Musing Over A Used Plastic Paint Pail
I’m sad to see my fine blue plastic paint pail, which I used to carry fish, not filled with fish, but oil waste of the motor bike of my son. Months now it’s staying there, instead of being emptied, cleaned, it was again filled as his motor had to change his oil again.
He certainly did not know what to do with it. He had not the heart to empty it on the ground as the plants would die, into a ditch, the fishes. When spilled, it was difficult to clean it up. That’s just one motor. Just count, what a lake is needed to store – remember, this is an Indonesian thinking - oil waste of millions of motor cycles that are in Jakarta only. Where do the car repair stations throw away that oil?
I wanted to write something nice, not write something so disgusting as black and dirty as oil waste of motors.
About Bero the village young skinny dog in Ciloto who welcomed, walked along with us on picnic. He was so very hungry. With each ”slurp” he seemed to say: “Oh how nice, delicious, thank you, thank you.” And he got more and ate and ate till his belly was round and N.B. he still ate unripe mango fruit for our dessert. He’s our dear friend now. Is he there still. How I miss him.
Or see, hear the jingling bells of the deleman (cart), the horse’s trotting and the animated chatter and laughter of little children in it passing by.
I remember our head of the HBS (secondary school), we called him directeur, some 60 years ago, who was tall, a valiant man. He could be nominated as a hero in a film. One day he came as usual on his old bike, his voice was hoarse, yet he still taught us. He told nothing what had happened in the night before. It was his secretary that told us the news. He fought, succeeded to overpower and bound the intruder who threatened him with a knife as he usually worked till very late at night with unclosed door and gate. “Come in Mr. Rasad” he said without looking up. He thought he was our Indonesian teacher.
But there was another thing special and that was his wife he so loved and respected. She assisted him in his work and in tying up the intruder. She was thin, wobbly, trembled, had a quavering voice, perhaps the consequence of imprisonment in the second world war. His name is v.der Hage.
Or the cunning, patience of our ABRI (National Armed Forces). They waited till almost every one believed that there was no hope, every one had no confidence that our armed forces could ever rescue the hostages. Then unexpected they attacked and freed the prisoners in the Timika forests. How our people rejoiced.
Now, what about the ruins of a house that was torn, broken down. Where do they throw this away? Doesn’t it just transporting ruins to another place? Or detergent’s, nuclear wastes, …? That’s enough. No more talk about that. That’s for those who love to solve those problems and care for our earth and wellbeing.
July 1997
I’m sad to see my fine blue plastic paint pail, which I used to carry fish, not filled with fish, but oil waste of the motor bike of my son. Months now it’s staying there, instead of being emptied, cleaned, it was again filled as his motor had to change his oil again.
He certainly did not know what to do with it. He had not the heart to empty it on the ground as the plants would die, into a ditch, the fishes. When spilled, it was difficult to clean it up. That’s just one motor. Just count, what a lake is needed to store – remember, this is an Indonesian thinking - oil waste of millions of motor cycles that are in Jakarta only. Where do the car repair stations throw away that oil?
I wanted to write something nice, not write something so disgusting as black and dirty as oil waste of motors.
About Bero the village young skinny dog in Ciloto who welcomed, walked along with us on picnic. He was so very hungry. With each ”slurp” he seemed to say: “Oh how nice, delicious, thank you, thank you.” And he got more and ate and ate till his belly was round and N.B. he still ate unripe mango fruit for our dessert. He’s our dear friend now. Is he there still. How I miss him.
Or see, hear the jingling bells of the deleman (cart), the horse’s trotting and the animated chatter and laughter of little children in it passing by.
I remember our head of the HBS (secondary school), we called him directeur, some 60 years ago, who was tall, a valiant man. He could be nominated as a hero in a film. One day he came as usual on his old bike, his voice was hoarse, yet he still taught us. He told nothing what had happened in the night before. It was his secretary that told us the news. He fought, succeeded to overpower and bound the intruder who threatened him with a knife as he usually worked till very late at night with unclosed door and gate. “Come in Mr. Rasad” he said without looking up. He thought he was our Indonesian teacher.
But there was another thing special and that was his wife he so loved and respected. She assisted him in his work and in tying up the intruder. She was thin, wobbly, trembled, had a quavering voice, perhaps the consequence of imprisonment in the second world war. His name is v.der Hage.
Or the cunning, patience of our ABRI (National Armed Forces). They waited till almost every one believed that there was no hope, every one had no confidence that our armed forces could ever rescue the hostages. Then unexpected they attacked and freed the prisoners in the Timika forests. How our people rejoiced.
Now, what about the ruins of a house that was torn, broken down. Where do they throw this away? Doesn’t it just transporting ruins to another place? Or detergent’s, nuclear wastes, …? That’s enough. No more talk about that. That’s for those who love to solve those problems and care for our earth and wellbeing.
July 1997
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