On Super Stars

On Super Stars

Not seldom do we read articles praising someone as super stars. Here is an instance:

“ … He, this living legend, stays in a five star hotel in the president’s suite that was once visited by vice president Walter Mondale and king Hussein. From the airport to the hotel he took a helicopter. His life was not less adventurous to those that are princes or head of states. We would be impressed about his riches and the millions of dollars he earned. … Something like that was written in the editorial of a foremost news paper of Jakarta recently“ said pak Arif to me “and I might add, erect his statue and kneel, worship and kiss his feet.”

“But I adore, am enchanted, fascinated by my little Star as I remember her lovely smile, her voice, her looks, her radiant eyes, her soft hair, her warm embrace, her kiss, … Eve, instead of being impressed, awed by shows, exhibitions of their fame, achievements, riches, earnings … ha, ha, ha.”

“I don’t care about the super stars on the stage, on the grass, or in the sky.”

Jayakarta, September 26, 1990

I Hate To Have Visitors

I Hate To Have Visitors

How I hate to receive visitors. I can’t keep up a clever conversation.

I’d rather visit him or her and I’m so free to leave as soon as I want. If he visits us, we certainly wouldn’t be able to chase him away anyway. And he just can’t go away immediately for courteous sake. Besides, you don’t know what it costs me to clean up the house, buy some snack, take it down the stairs, wash the plates when I have no servant to do it with a hurting leg. Days, since the announcement of his coming visit am I sick, vexed of waiting and of the thought.

And now, think of my brother in law to gladden us with oleh-oleh (a little gift of fruits or cookies, sweets after a journey) from Makasar by visiting and bringing it himself. I said to my sister “don’t trouble him to take it to us. But in my mind, I meant. not to trouble us with his visit. Oh, oh, my dear sister who was in France telephoned him, instead, urged, forced him to come in person to honor us. What a cruel, foolish request of a wife as he had almost no access to a car, a guide and a lot more in Jakarta. I’d rather free Johan in that case.

Instead of receiving his visit and embarrassed, converse about nothing, the weather, I now will visit him. How I wish he could sent someone else.

Imagine, Whom should I ask a favor to do something, I myself don’t like, hate? And he stays in Pondok Indah on the 11th floor. Whom should I take with me in the lift and carry the oleh-oleh downstairs? Who would drive me? Remember, I have to repay a kindness with a kindness. So I have to buy some snack, forced to do it myself, telephone here, there, traffic jams, … I won’t tell you all the trouble, miseries I encounter. I am vexed. All this is surely, really like hell to escape a worse hell.

“I got the parcel though. It was lucky he was away, ha, ha.” she laughed as she, opa Johan’s wife related this afterwards to me. “I’m oh so happy it’s over. He has returned to France.”

“Well, I just stopped by in Kebon Jeruk on the way to picnic this Sunday morning and knocked on the gate.” said Opa Johan, “Blacky joyfully, excitedly ran up to me from behind the gate as the gate was locked. I’m so welcome. He’s so happy with my visit even without oleh-oleh. What do you say?”

“Sure, as I am not a dog.” She said.

As she mused, what a price it takes just to receive someone’s unwanted goodness. Instead of a blessing, a happy surprise it comes like a torment you’ll always remember if you can’t, don’t have the courage to refuse, become wiser, just because of a small, stupid parcel, thing, request.

September 2008

The Rich "Pemulung"

The Rich Pemulung

I imagined his immense treasure in his cart for old junk as it carried a sleeping girl and he hummed:

With you beside me,
Living, sleeping in my cart;
Right there’s my palace, my paradise.
With you beside me,
The richest man seems poor to me.

The girl is mumbling in her sleep:

With you beside me,
Am I honored as a queen of queens.
With you beside me,
Hell doesn’t terrify me,
Nor do I wish to go to heaven
Save with you.

They haven’t the means to buy themselves a marriage certificate, to wear shoes, even slippers. More over for a glittering feast in a grand hotel, for hundreds of guests to be invited to witness their marriage. Yet, the moon smiled, million stars watched and rejoiced, witnessing their marriage celebration: as they sat, eat together from the same banana leaf with their fingers, drinking together out of the same old aqua bottle. Was there ever a warmer couch than sleeping together in each other’s arms?

