By Shally Novita
The trip from the Tambangan intersection to the village of Jao is a test of one’s mental strength. Not only is the distance almost thirty kilometers, but there is no choice in the style of traveling.
The only way to get to the village of Jao by public transport is by using an old minibus with a barely functioning engine. Sometimes, on the steep roads, passengers are forced to get out for their own safety. Quite often, a driver will give up and ask a passing motorcyclist to call for another minibus, which is waiting its turn at the Tambangan intersection.
The interior design of these vehicles is far from ergonomic. Two long benches are placed opposite each other, separated by a gap of only one meter. As such, people who have been blessed with tall bodies are forced to bend their knees towards the floor so that other passengers can sit in front of them.
The vehicles have tarpaulin roofs. During the dry season, many passengers are reluctant to sit in the corner. Apart from the smell of sweat and all kinds of goods that passengers are carrying with them, it is also difficult to breathe. How can one breathe? There is no window in the back of the vehicle. As there is only one door, the oxygen supply to the back of the vehicle is limited. The door is closed by the passengers themselves, or by the ticket collector who is quick to stand up. Sometimes passengers faint.
The unreliable engines and the problematic interior design aren’t the biggest problems. The most annoying thing about taking this minibus, and the reason why I’m not a regular passenger, is the attitude of the driver and ticket collector: they want to get rich quick. The back part of the vehicle is only big enough to seat eight adults, but, in fact, ten people would be squeezed in. The front part, which was designed for just the driver and the ticket collector, would hold three or even four people. And this doesn’t include those passengers who are willing to stand in the doorway or to sit on the floor. This 1980s model Toyota might transport sixteen people in one trip—twice as many as advised by the maker.
I looked at the minibus. There were already five passengers inside. But, on considering the suitcase and backpack I was carrying, I had to accept whatever vehicle was available.
“Going to Jao?” asked a young man wearing a t-shirt and shorts. Who knows why all the drivers and ticket collectors on the Tambangan-Jao route always wore the same clothes of a t-shirt and shorts or trousers? Or, was it possible that the bus-drivers’ union had decided that a t-shirt and shorts was their uniform?
“Yes. But I don’t want to sit in the back.”
“Ah, that’s alright. Sit next to the driver,” said the ticket collector flirtatiously. Then he helped me lift my suitcase and place it in the front of a vehicle that was still empty. He smiled and opened the door for me as if he were Casanova taking a woman into his bedroom.
I hate behavior like that. I can’t stand men who treat women like objects of pleasure. When I was still a student in Padang Panjang, my girlfriends and I had to take this bus every day. All the ticket collectors and drivers would flirt with us. At first I was really annoyed and would swear at each person who pinched me or tried to hold my hand. This just made them happier. They would clap their hands loudly. In the end, I decided that I would walk the thirty kilometers rather than take a run-down minibus and have to put up with their boorish behavior.
One of my friends said to me, “Just be polite to them, then say you don’t have any money. Then they’ll let you travel for free.” So, of course, I tried. Even though it felt weird, along the journey I nodded my head and listened while the ticket collector told me about the problems with his house, which had just been built, and about his one hundred chickens—truly a trivial conversation. Yet for the sake of a free ticket, I tried my best to respect the ticket collector who was trying to impress a young girl in a high-school uniform. That was the only time I didn’t pay the bus fare. After that, even if it was pouring with rain or really hot, I would choose to walk rather than take the bus. Even if it irked me.
Taking the minibus made me think of Lena and Upik. We used to think of strategies of how to take the bus for free. As Lena was the most attractive, it was she who would try to flirt with the ticket collector so that we wouldn’t have to pay the bus fare. There were no discounted tickets for school children; everyone had to pay the same price. So I wasn’t exaggerating when I said that the drivers and ticket collectors on the Tambangan – Jao route wanted to get rich quick.
Before I realized it, we had passed the rice mill. In the past, I had worked there with Upik. If we were bored, we would leave behind the scarecrows around the drying grain, and go to the rice fields to joke with the naughty birds that liked to steal the rice as it ripened. Or, we would wander around watching others as they cut the rice stalks using palm-held knives. It was so pleasant to walk along the ripening rice fields. Everyone would greet us. They looked happy, as they were about to reap the rewards of four months’ hard work.
