The Rainbow Troops (12 page)

AND THE day of the Carnival arrived. It was a day that made our hearts race.

Mahar fashioned the cheetah costumes out of canvas painted yellow with black spots, transforming our underclass men into convincing representations of the wild animals. Shocks of dyed yellow hair topped their painted faces.

Others performed as
tabla
drummers. Their bodies were painted shiny black, but their faces were painted snow white, and the result looked very strange. The Morans—the famous Masai traditional soldiers—were smothered in red paint. Armed with spears and red whips, headdresses made of woven wild grass, they were very fierce indeed.

Mahar paid extra special attention to us, the eight cows. Our costumes were the most artistic. We wore dark red shorts that went from our bellybuttons down to our knees. Our entire bodies were painted light brown like African cows, save for our faces, which were painted with streaks. Anklets with bells and tassels were fastened around our ankles like the mythological Javanese flying horse. They jingled with every step we took. Around our waists hung sashes made with chicken feathers. We also wore various exotic accessories, like big clipon earrings and bracelets made from tree roots.

The most ordinary looking of our accessories was a necklace made from
aren
(sugar palm) fruits strewn together like skewered meat on a rattan string. They weren't distinctive enough to warrant any discussion; we were too busy fawning over our awesome hats. In fact, to call them hats wouldn't do them justice. Crowns would be more ac curate.

The crowns were huge, made from long, wound pieces of fabric. Sewn onto the fabric was a miscellany of goose feathers, bark, wild flowers and miniature flags. No one suspected that in the unattractive necklaces lay Mahar's secret weapon for enhancing our performance. Those necklaces, which he had stayed up for three nights making, were the peak of his creativity.

Our necks were adorned, our heads were crowned. For the final touch, Mahar fastened a fauxhorse mane made of plastic twine to our backs. We were glorious cows. But overall, we didn't really look like cows. From behind we looked more like donkey men, from the side like turkeys, from above like cranes' nests, and from the face like ghosts.

Before the parade began, we gathered round, held hands and lowered our heads to say a prayer; it was very touching.

As we had predicted, the greeting from the spectators lining the street was outstanding. Nearing the VIP podium, we heard the thunderous sounds of drums, tubas, horns, trombones, clarinets, trumpets and saxophones. It was the PN marching band in action!

They truly were amazing. Their costumes differed according to the instruments they played. The bass drummers were Roman soldiers who had just dismounted their white steeds. Their victorious smiles made plain that they expected this year would be the same as years past. They'd surely grab Best Art Performance.

The pinnacle of their performance was when they halted before the front of the VIP podium and played
Concerto for Trumpet and Orchestra
, you know—the one frequently performed by Wynton Marsalis. The
Concerto
's beautiful intro was unveiled by fifteen
blira
players dinging three different sounds on their instruments. These were then joined by the beats of cymbals, until their tempo and tone were drowned out as dozens of snare drums took over. Every soul listening trembled. The audience was not yet finished swaying with the snare drums when the color guards flooded the street with an attractive, contemporary dance.

Thousands of spectators applauded, their cheers growing even louder as three majorettes, the queens of charm, skillfully twirled and tossed their batons without a single mistake. The beautiful, slender majorettes with their irresistible smiles ran about like peacocks showing off their tails.

The young ladies, straight off pages of a girly calendar, wore miniskirts, black stockings, and
Cortez
highheeled boots that came up to their knees. Their white gloves ex tended to their elbows. They skipped around in those high heeled boots without any trouble whatsoever.

More than mere majorettes, they were models. Their strides were long and they frequently snapped orders, while their faces conveyed a sense that they were accustomed to imported products and that they couldn't deign to waste their time on insignificant things. Their spoiled lifestyles and bright futures could be glimpsed in their eyes. We'd never know their names, and they seemed like visitors from a faraway land who had stopped by only to dazzle us.

Meanwhile, right here, we were cornered like a bunch of strange primates popping our heads in and out of banyan tree roots: black, dirty and dumbfounded by the world around us. But we soon formed our lines, not discouraged, impatient as we waited our turn.

Right after the PN marching band took its leave with the applause and whistles of the audience, without wasting a single second, and shrewdly stealing the moment, Mahar and the
tabla
drummers attacked the VIP podium. They walloped the
tabla
s with all their might, and moved like hundreds of monkeys fighting over mangoes. Mahar led the audiences' imaginations into Africa.