That was some years ago. Recently I met them again. Perhaps they were the same couple, maybe another. The rich pemulung became still richer as he was blessed with three little kids and a baby. The eldest was walking with his mother, his younger brothers and the baby were in a big carton box like little pandas with shining eyes in his cart.

Oh, no, certainly not a cart but his marriage coach when he carried his princess, his bride home.

“Going to the public health clinic” he cheerfully waved at me. Though he only earned his living with gathering, collecting used carton boxes from garbage bins, he has a cart, that cart was his business capital, his wedding carriage, his wedding couch, remember, he’s an entrepreneur, he’s his own boss. “Better be the head of a chicken, rather than be the tail of an ox, ha, ha.” he thought.

Some day when his children are grown up, perhaps they proudly would say, ”true, my parents were called poor pemulungs and lived from collecting old junk, yet they were very rich in feelings, loving, happiness and succeeded to raise us to be graduates, business owners, ….”

Bisnis Indonesia, December 27, 1991

An Unforgettable Quarrel

An Unforgettable Quarrel

“Hi, Pak Tani, they look fresh and good, those vegetables. How much does they cost?” so I asked him.
Said the farmer: “ Rp. 50.-.”
“Can we haggle about the price?”
“Sure” he said.
“What about Rp. 200.-? That is too cheap. Raise your price please.”
“Oh, no, no, no. That’s too high. What about Rp. 75.-? That’s high enough. It can’t be raised anymore.”
“What about Rp. 175.- ?”
“No, no, no, the price is fixed, not more.
“After fierce battling to and fro we agreed on Rp. 150.-.“

“How happy we were after our hot dispute, quarrel we’ll never forget. Imagine, just for Rp. 150.- , I, we got more than a million dollars worth in happiness, you know? Aren’t you proud to have such a rich husband” and he whispered: “who has the courage to praise himself? Ha, ha, ha. What do you say?” opa Johan said to his wife who pinched him.

“Oh, it’s just your fancy, fantasy.” she said.

October 1974

The Marriage Pledge

The Marriage Pledge

In 2008 and before

I promise before God and His community here to ever love, aid, assist you and be true, faithful in rain and shine, in plenty or want in good health or sickness until death would part us.

In 2100

I vow that I free you from the marriage pledge. I’m grateful you granted your love this very day, may it be every day.

After 2200 the marriage takes place without vows, promises, pledges, as all the creatures on this earth.

“You’re not mine, I’m yours!”

September 2008

Sadam And Bush

Sadam And Bush

It is in the year 2050 on earth. Sadam and Bush are in heaven.

Bush: Hi Sadam, you truly played your role superb. How you hated me as I called you ‘the axis of evil’ and accused you of hiding weapons of mass destruction, terrorists and the world believed this. How brave you were as you stood alone. No country had the courage to take your side. My army was as thousand to one strong compared to yours, moreover aided by coalition troops. Your son Uday who was hunted and trapped, yet did not surrender though he was besieged, surrounded with. Humvees, helicopters and a lot of military personnel.

Sadam: Sure that was my role. The judges who sentenced me to the gallows acted their roles, why hate them or hate you for your earthly role. But at that time, absorbed in acting our roles we didn’t realize, forgot that we were just acting as was ordained, decided in the play of our supreme Dalang (Puppeteer). We said “our Allah” and you said “our God”, but now we know, they are the same, the supreme Dalang. We have performed, done our roles and the show on earth goes on.

Bush: As I now think in heaven I would like my role could include, to apologize for the damage, wrongs done, for the victims, your fallen heroes and pay in compensation to your country, your people when my accusations turned out wrong, not proved and also for our fallen heroes in a needless war. Then the heavenly spectators of the show on earth would sympathize with me.