Of course, our extra-curricular activities were detrimental for the owner of the rice mill. He was paying for workers to guard the rice, which would soon be ready for distribution. But, instead, his workers had gone to watch others working in the fields. So, if he found out that we weren’t where we should have been—often, he didn’t know—we would be scolded and wouldn’t be given our money to cover the return-bus ticket. I smiled to myself as I remembered our behavior.
The beautiful Lena lived too far away in the countryside to be able to work at the rice mill. Moreover, she had to look after her four younger brothers. All of them were naughty boys. I can still remember when they came over to my house. They broke vases and the frames of photographs; and Abang—one of Lena’s brothers—even killed my older sister’s roses by pouring orange juice on them. Lena asked for forgiveness many times. Since then she has never brought her brothers to my house.
“Jao… Jao…” shouted the ticket collector, interrupting my daydreaming.
I took my bag, paid for the ride and walked along the pathway to my home. The pathway still seemed spooky to me—even though Father had built a small prayer room there. On either side of the path were large trees. There was a durian tree, a rambutan tree, guava, jackfruit and banana trees, as well as various kinds of medicinal plants and spices. My father truly loved those big trees, and my mother was able to get whatever spices she needed without have to go to the Padang Panjang market. My older sister said that the trees and plants along the path were a part of our childhood. In short, no one agreed with my idea that we should make the spooky area by the path a little lighter and more beautiful.
“Assalamu’alaikum,” I said as I knocked on the light green door. The door was originally dark green, but because my father thought painting the door was a waste of money, he had never had it re-painted.
“It’s better if the money is used to help our neighbors who don’t have enough to eat,” he replied when I told him that the door wasn’t appropriate for a nobleman.
A middle-aged woman with reddish-orange betel nut stains around her mouth opened the door. “Linda, my child”, she said, hugging me as if it had been decades since we had met. Her light purple scarf became loose as she hugged me.
“Ah, you’ve finally come home again,” she said.
At the back of our stilt-house, an old man walked carefully up the stairs. He was only wearing a singlet and a sarong. His hands were dirty and his body was covered in sweat. I knew that he had been chopping firewood to be used for the kitchen stove.
“Our child has returned,” said the old man, smiling. I ran towards him and hugged him. “I have the degree, as you wished,” I said, taking out a piece of paper from the Berlin Technical University. Father looked at it, his forehead wrinkling.
“What does it mean?” he asked naively, making me laugh.
It was six years since I had left this village. Not much had changed at Jao. The river Cun Gadang, where I used to bathe and do laundry, was still the same. There were still many large rocks. It was still full of bushes on either side. One could still hear the natural music of splashes of water upon rocks. Only now there were fewer people doing their washing and bathing. Almost all of the houses in Jao had a refrigerator, bathroom and washing machine. A proud development, I thought to myself.
The town hall was still the same. The sign, which read “Jao Town Hall”, might not have been the one that my father and the village officials had made. But the sign used the same style of writing and was positioned in the same place. My eyes moved to the Court House next to the Town Hall. Suddenly, the events of six years ago danced through my mind.
“Your daughter has been proposed to by a son of Sutan Nagari,” said one of the Council of Elders (Ninik Mamak) to my father, who at the time was the village head. Sutan Nagari ruled the city of Padang Panjang.
“My daughter will get married when she has finished her studies in Germany,” my father said. I sat beside him silently. I didn’t imagine that my decision to study overseas would have a negative impact on the entire village.
The Council of Elders are a powerful institution in the Land of the Minang. Using the metaphor of a nation, the village elders are the People’s Consultative Council with the highest authority. Whatever they decide cannot be changed. Even by the village head.
I still remember when the village elders ordered me out of the court house. Of the thirty village elders and traditional law authorities, it was only my father who agreed with my decision to continue studying. The others said that my decision was selfish, careless, and ignorant of my position.
My father was brought down from his position as village head, and Sutan Nagari placed an embargo on Jao village. For three months not one public transport vehicle was allowed to go to our village. Throughout this time, my family and I were condemned by all the people in the village—including my own friends, Upik and Lena.
“My younger brother was sick and we couldn’t take him to the doctor. We were forced to use the water buffalo and cart. My brother was in great pain,” said Lena to me during this time.
I kept quiet, not wanting and not able to speak. If I walked along the borders of the rice fields no one greeted me. The owner of the rice mill asked me to stop working there because he said that no other girls from Jao wanted to work with me there.
