouths full of juicy fruit. Nobody bothered whether the juice dripped onto their clothing. It was a carefree scene.
“How old is your daughter?” I asked the old man.
“Eighteen.” He looked at the girl, and his face glowed with happiness, mixed with a little relief. “I have finally found her a happy home. Ah, I shudder to think of the days past.”
“Why?” I said, looking at him in surprise.
The old man lowered his head and took a sip of tea. He cleared his throat and said, “When she was fifteen, she fell in love with another man. When they were engaged, she found out that he was a drinker and a gambler, so she wanted to cancel the wedding. The man was unwilling, so he found a bomoh to curse her, and she had a mental breakdown. In the daytime, she was placid, and at night, she cried uncontrollably. She not only lost her job, she even had to have someone feed her and take her to the toilet.”
“How did she recover?” I asked.
“I found several bomohs, but they couldn’t break the curse. It nearly drove me crazy too. Then, luckily I found another bomoh who was even more powerful than our adversary’s. He concocted some herbal potions for my daughter and, strangely enough, after taking several doses continuously, she was fine.”
A chilling story. Just then, the shy, lovely bride, with the help of the dignified and handsome groom, stood up. In the midst of the crowd’s applause, the groom took the microphone and started singing.
The old man smiled and explained, “This is our custom. The new couple express their love in songs.”
Ah, what a beautiful custom! Even though I didn’t understand the words, the melody was intoxicating.
When the groom had finished singing, he handed the microphone to the bride. Blushing, she sang of her love to her groom in a fine and sweet voice. Then, the groom gently took a flower pinned on her outfit, and tossed it to one of the female guests. The crowd laughed, and the female guest covered her face with her hands. I thought, It must be the groom’s way of indicating she’ll be married soon. Under the repeated urging of the crowd, the guest received the microphone from the groom and sang a folk song in a soft voice. Then, she handed both the microphone and the flower to one of the male guests, and everyone laughed again. Moving from one guest to the next like this, the whole room rang with elated, powerful, or tender voices.
Whilst I was absorbed in this joyous atmosphere, which was more intoxicating than wine, one of the male guests handed me the white flower and the microphone. Seeing the genuine smile on his face and hearing the encouraging applause from the crowd, I knew I could not refuse. Taking the mike, I started to sing the Teresa Teng song I had learnt recently, “The Moon Stands for My Heart”. I finished singing and, as I stood up and passed the mike to another guest, I found that not only was the room full of people, but there was also a large crowd outside, including many latecomers. The guests all brought gifts, which stood in a lofty pile at one side. I estimated that there were at least eighty or ninety invited guests. Since there were too many guests and everyone was sitting on the floor, when someone stood up and moved, it was easy to step on another person. But the one being stepped on didn’t seem to mind, and the one stepping on others wasn’t embarrassed either. I thought, This sort of situation, this sort of fun, couldn’t be experienced at a wedding anywhere else.
When I had resumed my seat, I could not help but say to the old man, “Your daughter has so many friends!”
“Yes, she’s very friendly, and likes to make friends. Everyone in the village has some contact with her.” When he said this, every wrinkle and every pore of his face overflowed with love for his daughter. “You know, I didn’t want to have an extravagant wedding for her, but she has so many friends. If I didn’t invite them all, she’d be disappointed. So for her sake, I had to sell a field to arrange for this huge wedding.”
“Did the husband pay a bride price?”
“My daughter didn’t fetch a high amount,” he said. “Only two hundred Singapore dollars. Not even enough to renovate the house. You know the Indonesian custom: after marriage, the groom lives in the bride’s house.
“Then why don’t you ask for a higher bride price?”
“My son-in-law does not earn a lot,” he said sympathetically. “My daughter works in a batik factory, earning about forty Singapore dollars a month. He is a superintendent, so he earns about eighty a month. How could I bear to ask him for a high bride price?”
He would rather sell his field, which he valued a lot, than make things difficult for his son-in-law. From this, I could see the unconditional love the father had for his children.