September 2008

"Someone To Watch Over Me"

“Someone To Watch Over Me”

“As she stood so close in front of me, I would, could embrace her waist in the overcrowded train. And she looked down on me and I looked up at her. And when my neighbor beside me left, she sat close beside me and gently pressed herself against me as a woman leaning against a man, though I was wearing shorts, the only man that’s wearing it that way in the train, dirty, in plain sports shirt, old, worn shoes, white hair. She didn’t turn away in disgust, you know.” he said. ”I would kiss her goodness, warmth and I thought of the young man who asked Princess Diana to be allowed to kiss her. This was even more than a kiss as it was granted me unasked despite my poor appearance.” Opa Johan was silent.

“I’ll never would see her again. I ‘m grateful it was just there in that overcrowded train, of that very moment, I’ll ask not more, but remember this with fond affection.”

And Gershwin’s: ‘Someone To Watch Over Me’, slowly dawned on me.

September 2008

A Victim Of His Own Creation

A Victim Of His Own Creation

We certainly would rejoice having created new, better varieties of grain, coconut, chicken, cow, fish, … if indeed of better quality. Scientist are experimenting with genes and what not. But without wise, prudent consideration, they might become a nightmare instead of a blessing.

Have you ever heard about the hybrid “man-animal”? That is a descendant of crossing man and animal. What if one day man would really succeed to create this, as is a Spinks that has the body of an animal and a head of a man or vice versa. Or succeeded to create a deadly virus as AIDS and the virus escaped of an accident in the laboratory, or create nuclear, chemical, bacterial weapons?

I remember an old charming story, I don’t know who the wise author was.

There were three sons who intend to dedicate their knowledge for their country. The first was Iptek, the second Biotek and the third was Moyung. He was a nonentity, he can’t pride himself on scientific merits, as his other brothers, except his common sense.

The oldest proved his ability by constructing the scattered bones of a lion. The second added meat, skin, claws, teeth to the carcass.

“Now, watch” he said, “I’ll bring him to life”.

But Moyung was terrified. “ Don’t” he cried. “He would prey on us”.

“Well, Moyung really is a fool, ha, ha. There never was a scientific proof that lions are endangering man.” said their brothers.

“Wait” Moyung quickly climbed a tree.

The two brothers were proud of their lion. But as soon as the animal came to life, it pounced upon them.

Yet the modern version said: “The author erred, or fooled. Don’t worry, Iptek, Mr. Teknology and Biotek, Mr. Biotechnology were save and praised, honored as the Saviors, Messiah of mankind and the world. It was Moyung who always used his common sense, climbed the tree became a prey of the lion. If you don’t believe, just reread the chapter on lion’s behavior for the secondary school.” And many people trust, believe this.

The Jakarta Post November 10, 1992, Media Indonesia, December 6, 1992

Opa Johan's E Mail To His Grand Children 4

Opa Johan's E Mail To His Grandchildren 4

By 2040 you’ll be mothers and fathers as your fathers and mothers now are and your children as disobedient as you now are. You would have just one child at most. You argued: “We won’t be as stupid as our grandfathers/grandmothers who had more than one, five, seven, … children and be their nurse maid”.

It’s 2070. Have you ever imagined yourself as by that time you are as old as I am now. Your grandchildren are as tall and strong as you are now. But that’s a long way off.

They welcome you: “Hi oma, Hello opa! We’re going to Paris shopping. Are you coming with us? Our class this semester will visit the Himalayas. Did you really kiss your opa on your 17th year, oma? That was brave. Ha, ha, ha.”

”Sure, as I’m a scarecrow myself now and so you would. He, he, he. I certainly was a cute teenager, you dumb head.”

October 2008

Childhood In The Thirties 7

Childhood In The Thirties 7

Epilogue

With the Japan invasion, the country house was left unguarded, plundered and destroyed. Years, after the war was over, I, my wife and three little children, visited the place. We sat the whole day beneath the row of Manggiston trees on the side of the Cikaniki river, in the front garden of the vanished country house. The children enjoyed playing in the river. The Dutchman, van Motman, the first landlord had lived here with his family, my mother as a girl had lived here, we, my granddad’s grandchildren had played here and now my little children. There still was the old Nam-nam tree and the little ditch that was now running through the wild overgrown ruins.

