I have a death shout. Echoing stroked ripples. Shouts that can encourage friends and weaken opponents. I am considered as an icon in every speeding boat along the Kuantan River. The more I shout the more the rowers will paddle their arms. Not to mention the drunken beats that jerked the pulse of my friends. There have been many race runners that we have won. The rowers said, one of the causes of the victory is the death shouting and my drumming.
“Some kind of magic every shout that comes out of your mouth. The more you shout, the more excited we are. You’re a great kid on the track.” My friends praised. Sometimes, carry me around the river when our path wins the race.
Since then, I always keep my voice as I approach the annual tradition of pacemaker in my area of Tepian Narosa, Teluk Kuantan. Tradition that has been a hundred years ago as a symbol of community spirit in welcoming the harvest season by using the path that called Pacu Jalur (lane race).
Pacu jalur is a Kuantan community art product that was born and derived from a blend of elements of sculpture, music, dance, and sports. The other important thing is the spirit of togetherness. Pacu jalur is believed to have magical and spiritual powers. Pacu jalur is the culmination of all activities, every effort, and all the sweat, and the happiness they spend to earn a living for a year.
I’m always faithful to my boat. There are many chances offered to me to move to their boat line. The Boat lanes that were made with sincere heart and father’s sacrifice. I still remember the heaviness of setting up the lane that had blended with me. All sweat had been dripped to get a 30-meter waterproof banio wood in the middle of Kuantan forest. Finding, cutting, pulling, making, and lining the lane were done with togetherness.
Even, some offered my lane with a very high fee. Will never be! The lane carved tiger on the stomach and above. Feeling so sweet with extra umbrellas, ropes, scarves, gulang-gulang (middle pole) and lambai-lambai (where the helmsman standing). For me to be a child of the path with the shout of spirit is not just looking for victory in every race but the most important is always uphold loyalty on the path that has raised me. I gave reasons for the rejection.
“Loyalty?! What kind of loyalty? How much do you want?” Either question or ridicule, the sentences are hard to define.
I do not want to give any reason. Any answers I give will always be interpreted differently.
“How dare you. Arrogant!”
I do not know, since then only silence I can give if I am asked to give an answer. But there is always the cheer up from my boat lane friends.
“Life is a choice. Choose what you want to”.
“I have chosen to be a child on this lane since childhood. This lane, the boat that has made my father known as a human lane that is remembered to this day. I want to learn to be like my father.”
I remember when my father used to be a powerful rower in the traditionary track of my region.
“Your father is known as human lane because of his loyalty on his boat lane. He never moved like the other famous rowers. For your father, rowing the lane should be a breath of his life. The breath is a lane that has been contested with it.”
“Yes, I want to be like my father.” A great promise filled my bloodstream. Father’s story makes me proud to be his son. I become more confident with my choice. The choice requires me to train hard by keeping my vocal cords to keep echoing and flavorful. I go around the river bank to keep my stamina. Run and scream along the river.
Sometimes there are always small cases shaking my beliefs.
“Just be a child, not need to be so so. Just shout out as strong as you can, it will give the best the spirit of the oarsmen.”
I learn not to care about the chatter. I will continue to be a faithful lane child like my father.
“Daddy, let me be a kid like you.” Enjoy the frangipani fragrant in my father’s tomb.
The 30-meter long boat track that always kept me? and I touch it to get the aura of spirit. I imagine my father always presents in front of me while clenching his sturdy hands to encourage me. Before the race, I used to be alone at the end of the boat, imagining with my 50 rowers pulled out the adrenaline to rush the boat.
The lane race is not only as a tradition but has become a pulse of freedom to enjoy independence. Along with the celebration of the independence of this country, always been encouraged by the outpouring of society here enjoys the meaning of freedom. Enjoying the hands of agile rowing, shout of children’s lane like me, the fair with the presence of various colors banners, dance along with songs Panjek-Panjek Tabilusui and the always-anticipated performances, randai. I once played as a bujang gadi (girl boy) in this traditional show. Sometimes I feel ashamed of myself if I remember my role as a bujang gadi because I must look like a woman.
This year feels festive, the country’s independence and friendship gathering in the atmosphere of Eid at the same time. The celebration spilled a triumphant victory. In addition to the race track, baganduang tradition is always awaited. A tradition that symbolizes exotic and magnificent applications. Baganduang boat is a custom vehicle for Majompuik Limau (propose a girl) which consists of a combination of three lanes that are assembled into one (diganduang) by using bamboo. The boat is then adorned with various colorful custom symbols, called gulang-gulang. I still remember when kak Zaitun, my sister who is proposed by bang Ali. The boat is decorated with symbols of grandeur to pick up on the banks of the river to propose kak Zaitun. I had time to imagine, what kind of boat I will decorate to pick up my girl.
I together with with my lane mates for this year have prepared everything to maintain our team as an unbeatable one.
“The tradition of this champion we keep as strong as possible. Many other teams are eyeing our position. “Advise my team’s line leader.
It has become a habit that before the race, all teams will take care of all the possibilities that can thwart to race. Especially, in the top party. Only two teams will be competing. All must save all energy and mind. But, the problem is where my friends and I are invited to eat together by our opposing team. They say thanks before the race tomorrow.
“We’re brothers, tomorrow’s a mere race,” said my team’s lane-runer. I welcome the offer. There is a wonderful friendship between us. A variety of food is available on pandanus mats. Galamai, virtuous, lemang, konji barayak, godok, lopek, paniaran, tongue goat, berek, jackfruit curry, bamboo shoot, snail curry, grub curry, and rendang. The only food available is complete when the race path tradition is held.
“Delicious and very tasteful. But it’s night, it’s time we take a break,” my team leader invited us to return home. Storing energy for tomorrow’s game.
Night is more curved in the Kuantan sky. River splashes slammed on the edge of the tethered boat. I am nervous waiting for morning. The tired particles are pouring through my body. I sleep in a noisy silence in my mind. Dad’s shadow looks bleak. In an uncomfortable dream I lose my shout. I become mute. I try to get my voice out loud. The harder, waking up I am to sweat anxiously.
I wake up and there is something wrong with my voice. I can not make a sound. My throat is clenched in a thick, stifling mucus.
“Aaarghhh …” just a silent sound. My spirit energy seems to be sucking somewhere. Limp. I do not know what happened to me. I just rush to the bank of the river, where the race is held. I trudge along with an unbearable crunch.
The drowning dawn take me to the edge of the river. I try to drag my spirits and try to scream. But only quietly ambush me. The crowd begins to greet. I approach my boat. No rowers. I sweep my eyes, none of my friends will struggle with the paddle. I drag my remaining spirits toward where my friends live in. I find my friends too drained of his spirit energy. Limp like me.
“You’re the cause! I told you to be careful with your opponent. I do not know what food they serve for us that makes us feel weak like this!” The anger of my friends pierce the corner of my innermost heart.
“God … what’s wrong with me?”
I pass with a quiet wind. Bury the desire to continue the loyalty of the father as a human path. Although I have to pick up the pieces of hope that has been shackled. I heard my track name being called over and over again to perform. Over.
“I’m sorry, dad.”
Bambang Kariyawan Ys., a teacher. WA: 08117595971