Spectators shot forward, eyes wide open, to see the spontaneous movements of young figures bending and curving like ocean waves with the ferocity of a puma and the impact of a bee sting. Without prompting, thousands of spectators cheered for the beating
tabla
s.

The
tabla
s
'
successful entry boosted our selfconfidence—the eight cows—we were up next. Our feet were itching to demonstrate the greatness of our mammal dance.

But in the course of the tense wait, my neck, chest and ears began to feel hot, then itchy. And it seemed that my friends were all experiencing the same thing. It then dawned on us that the itch was being caused by the sap from our
aren
fruit necklaces.

The intensity of the itch quickly escalated, but there was nothing we could do about it, because to take off the necklaces, we'd first have to remove our crowns, which weighed about two pounds and had been fastened to our heads by wrapping some of the fabric strips around our chins three times—not an easy ordeal. It was impossible to take off without someone's help. Clearly, Mahar had intended not only for the crown's design to enhance the glory of our costumes, but also to lock the necklaces onto our bodies. We were helpless, and Mahar signaled that it was our turn to take action.

I will never forget what happened next for as long as I live. We attacked the arena with Spartanlike spirit. The audience's applause erupted. At first, we danced joyfully according to the choreography. Then we, the cows, began to move a bit peculiarly, diverging from the plan, for we were being attacked by an unbearable itch.

We tried not to scratch because it would ruin the choreography. We were highly determined to defeat the PN marching band. We endured the misery. The only way to divert the itch's torture was to jump around like crazy. We roared, butted heads, pounced on each other, crawled, rolled around on the ground, and squirmed. We were like a can of worms poured onto a sizzling asphalt road. Nothing we did was in the choreography.

On the other hand, the
tabla
drummers were burning with enthusiasm as they saw us ignite with their music. They accelerated their tempo to keep pace with our wild movements. The spectators who didn't know what was going on assumed that the sound of the
tabla
s wove some sort of magic that placed us, the eight cows, under a trance. Their amazement grew.

According to the choreography, the next part of our performance was an attack by twenty cheetahs
.
We, possessed by the unbearable itch, fought back. Confused, the cheetahs ran for their lives. It was not supposed to go this way; according to the plan, we should have been frightened and fleeing until the brave Masai soldiers came to our res cue. But we couldn't just do nothing; if we stood still, the itch would make our veins explode.

The cheetahs rallied, and again we countered. This happened over and over. Miraculously, the diversion from the choreography had unexpectedly brought out the true character of animals, which can be both mercilessly vicious in some situations and uncontrollably fearful in others. I glanced at Mahar, who was delighted with our spontaneous improvisations. He must have manipulated the situation and expected this very outcome. The sound of his
tabla
became livelier. He smiled from ear to ear. I had never seen him so pleased.

The street grew hotter as the Masai soldiers burst onto the scene to save us. Then a real battle broke out. Dirt flew up from the street and swirled around us dancers like a tornado. Out of the chaotic maw rose hysterical yells, animal roars, the thumping of
tabla
s. Our choreography had the character of dance drumming from subSaharan tribes. Our dance evoked the age-old story of the survival of the fittest. This was
adzohu
, the manifestation of the struggle to survive represented through the metaphor of human movement in sync with the thumping of
tabla
s emitting magical mantras. The vibrations of the dance shook one's very soul, as if they were drawn from the mystical rituals of the cycle of life. The spectators were stunned to witness such a work of art spring from unintentionally generated chaotic movements. The photographers ran out of film.

After the performance, we ran wildly to find water. unfortunately, the closest water source was a dirty watercress pond in the back of a sundry shop, teeming with spoiled fish that couldn't be sold. What could we do? We plunged in.

We didn't see the spectators give Mahar a standing ovation. We didn't see the tears of pride running down Bu Mus' and Pak Harfan's faces. We didn't even hear the praise from the head of the jury for our magnificent interpretation of the dance from a distant land. Oh, respected jury panel, let me tell you something about magnificent interpretation: we owe our "artistic" performance to the sap of
aren
fruit, which itched us from our necks to our crotches and made us feel like we were dancing on coals. That's why we danced like we were insane. And that was our artistic interpretation.