Far away I saw the so well-known iron bridge, the same rice fields, the brook with the Atap palms along the roadside and a sado – not the deleman - was riding along a bend towards the bridge. That was the village horse cart who had an elegant bow from behind where you sat back to back with the driver (dos a dos, French) half dreaming carried leisurely, slowly from village to village.

But to day, there are almost no boulders in the river, its water is muddied, waste hanging, floating. The rustic charm along the road to Sadeng Jambu is no more. It’s barren, cramped with shops and houses, noisy, dusty, traffic jams. Anywhere, grand, old Waringin, Karet, Kanari, Rain, … trees which Nature needed more than a century to create them to such circumference, height and magnificence were cut down within one or two days with no regret, remorse or sorrow for such a tremendous, irreparable loss. Wild waterfowls along the Ancol road were sold very cheap to be slaughtered. Lotus and Water Lilies growing wild in the lakes were and are weeded out.

What are rivers without boulders, sand? Lakes without water plants, what are mountains without forests, animals, cities without flowers, birds, trees? Beautiful butterflies that were clipped its wings off, wriggling, naked butterfly-bodies.

We certainly are better educated, earn more money, live in a bigger house of brick, have electricity, tap water, gas, cars, motor cycles, toll roads, high ways, giant buildings, skyscrapers, trains, aero planes, better medical service, telephone, radio, TV, computer, internet, … but not wiser. It’s flooding, threatening to drown our beautiful country and culture.

At that time the roads were small but there was never a traffic jam. The stars were visible but today I hardly can see a star in Jakarta. We woke hearing the cocks crow, the birds twitter, now the noise of motor cycles and cars. Many well known birds as the Jalak, Kutilang, Glatik, Manyar aren’t seen anymore in Jakarta and in the neighborhood except at the bird market. You almost don’t see hawks circling or a Gabus with it’s brood swimming in a ditch. Rice fields, streamlets have no more fish. Many kinds of weeds, fresh water plants I see no more.

But the authorities, our world leaders who should be most concerned, responsible with this don’t think it alarming. Why can’t we have progress without the huge increase of our world population? Why ruin our paradise?

Stressed, vexed, we could house a world population of a trillion by building, just imagine: space cities, floating sea cities, deep sea cities and underground cities or escape to other planets. But what’s the sense of it if we could solve it by keeping the numbers of population down, low. Except this is impossible. Forbid people to have children, within a century the numbers of our population will drop, decline and the human race will be extinct. But we don’t have to. We can persuade, recommend couples to have just one child, to live happily, peacefully with all the living on our dear earth.

Childhood In The Thirties 6

Childhood In The Thirties 6

On the evening before Chinese New Year the Wayang Golek (puppet show) was performed in the front gallery of the country house. No need for announcement as everybody knew it by the preparations of the simple open air stage, that was a big long banana trunk horizontally placed where the puppets (wayang) were stuck on it. Who didn’t know, knew, heard it as the gamelan started playing, as church bells tolling.

It was heard, carried far away to distant villages in the quiet, stillness of the night across woods and rice fields without loudspeakers – fortunately they’re not yet invented – and so sounds natural, enchanting, mellow.

The village people just sat on the ground or on a very low wooden stool or stood. You could eat roasted groundnuts, or almost burnt rice cake and drink warm bandrek a gingerly drink or sekoteng. Oil lamps of vendors like candles decorated the environment. You could fall asleep or leave earlier. Children even babies that were taken along by mothers were welcome. No one would take offence.

We, his grandchildren were sitting on the steps just before the Dalang (puppeteer). I often urged him to have the puppets fight as I couldn’t follow him. But it were the people who enjoyed, watched the show, not the guests or my uncles and aunts, while the show was performed especially for them.

There was nothing stilted, it doesn’t matter if you came too late, since you never would come too late. Who doesn’t know Harjuna, the invincible warrior, the handsome women charmer, Gatot Kaca who knows beforehand that he would be sacrificed and bravely went to face his destiny, Semiaji the Pandawa king who refused to enter heaven because he had to abandon his dog. Of Karna who kneeled before his foster father, a poor old driver, on the occasion of his coronation in royal attire.

