Batak lore from Sumatra tells of an upper world where the Gods rule, a middle-earth for men, and an underworld that is the home of a dragon called Naga Padoha.
The serpent was banished to the underworld after it lost a battle with the Gods. Carvings on the gables of traditional Batak houses depict the story of Naga Padoha.
Indonesia has the real thing: Komodo dragons, giant lizards armed with toxic saliva that serve as a major tourist attraction. Stories about these reptiles circulated among Chinese traders and Dutch sailors centuries ago. The carnivores are solitary, but they gather to feast on a big carcass. They eat snakes, rodents, wild pigs and water buffalo. Sometimes they eat their own. They are efficient eaters, consuming just about every scrap of their prey. They can survive for weeks without a large meal.
It is said that a Swiss baron disappeared during a tour of Komodo island in 1974. He was presumed eaten.
Chapter Two
Characters
Indonesia is home to all sorts: tailors and tycoons, street strummers and the king of pickpockets.
Pak Ogah (Betawi)
Mr. No Way.
A children’s puppet show on television in the 1980s featured a character called Pak Ogah, a layabout in Jakarta, home to the Betawi people. The Betawi are a mishmash of ethnic groups from around Indonesia, with bloodlines from China, the Middle East and the former colonial power, the Netherlands. In the show, Pak Ogah has a stock reply when asked for help: Ogah, ah!—No way. The syllable ah emphasizes his point.
Today, any Indonesian who says Ogah means: “No way! I won’t do it!”
The literal translation of Ogah is “don’t want.” The forceful “No way” fits better because Pak Ogah speaks with conviction.
Pak Ogah was in a puppet show called Si Unyil (That Small Cute One). Unyil is from the Sundanese language of West Java. In Bogor, Bandung and other West Javan cities, bakeries sell roti unyil: small bread, or buns made from leftovers of dough from bigger loaves.
Characters like Pak Ogah played on a stereotype of the Betawi as dumb, uneducated and out to make an easy buck. Most Betawi accept the stereotype as good-natured ribbing.
In the show, Pak Ogah sometimes agrees to do a favor, but requests a payoff:
Cepek dulu.
“First, 100 rupiah.”
Cepek is 100 in Hokkien, a dialect from southeast China that immigrants brought to Indonesia generations ago. Betawi merchants and haggling customers in the capital commonly use the term because Chinese influence on commerce and culture is deep. Other Hokkien numbers are jigo (25), gocap (50), gopek (500) and ceceng (1,000).
Economic turmoil hit Indonesia when the currency plummeted in 1997, and people lost jobs and savings. Food distribution networks broke down in some areas. So-called Mr. Ogahs popped up at intersections, T-junctions and U-turns across Jakarta. They acted as traffic lights or cops, regulating the flow and bustle of commuters. Drivers rolled down windows and dropped 100 rupiah coins into their palms.
These street entrepreneurs later became known as polisi cepek (100 rupiah police).
Indonesia’s economic crisis triggered riots and protests, and helped push authoritarian President Suharto from power. Although the economy slowly improved, Mr. Ogahs patrolled the capital. Panhandling thrived. A boss at the wheel of a pickup stopped at busy intersections, where grandmothers, mothers and young children hopped out and begged. Beggars “rented” babies from poor families for the day to woo sympathetic tourists. The begging squad’s manager pocketed a hefty slice of the take, and sometimes drove his “employees” from satellite towns ringing Jakarta. He charged them for the ride.
The number of panhandlers ballooned if pests or dry spells damaged rice harvests. Begging also picked up when people gave to the needy near the end of Ramadan, the Muslim fasting month.
Street musicians (pengamen) wandered main streets with guitars, serenading people at restaurants or street corners. Sometimes they shook a rattle and rhythm out of a glass bottle containing a stone, or from flattened bottle caps nailed onto a stick.
Tunes ranged from Indonesian pop and rock to Top 40 songs to commercial jingles. Some buskers boarded buses and sang anti-government songs, which flourished after the 1998 fall of Suharto.
Iwan Fals, a craggy-faced singer with unruly, silver hair, drew a huge following with his guitar talent and odes to the poor. One of his songs tells of Bento, a fictional businessman who lives the fast life. Many fans believed the inspiration for Bento was tycoon Bambang Trihatmodjo, Suharto’s second son.
Suharto’s kids used their connections to amass fortunes while their father was in power, triggering resentment among down-at-heel Indonesians. Bambang kept a lower profile than his younger brother, Tommy, a playboy and race car driver who sometimes tooled around the steamy streets of Jakarta in a Rolls Royce. Tommy was jailed for 15 years in 2002 for ordering the killing of a judge who had convicted him of corruption. His sentence was reduced to 10 years on appeal, and he was released in 2006, partly because of good behavior. The outcome angered Indonesians who believe the rich and well-connected still manipulate the law.
Malin Kundang
Ingrate.
In a folktale, Malin Kundang was the only son of a poor village widow in West Sumatra. When he became a young man, Malin sought permission to seek fortune far from home. His mother wept, but gave her blessing and he boarded a ship and sailed. Years passed without news. His mother stood daily by the shore, awaiting his return.
Far from home, Malin worked hard. Smart, diligent and handsome, he became rich, bought a ship and married. One day, he docked in his hometown, and villagers marveled how the scrawny lad had become a wealthy merchant with a dazzling wife. His ailing mother rushed to the dock to welcome her son.
“My son, Malin! It’s me, your mother,” she exclaimed.
The haughty Malin saw only a stooped woman in shabby clothes. Ashamed that the sight might offend his wife, he ignored the old woman. He kicked her to the ground when she tried to hug him, and he commanded his crew to sail. Malin’s stunned, tearful mother watched as the ship drew further from the shore.
“Malin, my son, how could you do that to your mother? You will become a stone!” she cursed.
A storm struck Malin’s ship and it ran aground. Malin turned into a stone on the rocky beach.
Nowadays, exasperated parents complain if their children ignore their advice or commands.
“Don’t be like Malin Kundang,” they say.
Jangan seperti Malin Kundang.
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West Sumatrans like Malin have a reputation for traveling long distances. The calling is merantau, which means to leave one’s home, or wander about, in the Minangkabau language of the region. It’s a rite of passage to manhood. It’s difficult to find Minangkabau men who have not left home, at least for a while. Most plan to return eventually.
The term merantau is so widespread that most Indonesians
