could only be a matter of years before an inborn urge to increase and multiply put things back to square one.
There were transmigrants here, too, living in a kind of ribbon development along a lengthy stretch of the road, in conditions that might have discouraged the production of too many children. Settlements were bare, stark, hot, and above all regimented. The established villages had long since taken possession of those choice situations where there was water in plenty, fertile soil, and the shade of ancient, carefully conserved trees. The transmigrants, in their cleared area, had no shade; sometimes they may have had piped water, but we had heard of many condemned to a daily trek to the nearest river. Above all it was hard not to believe that they suffered from boredom in such surroundings. The vastness of the undertaking in which they were the pawns, coupled with the planners’ lack of vision, had constructed vistas of unimaginable monotony, of endless austere little grey cabins set up in straight lines with nothing to refresh the eye. The planning authorities may have equated standardization with progress, efficiency and manageable subservience, but the onlooker, and probably the homesick migrant, longs for the generous muddle of the average village. A passion for tidiness on the transmigration site itself is sometimes bolstered by notices urging the occupants to keep streets and houses clear of litter. Yet this concern for the immediate environment goes with indifference to the hellish wasteland in which the project is so often located.
Somewhere along this stretch we found ourselves crashing and bucketing over what we assumed to be the bad road of which we had been warned. For a moment we were mystified at shocks that suggested a major earthquake was taking place under us. The explanation was that the road was cratered with deep potholes camouflaged with a filling of dust. For the boys this was no more than another opportunity for testing driving skills, and spells behind the wheel were rationed and timed. Apart from the driver the problem was to avoid cracking heads on the roof, and this could only be done by hanging on to the bases of the seats.
This was the area of the Simpang-kiri River, and a wide and glowing plain, edged with a glittering tinsel of sea. It was here that the bridge was rumoured to be down. This was not so. In fact the road followed the river for some way and crossed and recrossed it over new steel bridges. The work on these had not been finished in all cases, involving some detours with the chance of getting stuck in the mud. For my part the slow going and delays added greatly to the interest of the journey, and many of the rare and spectacular birds I saw were familiar only from ornithological books. Mostly these were waders: stolidly contemplative painted storks — one in every pool — cranes mincing along the edge of streams, a white ibis, a purple moorhen, a scarlet minivet, a yellow oriole, a blue roller, and that great speciality of Indonesia, a green pigeon almost as large as a goose, pecking at seeds at the edge of the water. Two hundred yards away a fishing eagle planed down to rip ineffectively with its talons at the surface of a pond, then settled for a moment in an heraldic pose before launching itself on the air and flapping away. We wound down the windows and listened to the melancholic outcry of all the small birds of the marsh. There were the sounds of the mudflats of estuarial England, and half the small ducking, dodging, scampering water-birds in sight we shared with Sumatra.
Turning inland soon after this we realized that the moment of truth had arrived for suddenly we were driving over a switchback with exceedingly deep troughs holding sand and dust in their bottoms. This called for full throttle in bottom gear up the slopes, with the Toyota’s rear swinging like a pendulum as the wheels lost their grip, spun, took hold again, and we finally slithered, churning sand,
There were transmigrants here, too, living in a kind of ribbon development along a lengthy stretch of the road, in conditions that might have discouraged the production of too many children. Settlements were bare, stark, hot, and above all regimented. The established villages had long since taken possession of those choice situations where there was water in plenty, fertile soil, and the shade of ancient, carefully conserved trees. The transmigrants, in their cleared area, had no shade; sometimes they may have had piped water, but we had heard of many condemned to a daily trek to the nearest river. Above all it was hard not to believe that they suffered from boredom in such surroundings. The vastness of the undertaking in which they were the pawns, coupled with the planners’ lack of vision, had constructed vistas of unimaginable monotony, of endless austere little grey cabins set up in straight lines with nothing to refresh the eye. The planning authorities may have equated standardization with progress, efficiency and manageable subservience, but the onlooker, and probably the homesick migrant, longs for the generous muddle of the average village. A passion for tidiness on the transmigration site itself is sometimes bolstered by notices urging the occupants to keep streets and houses clear of litter. Yet this concern for the immediate environment goes with indifference to the hellish wasteland in which the project is so often located.
Somewhere along this stretch we found ourselves crashing and bucketing over what we assumed to be the bad road of which we had been warned. For a moment we were mystified at shocks that suggested a major earthquake was taking place under us. The explanation was that the road was cratered with deep potholes camouflaged with a filling of dust. For the boys this was no more than another opportunity for testing driving skills, and spells behind the wheel were rationed and timed. Apart from the driver the problem was to avoid cracking heads on the roof, and this could only be done by hanging on to the bases of the seats.
This was the area of the Simpang-kiri River, and a wide and glowing plain, edged with a glittering tinsel of sea. It was here that the bridge was rumoured to be down. This was not so. In fact the road followed the river for some way and crossed and recrossed it over new steel bridges. The work on these had not been finished in all cases, involving some detours with the chance of getting stuck in the mud. For my part the slow going and delays added greatly to the interest of the journey, and many of the rare and spectacular birds I saw were familiar only from ornithological books. Mostly these were waders: stolidly contemplative painted storks — one in every pool — cranes mincing along the edge of streams, a white ibis, a purple moorhen, a scarlet minivet, a yellow oriole, a blue roller, and that great speciality of Indonesia, a green pigeon almost as large as a goose, pecking at seeds at the edge of the water. Two hundred yards away a fishing eagle planed down to rip ineffectively with its talons at the surface of a pond, then settled for a moment in an heraldic pose before launching itself on the air and flapping away. We wound down the windows and listened to the melancholic outcry of all the small birds of the marsh. There were the sounds of the mudflats of estuarial England, and half the small ducking, dodging, scampering water-birds in sight we shared with Sumatra.
Turning inland soon after this we realized that the moment of truth had arrived for suddenly we were driving over a switchback with exceedingly deep troughs holding sand and dust in their bottoms. This called for full throttle in bottom gear up the slopes, with the Toyota’s rear swinging like a pendulum as the wheels lost their grip, spun, took hold again, and we finally slithered, churning sand,
Similar Books