Of Bishma who sacrificed, vowing not to claim the throne as crown prince and never marry to ascertain to have no descendents, granting the demands of his father’s second wife, should his father wish to marry her. On the occasion of his downfall, he bravely disclosed his secret how to conquer him to his foes and told them the woman he wouldn’t fight. Only she could overcome him if they ever wish to overcome him. As he fell, dying as on a couch of arrows stuck in his body of this woman, he asked for water. He rejected all the water offered him. He just wanted to drink water as only a hero could provide it. Harjuna shot an arrow in the earth and water spurted and he drank.

Carried away, I hardly can stop telling, moreover so the Dalang: Of Nala and Damayanti so rich in imagination, fancy and every hero, Dorna, Bima, Suyudana, more than a hundred, each has his fascinating tale or story.

And it was interwoven with appearances on the stage of our folk’s jesters, Cepot, Gareng, Petruk and Semar, their wise father, so fresh as a refreshing breeze. They talked to the audience and the audience talked to them and cheered. Captivating aria’s of pesindens as lovely as the Lorelei were sung as intermissions especially appreciated by the male audience.

In the hands of the Dalang, the wayangs come to life, you don’t see him though he is so obvious, only the wayang. They seem so real, living. You saw them dancing, limping, or walking proudly, defiantly, kneeling and making the sembah (with hands in prayer and kneeling), you heard men, women talking, laughing, crying, thundering, hoarse, high, with all the defects like stuttering, hiss, nasal, or unable to say “rrrr”, you could surmise that one was toothless, another had a hare lip, … You could almost feel a deadly blow of a hero striking his foe as stressed by the gong and his kecrek (a device that sounds “crek” when tread on it) that the earth seems trembling, shaking, collapsing.

They never cheered, saw the Dalang, he didn’t exist except the wayangs and that was the greatest honor.

It isn’t a wonder that the people could stand the show for the whole night.
But despite so much charm, beauty, wisdom, … which I didn’t understand, couldn’t appreciate, I sought my delight in my bed.

Childhood In The Thirties 5

Childhood In The Thirties 5

We heard busy sounds of eggs beaten up, of chopping meat, the tinkle, clatter of plates, pans, spoons and an animated women chatter in the wide open kitchen, preparation for Chinese New Year. There were always women who were latah, that is involuntarily imitating when frightened and talk, utter foolish, funny, nonsense. When you suddenly shout to them: “a snake!”, frightened, they also say: “eh, snake, a snake, snake in your underpants,” seriously, something like that in the Sunda language to great hilarity of the others.

There certainly was a lot of cookies in stopper glass jars and delicious dishes. But the Chinese are very poor bakers. They didn’t bake cakes with whipped cream or fruit cakes, or puffs, pastries. They have no chocolate pudding or ice cream. More over, little children as we are who were most eager on ice cream if ever they make ice cream, real, true vanilla ice cream out of vanilla sticks, there’s no second. It was stirred and frozen on salted ice blocks in a wooden bucket. We got least and last while the grown ups who didn’t appreciate it as much as we did got first and most.

They only bake the delicious spekkoek, a many layered cake, Tong Tjoe Pia or the Moon Cake. Kue Chang of sticky rice is not baked but steamed and we drank swallow’s nest syrup, very costly. Imagine it is dried swallow spittle. But you shouldn’t confide it to others.

On the evenings before New Year we got fire works to chase evil spirits away. He had a cupboard full of them. Once he got a big chest with “bombs” as big as my fist fastened in a row together perhaps as long as 4 meters. We all went outside to see, hear, experience the spectacular New Year bombing event hanging on a tree.

But the grandest event was the festive dish, the poor little pig that was killed, slaughtered. But when it was over, the pig cleaned and with an iron spit on coal fire was roasted in a pit, slowly turned and turned, wetted with coconut water and buttered with pure butter cream, - fortunately margarine wasn’t yet invented - and slowly became crispy brown, we forgot the miseries, suffering, screams of the poor little creature.

And it was served whole upon whole, long banana leaves on the floor and again we came together around the festive event but this time not only to view but also to taste and eat it. We got no plates or spoons and forks and chairs or tables. A man in charge of the pig was cutting and every one got a piece, a slice of it. Especially the crispy skin was its specialty. I got the tail, the nicest part so they say to trick me into believing it, but perhaps it was as is the most delicious chicken hind.