At ten that night, some people started to bring food out from the kitchen. Under the old man’s directions, Risheng and I were the first ones in the room to be served. It was a big plate of fragrant fried ginger corn rice, topped with prawn crackers, cucumbers and tomatoes, their bright colours matching perfectly. At first I thought there were more meat and vegetable dishes coming, but after waiting for a while, I saw the other guests eating the food with their hands, and only then did I realise that the wedding fare consisted of just corn rice only. It was obvious that the villagers led a thrifty and hard life! (The next day in Medan, I learnt that meat cost about eight and a half Singapore dollars a kilo. The local people’s monthly salary was less than one hundred dollars, so no wonder they couldn’t afford to eat meat.)
The guests took turns to shake hands with the bride and groom, wishing them good luck and bidding them farewell. I wrote my addresses in Singapore and Ipoh on a piece of paper and handed it to the old man. I told him sincerely, “When you get a chance to come to Singapore or Malaysia, let us know.”
The old man’s cloudy eyes welled up with tears again, and his voice quivered as he said, “If you don’t come back to Indonesia, I’m afraid we won’t get to meet again.” Saying this, he suddenly held Risheng’s shoulders and said, “Young man, I wish you all the best.”
Risheng and I descended the stairs, and slowly made our way back through the muddy path. When we looked back, we saw the tall shadow of the old man, standing still by the door, looking like a mud statue. Suddenly, my heart felt like lead, and my eyes like the tide.
The Golden Dream on Longji Mountain
I TRAVELLED A long way to Guangxi, to the 880-metre-high Longji Mountain Scenic Area in Longsheng County, mainly to see the terraced field. I never imagined that I would experience the a strange meeting that seems unbelievable to me, even now.
Longji Scenic Area is home to about seven hundred people living in Ping’an Village, which is reached only by a long, narrow mountain path. When Risheng and I reached the foot of the mountain, we were surrounded by several sedan chair carriers all at once, noisily persuading us to ride their chairs. One said, “The mountain path is steep and difficult to climb. I’m afraid you’ll take three or four hours to climb it.”
Another said, “It’s a difficult climb, and an even tougher descent. If you aren’t careful, you’ll take a wrong step and fall. It’s very dangerous.”
A third said, “Even if you go up and come down safely, your legs will be sore for days.”
Their words went in one ear and out the other for me. As we started our gradual ascent, I thought, Ignore them. They’re just trying to drum up business.
As we walked, they followed us. They continued to badger us. I continued to ignore them. As we walked, they dropped off one by one. Finally there was only one carrier left. He did not give up, following patiently along, on and on.
This carrier was
about forty years old, with a thin face that looked like a newly ploughed field in early spring. I looked back and said to him, “Please don’t follow us anymore. I like to walk.”
He said, “Sit in my sedan. Make a little contribution to the education of the Longji Mountain.”
I laughed, “How does sitting in your sedan have anything to do with education?”
He answered, “I have two children in school. Tuition fees are high. Sitting in my sedan is the same as directly sponsoring my children’s education!”
His expression softened my heart. I sat in his sedan chair.
Only after this did I find that the mountain trail really was very long and very steep. What was worse was that it was frighteningly high. The ascending stone steps grew narrower and narrower, then smaller, then steeper, making every step more difficult. But even when the long and hard poles sank deeply into the sedan carriers’ shoulders, they could still use their strong feet to run on the steep, narrow stone steps, as light-footed as a dragonfly’s touch on the water. It was like they were flying.
When we reached the peak and looked down, the neat fields looked as if they had been cut out by a blade. They lay quietly in the winter sunlight, green and cultivated, a shining example of human ingenuity and achievement. The sky over the highest terraced field was white and glistening, clean and untainted, a vast canopy, possessing a majestic, overwhelming presence. The greyish-brown houses stood one by one amongst the terraced fields. The trees were like green clouds, adorning the houses and fields. Ferocity and grace, strength and gentleness, vastness and detail, simplicity and beauty—all mingled illogically into an unforgettable watercolour painting.