We also didn't know that at that moment Mahar was accepting the most prestigious trophy for this year's Best Art Performance—the trophy we had always dreamed of. It was the first time that trophy was taken home by a village school. It was the trophy that could prevent our school from ever being mocked again.

We didn't know any of this because while the glorious ceremony was going on, we were soaking in the pond's muddy waters, scrubbing our necks with velvetleaf. We could imagine Mahar smiling as he was showered with heavenly praise. In the meantime, it seemed that we were getting our well-deserved punishment in the putrid pond. After years of our ridicule, Mahar had both gotten his revenge and, at the same time, walked away with the most coveted award. He was a genius. He killed two birds with one stone. It must have been a sweet revenge for him, very sweet—as sweet as
bintang
fruit.

ONE SPECIAL Monday morning, after years of misfortune, the Belitong Muhammadiyah School smiled for the first time. We held a small ceremony in front of our glass display case, which seemed to join us in smiling. For the first time, it would hold something truly worthy of its shelves: a trophy. The previous day, the chairman of the carnival judge panel had handed the trophy over to Mahar, ending its 40 year stay in the PN School's prestigious glass display case.

Conversely, a Muhammadiyah village school that had stood for almost one hundred years—the oldest school on Belitong Island, maybe even in all of Sumatra—for the very first time had received a trophy. Pak Harfan granted the special boy who had made this historic event possible the honor of placing the trophy in the glass display case.

That trophy enlightened us about who Mahar genuinely was. He deserved some respect. Our seemingly logical sentiments toward him were speedily upended. It didn't matter that he was eccentric, what was important was that he was a genius. That was what we had to look at first and foremost, and maybe that is how people should view all artists.

Never mind the fact that we considered ourselves
more normal
than him, or that we felt we were more truthful and upstanding, we hadn't yet contributed even one noteworthy achievement to our school. So despite his outlandishness, despite his eccentric appearance, despite his chaotic vision and methods, Mahar was the first person to go down in history as achieving something phenomenal for our school. He was the hero who made people think twice before belittling our school, and for this, we were grateful. I think maybe this is what they call appreciation.

Our celebratory ceremony closed with a photograph. We gathered round the glass display case, displaying our own smiles as well as our trophy, and you can guess whose smile was the widest—that's right, Harun's. Bu Mus had deliberately called a professional photographer to take our picture so we could show Mister Samadikun that we too could get a trophy.

Bu Mus promised us, both personally and in the name of the school, that if we got a perfect test score or won a special award, she would give us a prize of our choosing—as long as it was something she was
capable of fulfilling
. The right to select a prize now lay in Mahar's hands.

"What is it that you want the most, child?"

Mahar couldn't have been happier. He opened his bag and took out a rolled up piece of paper.

"And what might that be?" asked Bu Mus.

Mahar unrolled the paper, grinning as he revealed Bruce Lee in a midraging dragon move with three parallel scratches on his cheek and a double stick ready to strike his enemy on the head. We knew what Mahar meant. He had begged Bu Mus over and over again to hang the Bruce Lee poster in our classroom, a request that was repeatedly rejected. Now he saw a golden opportunity, thanks to his special right.

Bu Mus was dismayed, "Wouldn't you like something else, Mahar?"

Mahar shook his head no.

"You're sure? There's no other request?" Bu Mus said with a hint of frustration Mahar's head shook no again.

"Like maybe being excused from watering our school garden for a month?"

Mahar's head still shook no.

"Or being excused from buying chalk?"

Mahar shook his head once again and smiled at me. I too smiled with elation, trying to encourage Bu Mus to excuse other students from buying chalk. Surrender that difficult task to me: I volunteer! I volunteer with all my soul!

Bu Mus mulled over whether or not Mahar's request fell into the category of things she was
capable of fulfilling
. She also kept in mind the meaning of a teacher's
promise
to her students. She couldn't take something like that lightly. Keeping a promise and giving appreciation on the one hand, or rewarding eccentricity on the other. Bu Mus was in a tricky situation. Quite a pickle.

"Destiny is circular,
Ibunda
. You have to trust that one day this Bruce Lee poster will be useful." And that—calmly, philosophically and innocently—was how Mahar convinced Bu Mus. Bu Mus froze. A big part of her wanted to deny the request to hang a poster of a brutal fighter in action on her classroom wall. She tried to negotiate with Mahar. The two of them whispered to each other.