I remember someone saying: “it’s only a pity that we should build our joy, delight, health, happiness at the expense of other creatures. I would gladly forgo feasting eating the goat, the lamb or cow that would be sacrificed or pay its price if I’ve got the money, the courage, if it could save him. I never have seen, known, realized it before, except it was just a piece of meat, beef, chicken slaughtered in a professional slaughter house. However that’s not that I would show off myself as a paragon of virtue.”

Childhood In The Thirties 4

Childhood In The Thirties 4

With Chinese New Year we, sons, daughters, sons-, daughters-in-law, grand children and other family relatives, almost a hundred came in Jamboe together and every one, member was proud and felt it as an honor, an unforced duty.

My granddad was very strong and we all had great respect for him. He was the strongest, toughest, was land lord, owner of an estate, rubber plantation and business. His sons and sons in-law were mere “poor, miserable” employee’s, clerks. In his fifties he could still lift up a weight of about 20 Kg with one hand and he could have me and my younger brother both on his palms up in the air as in a circus. His sons, sons in-law couldn’t outdo him. I never saw him visit a doctor.

Mother told us that when he was young he was head of coolies. He was very strong and severe. He would beat them doing their work badly. He did not go to school but succeeded to read and write, moreover to calculate. He said to me that even a cent is valuable, if you lack just half a cent you wouldn’t be a millionaire. After having eaten his meal his plate was clean and he challenged his grandchildren, that if they ever could find a grain of rice on his plate he’ll give you sepicis, for every grain of rice left, that is 10 cents of a Dutch guilder. He sometimes teases me, little child, to arrange the coins in groups of ten each. I don’t know whether he is a millionaire, maybe ton-aire and that’s a lot, for he could buy himself a car, an estate, a fortune from a Dutch landlord. He was once cheated a lot of money he would never forget. He had to sign a contract before the notary as having received the money, before he had received it as he trusted the promise of the purchaser to pay him afterwards.

Perhaps, my mother grew up when the estate, the garden were still beautiful, there was a stately landlord’s carriage. At that time her mother probably still lived. She didn’t go to school but there was a governess to teach his daughters and sons so they could speak Dutch.

He had a safe, a double barreled gun. Now don’t think that I’m praising, idolizing him because he was my granddad but certainly, he – he never showed his affections -, and all my aunts liked us, me and my younger brother as we were cute cherubs living in a pavilion of his house and we loved them too. But now am I a scarecrow, ha, ha, ha and they’re almost all, gone.

Childhood In The Thirties 3

Childhood In The Thirties 3

There was a nest of bees almost as big as a sack of rice, hanging in a tree near the house. That would make a nice dish of baby bees said my aunts and mother.

Don’t you be prejudiced as it really was delicious after having eaten it. Isn’t there a delicious dish of frogs, of shrimps in a restaurant? What if it were scorpions instead? When there was an invasion of laron, crickets, jati pupae, village people at that time ate them and say it’s very delicious, but I didn’t dare to eat them as I imagined eating laron or crickets and I remembered the “Fear factor” show on TV, of those who compete eating live insects(!).To survive in critical conditions as being lost in the mountains or forests one ate lizards or any other creature uncooked. During war time, snails, mice, rats, cats, dogs, were hunted and eaten.

So my granddad (he was a rich and respected landlord) one day ordered one of his subordinates to pluck the bee-nest from the tree in the evening. All lights were turned off. There only was one torch fastened to a long bamboo pole. We, all the family, the village children and their parents, servants of his household were standing, sitting, watching excitedly in the dark. We just heard their shouts, orders, comments, as the pole torch was raised nearing the nest. Bees came out angrily and charged the fire and fell. Then after some time as there were no more flying bees left, a hero was chosen, persuaded to climb the tree in the dark. He got an empty bag with him, and accompanied by encouraging shouts, blessings and prayers of the onlookers he climbed the tree. “Hurrah” we cried as he succeeded to cover the nest with the sack, tied it and cut the nest from the tree and it was lowered down with a rope.