Six years ago—when I left Indonesia for the first time—none of my friends wanted to come and say goodbye. They didn’t want to see my face, even if it might be for the last time.
Six years ago my family was everyone’s enemy. The family of my older sister’s husband asked him to divorce my sister because they were afraid they would also be ostracized by the village community. Fortunately, my brother-in-law was firm and had a broad mind; he rejected their request out of hand. He loved my sister and remained loyal to his in-laws. Not only that, he gave me some pocket money before I left for Germany.
“If I knew it would turn out like this, I wouldn’t want to continue my studies,” I said when I heard that the Council of Elders had made Father to stand down from his position as village head.
He stroked my hair. “Do you know why jewels are so valuable?”
“Because of their beauty?”
“Yes. Because they’re beautiful and their quality has been tested. In the beginning, a gemstone lies deep within a mountain of hard sharp rocks. Someone pulls it out from the mountain and cuts and polishes it in various ways until it becomes a jewel. A gemstone is of no value if it is buried deep within a mountain. It only becomes valuable when it has passed through many difficult stages and becomes bright with beauty.”
“But father. I don’t feel like I’m a jewel,” I said softly. I thought of my school marks—they were nothing special, a bit above average. I was not a genius who knew the Archimedes equation when I was in primary school or who could easily solve algebraic equations in junior high school. I was just an average girl with a strong desire to take the university entrance exam test. And, it turned out I passed!
“Go, my child. Don’t worry about what is going on here. Just think that we are struggling to turn you into a jewel,” said my father smiling. I cried.
It’s been six years. I’ve got my Bachelor of Engineering degree. I passed through several painful experiences. I worked part time to cover my costs. I studied so hard I had no leisure time. I didn’t forget to pray that my struggles would one day create a valuable jewel in the future. When I was exhausted and wanted to forget about all the difficulties of living in Germany, following heavy lectures, I tried to remember one thing: I was going through the process of becoming a jewel, as desired by my father.
And now I was back here. By way of a grant by the GTZ (Gesellschaft für Technische Zusammenarbeit)—a German aid organization that operated in Indonesia—I was entrusted with developing a hydropower scheme for Padang Panjang and the surrounding area. Within two years, at least three villages would have their own electricity supply. It was a long-term plan which I had thought of for four years, when I first learned about the power plant.
Misfortune can’t be denied, good luck can’t be guaranteed. Perhaps it was because of what had happened in the past, or that they were too proud to receive aid, but the Council of Elders didn’t accept my offer for us to work together. Instead, they said that they had to have a men-only traditional law meeting. I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that in the year 2008, in a millennium where everyone is shouting about equality of rights, there were still people who believed that a woman’s only role was to look after the children and do the cooking.
Their attitude, just like the Cun Gadang river and the town hall, hadn’t changed. They still resented my family. My older sister told me that once when father was sick no neighbors came to the house to take him to the local health clinic. My mother was forced to carry him. It broke my heart to hear this.
I hardly noticed that I had been back in Jao for almost a year. Every day I would go back and forth between Padang Panjang and Jao to manage the construction and running of the small hydroelectricity stations in three small villages. Alhamdulillah, almost fifty percent of the local electricity was generated from these stations. Almost eighty percent of the electricity in Gunuang was generated by the station we had built. The people of that village were very grateful. Often people from Gunuang would come to my house in Jao and bring me gifts. Suhar, a fifty-year-old man, took the run-down minibus between Tambangan and Jao to bring me some bananas from his own garden.
“Thanks to the new source of electricity, I don’t have to pay the national electrical company. My children can study at night,” he said happily. It was so pleasing to hear what he said.
My salary—which was the same as my friends in Germany—was very large for Indonesia. Within six months, I was able to buy a good second-hand car. I no longer needed to walk or use those terrible vehicles on the Tambangan – Jao line. I could also take Mother and Father to Padang and Bukittinggi every weekend. They were happy. I would also take my nephews, who were aged eight and four.
Throughout this time, Father continued to herd his cattle and look after trade by himself at the Padang Panjang market. Now, he didn’t need to. I urged him to give it up, even though I knew he wouldn’t want to.
“Let’s employ An, Uda Razi’s younger brother. He would surely be willing. Moreover, it would be helping their family,” I said. Because it would help others, my father couldn’t refuse.