The next day, Bruce Lee's face was spread over the wall in front of our class, hanging directly above the chalk board. But he looked different. He wasn't fighting. He was smiling in traditional Chinese clothes. His smile was as serene as Rhoma Irama's on the Rain of Money poster hanging next to him.

It was truly extraordinary—the master of kung fu and the master of dangdut now presided over our classroom. After closer inspection, I found there was a similarity between them: both had melancholic eyes full of determination to oppose all wickedness on the face of this earth. Very impressive.

Good things tend to breed more good things, as the old Malay proverb goes. And it was true—the presence of that trophy lifted our spirits. Another good thing was that we received a small sum of money with the Carnival prize, money we could use to fulfill Mister Samadikun's requirements of buying a new chalkboard and first aid kit. Bu Mus filled the first aid kit with APC pills and worm extract medicine. The rest of the money was used to order a picture of the President, VicePresident and Garuda Pancasila from
Cahaya Abadi
, literally
Eternal Light
—the store for model school materials in Tanjong Pandan.

After we got our trophy, how happy the days were. We often gazed at it for long periods of time, talking about it everywhere we went. We laughed happily around it, but amidst the euphoria, I was often struck by emptiness.

Those days, I felt lonely in the midst of festivity. I often drew away from my friends, sitting by myself under the
filicium
, not wanting to talk to anyone and not wanting any company. My thoughts emerged out of the
filicium
's foliage, floating up and mixing with the clouds as if they had lost their way. I didn't even understand myself, always day dreaming, unsatisfied by food, unable to sleep well. I was struck by an odd feeling that I had never known before. I had turned into a restless fawn. Everything I thought I knew was turned upside down by a new word that had taken over my life: longing.

Every day I was attacked by longing for that young girl with the beautiful fingernails. I felt breathless all the time. I longed for her face, her smooth nails, her smile when she looked at me. I even longed for her wooden sandals, the wild hairs over her forehead, the way she said "R," and the meticulous way she rolled her sleeves.

I soon understood that I wasn't the type of boy who could stand longing. So I thought very hard about how to lighten this burden. After much research and various tac tics, I finally arrived at the conclusion that my longing could only be treated by frequently buying chalk. And for that, Bu Mus was my one and only hope.

I wholeheartedly begged Bu Mus to give me, and me alone, the task of buying chalk. I conferred with my classmates to take over their turns for buying chalk. I even approached the class president, Kucai, and addressed the Laskar Pelangi leader, Mahar, for support.

For a bribe of two packages of tamarind candy, Kucai was willing to change the chalkbuying schedule, which had already been made for a year's worth of turns. He, like most politicians in this country, was that easy to buy. The schedule now contained one name, and that was mine: Ikal. From January until December, only my name. Nary a word of protest came from my friends, who were perfectly happy to be freed from riding a bicycle 30 kilometers to the rotten shop to buy chalk from obnoxious A Miauw. So what I had to do to change the schedule was not difficult at all. But, my friend, I saw it differently. In my eyes, my efforts to become the one and only chalk buyer were part of a blood and sweat struggle. I exaggerated to anyone who would listen that it took me three months and a sack of tamarind candy in order to bribe Kucai to select my bid for the task of buying chalk, when the reality was that I had no rival. My friend, love made me a hopeless romantic. Were it necessary, I would have sold my soul to become the chalk buyer. All of this additional drama made her even more beautiful to me. How lucky was I, this boy, to be in her proximity when buying chalk!

Bu Mus was baffled by my sudden enthusiasm for buy ing chalk. "Don't you hate buying chalk more than anyone, Ikal? For mercy's sake, isn't it you who always says that the chalk store is putrid?"

I blushed. Ironic, I had found the true definition of irony. It wasn't because
Sinar Harapan
had developed a fragrant aroma; it was merely because the princess of the Gobi Desert was waiting for me there. Therefore, irony is not a matter of substance; it is a matter of compensation. That's the definition of irony, nothing more, nothing less.

Bu Mus wasn't interested in debating with me. Surely, the instincts she developed over years of teaching rang bells in her head, warning that my sudden change of heart more or less had to do with
cinta monyet
—monkey love, or puppy love. But with full compassion and an irked smile, she consented while shaking her head back and forth.