I don’t remember how the bag was opened for it must be very dangerous if there were still potential bees in it. There was no honey in the intricate, cleverly build structure of the combs. Some of the combs were still closed with a thin cover and in it were white larvae. It was taken out and collected on a large plate. And with delight my aunts, my mother worked relaxed together, sitting on the tapang in soft light till late in the evening and I fancied the happiness of a family sitting, cozy around the fireplace in winter.

You can’t imagine what a delight it was to sit and work or play on a tapang, or to sit on the floor, on the steps, to walk barefoot, in shorts without a shirt, to cook by burning wood or coal, have your meal in the garden and eat with your fingers on a banana leaf and it still is when you’re not in a hurry, lazy or ashamed.

Childhood In The Thirties 2

Childhood In The Thirties 2

We played with Acang and Entong, just as old as we are, my brother and I. Kenil, Kitik and Pengki are sisters. Then we have Iyem, a girlfriend of my two aunts (stepsisters of my mother) who were still girls and were love sick with In your eyes is written, Where the orchids blow, Forget me not. While I sang or hummed “Holly, woolly, doodle all the day”.

Iran, an older brother of Acang was teenager didn’t play with us. He goes with my granddad in his Fiat and hurries out of the car to have a big stone or a piece of wood behind a wheel when the car tends to slide backward on a slope.

We enjoyed wandering to somewhere or nowhere. Walked barefoot along alleyways, paths, rice field dykes, the river, to hunt, prey, spy after nothing or something, after the pala, nam-nam, rambutan (means hairy) fruits, a bird’s nest, crickets, dragonflies, shrimps, sweet water crabs, the squirrel, …

Was our picnic provision that we bought ourselves for a cent (usually we hadn’t got a cent), krupuk, (crackers), cheap biscuit, a cluster of pisang jarum, needle or Lilliputian bananas, always nicer than what we had at home of the best quality.

And stepping in a brook or a dip in the river was better than a douche in the bathroom. See a chicken hen with her chicks, a circling hawk, a water spider, cutting a whistle out of a rice stalk, cut a wind mill, … and before you realize, it was magrib, dusk.

And suddenly you became homesick and long after home seeing a burning light far away, the sun set. Birds, returned and found their nests or a place in some tree, chickens nervously walked to and fro, sought their chicken-house, buffaloes, goats their stables.

Hundreds of fluttering little bats appear. They didn’t go for the fruit trees yet, but feasted on the laron (winged termites) that left their nest at dusk, as their breakfast. Then large bats passed by, one after another, slowly flying. Where from? To which paradise of fruit trees?

In the evening fires were lit, nabun, burning garden waste of dry fallen leaves and branches to keep mosquitoes away. How fascinating to see the glowing cinders as glittering stars in the ashes and the fire as the sun at sunset .I vaguely scented the rice field water, I heard frogs “quack” in it, crickets chirp, ga-angs sing “aaanngg”, …

In the main house, the spirit lamps were lit by Nasib a faithful old servant. We collected certain kind of long dry fruits which would slowly burn as to keep the mosquitoes away. How warm, how live that fire was, how beautiful the rising smoke. We played or half dreamed, as happy as the birds without toys or games.

No radio, TV, tape recorder, loudspeaker, videos disturbed the evening. No bright city lights irritated the light of the moon and stars. (And every time today, when it was our turn to have no light to save on electricity, am I not vexed as I remember the happy evenings in the country house in Sadeng Jamboe.)

In my large bed, where we slept together, I heard the soft yearning chirping of a cricket in my tin box courting its mate or chirp triumphantly after a fight. I look at the wonderful, marvelous “breathing” soft light of the firefly in a match box in half dark of my bed. I count the tekehs of a gecko and hope to be granted a wish. I heard the tong-tong (a big hollowed log sounding “tong-tong“ when knocked on it) and the tower clock (bell) that’s struck every hour. I heard the soft buzz of the gas lamp outside and the sound of the rushing Cikaniki river far away and so I fell asleep. That were golden days in childhood.

Remember! This was not just yesterday, but what I still remember almost 75 years ago.