My life and my family’s life were improving. We didn’t need to rely on anyone else in the village to survive. Father would even ask me to donate some money for improving the village infrastructure—for building a bridge, for instance—or for a traditional ceremony at the town hall.
I said to him once, “The villagers and the Council of Elders have treated our family so poorly. Why don’t we just move from here? I’m sure it doesn’t matter how much we donate: they will never appreciate us. Besides, I can build a big house for you and Mother in Padang Panjang. We can move there.”
Father drew a deep breath and said that giving to the community was an obligation. Others have rights to a share of what we earn. We should not compromise our donations by hoping that others will treat us better because of them.
“Jao is the most beautiful place I know. I was born here, grew up here, met your mother here, married here, and brought you and your sister up here. I would not give up all of this for a big house in Padang Panjang.”
I couldn’t say anything more. Although his face showed the wrinkles of age, his idealism was as strong as ever.
Who knows what the village elders were thinking, but the Council of Elders suddenly decided that if my family and I wanted to stay living in Jao, I had to marry the son of the current village head. The decision was conveyed to my father at a meeting this afternoon. When I heard this, I was furious.
“What on earth do they want?” I said, almost hysterical. I couldn’t stop wondering why this institution kept meddling in other people’s affairs.
Father looked at me sharply.
“We already disappointed them six years ago by turning down Sutan Nagari’s marriage proposal. If we disappoint them again, we will have to leave the village.”
“I don’t even know the son of the village head.”
“That’s why tomorrow he will come here and you will meet each other.”
“Did you agree that I would marry him?” I asked in disbelief.
Father exhaled. “Linda, in the past, I did what I could so that you could achieve what you wanted. Can you now do the same for me and your mother?”
I stared at my father. I was trying to understand why this man who had once defended me was now willing to give me up to the son of the village head.
“So, this is the purpose of becoming a jewel? To be sold to the village head?” I asked softly.
“My child, a valuable jewel will never be sold by its owner, because no one is capable of buying it.”
I was silent. I knew there was no way of avoiding this wedding; the date had already been determined by the village elders.
“You don’t look happy,” said my sister as we prepared for my wedding.
“I’m just nervous,” I answered curtly.
“I don’t believe you. Don’t lie to me. What’s the matter?” my sister asked, her voice very firm.
“I’m trying to accept this. But I can’t accept it sincerely,” I answered with my lips trembling. I started to cry and then I told her everything I felt about my wedding.
“Those village elders …” She paused for a moment.
“I will ask Uda Razi to—”
“Don’t bother. I’ve already caused enough trouble for you all.”
“I can’t let you marry someone you—”
“Don’t love?” said my mother, who had suddenly appeared at the door. I quickly wiped my eyes.
“Was that what you wanted to say?” said my mother softly. She closed the door of my room and then continued talking.
“My children, marriage doesn’t need to start out with love, but marriage will create love. I’m speaking from my own experience. When I was a girl, there was no one in Jao I hated more than your own father. But the village elders decided that I would marry him. Now, after thirty years, I love no one more than your father.”
Mother sat down beside me and said in her gentle voice, “I know that you think your father and I are just using you to please the village elders. Believe me, that is not our intention. We are so proud of you. We are impressed with your work. But, to be a jewel in the Land of the Minang, beauty is not seen just from the size of one’s salary or how many villages one has helped. As a Minang woman, to be a real jewel, you have to get married. You have lived abroad for years; you have moved in societies with very different cultures from our own. We just want to make sure that you don’t forget that there is still one more stage in the process of becoming a jewel.”
I was silent. I couldn’t respond to my mother’s words, although in my heart I still wanted to argue. I couldn’t accept all of this.
Some hours before my wedding, Mother’s words were still ringing in my head. One more stage before I become a jewel, I thought to myself. I put on my wedding gown. I looked at myself in the mirror. No matter how good my education was, no matter the size of my salary, I was still a Minang woman—and an Indonesian woman too. For us, life is not a matter of looking for the best decision, but rather how to implement decisions in the right manner. There is no choice for us. Just as there is no choice of public transport for people who live in Jao.
I don’t know how much longer women will have to be happy with husbands who have been chosen by their families. But, if I have a daughter, I know that I will not force her to get married for the fantasy that she will be a jewel of the Land of the Minang.
Translated by Andy Fuller