"As long as you don't go losing any of the chalk again. You should know that chalk is bought with money from contributions of the religious community!"

Syahdan and I soon became a solid team for the task of procuring chalk. I was in charge of the purchasing. Syahdan didn't need to pedal at all; it was enough for him to sit on the back and hold on tight to the boxes of chalk and keep his lips sealed. We enjoyed the thrill of keeping the secret.

Of course Syahdan, by my recommendation to Bu Mus, always accompanied me. He was happy to miss class and also to be free to try and flirt with the daughters of the
hok lo pan
shopkeepers.

Upon our arrival at
Sinar Harapan
, I quickly entered the sundry shop and stood at attention in the dead center of the ocean of junk. I fanned eucalyptus oil under my nose to fight the rancid smell. I wiped sweat from my brow as I waited impatiently for the magical moment when A Miauw ordered the Whiterumped Shama behind the seashell curtain to get the chalk.

I approached the pigeon cage door. She slid her hand out. My heart pounded out of my chest every time it happened. She still didn't say a word, quiet as a mouse, and neither did I. But she no longer pulled her hand back hastily like before. She gave me the chance to admire her nails. That in and of itself was enough to keep me happy until the next week.

And so it went on for months and months. Every Monday morning, I could meet the other half of my heart, even though it was only a set of nails. And that was as far as our relationship progressed. No greetings, no words, only hearts talking through beautiful nails. No introductions, no face-to-face interaction. Our love was an unspoken love, a simple love, a very shy love, but it was beautiful, more beautiful than words can describe.

Sometimes she tapped her nails or teased me by not letting go of the chalk box when I grabbed it, leaving us to play tug-of-war. She often clenched her fist; maybe it was her way of asking, "Why were you late?"

I prepared myself time and time again to hold her hand, or to tell her how very much I missed her. But every time I saw her nails, my neatly planned words evaporated, absorbed into the aroma of the Sawangs' sweat. All of my courage vanished under the pile of
jengkol
beans. So powerful was the appearance of her nails that it cast a spell on me. After our meeting, I would suffer for a week, but it was suffering mixed with an inexplicably strange happiness, combined with a longing that began choking me the moment she pulled her hand back into the slot.

If there's anything this world never has enough of, it's love. Time passed by and my heart felt more tumultuous. I couldn't bear not seeing her miraculous nails for a whole week. So, slyly and casually, I often took several pieces of usable chalk, and would then do one of two things with them: bury them secretly under the
filicium
; or give them to Harun, who was ecstatic to have them. Consequently, the chalk would be just about gone by Thursday, and I would be sent to the market on Friday morning. I was very happy to cut back three days of longing.

However, coming home from buying chalk on Fri days, I felt bad. I tried to compensate for my devious act by sweeping the school, cutting the grass, watering the flowers without being asked, and washing Bu Mus' and my class mates' bicycles. They were perplexed by my behavior.
Cinta monyet
is truly confusing!

Two seasons had passed, the Sarong people had gotten off their boats twice, and I still didn't know the name of that little girl with the beautiful nails.

For days, I tried to muster up the courage to just ask her. But when her hand came out, I lost my ability to speak. So I assigned Syahdan to dig up some information. The assignment thrilled him—he was like a Malay secret agent, stealthily sneaking and tiptoeing around.

"Her name is A Ling!" he whispered while we were reading the Koran in the alHikmah Mosque. My heart raced.

"She's a student at the national school!"

Bam! Taikong Razak's
kopiah
—traditional hat—struck Syahdan's Koran bookstand.

"Watch your manners before the book of Allah, young man!"

Syahdan flinched and went back to reading the Koran. The national school was a special school for Chinese kids. I stared at Syahdan seriously.

"A Ling is A Kiong's cousin!"

I felt like I had just swallowed a
rambutan
seed, big as a grape, and it was stuck in my throat. A Kiong, that tin headed boy! How in the world did
he
have a cousin with heavenly nails?

A Kiong immediately popped into my mind. These past few days he had to stand while studying at school because five boils had emerged on his bottom, rendering him unable to sit. But he was insistent on still attending school.

I couldn't describe how I felt about all these new rev elations. The fact that A Ling was A Kiong's cousin made me both excited and anxious. Syahdan and I had some serious discussing to do about this new development.