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Pressure Points • 35
They did not sit down or order any food. I felt the lingering eyes of the armed
men behind me. I was glad to be sitting facing the back wall, as Darius had
advised me to do when we first walked into the kiosk. When the soldiers went
outside to answer a phone call, Darius quickly heaped a spoonful of chili sauce
on my rice and told me to eat with my right hand, Indonesian-style. “You need
to look like a settler (pendatang),” he whispered. “You can pull it off—you’ve
got Asian blood. Just let me do the talking.”
Sure enough, the soldiers started asking questions. Darius introduced me as
a cousin twice removed of Father Andreas, who was in charge of the parishes of
the Upper Bian and well known across the region for his close ties to Romanus
Mbaraka, then regent of Merauke. I was on the way to the city to meet the archbishop and discuss plans to initiate small-scale agriculture funds for transmigrant women in a nearby settlement. I had been living abroad for several years,
hence my embarrassingly poor language skills and difficulty digesting chili
sauce. The soldiers laughed. The atmosphere relaxed. We talked about faraway
homes, the foods we missed, and the heat and drought afflicting Merauke.
Darius and I continued our journey. We stopped once along the way to stretch
our legs but moved on quickly after a group of young Javanese men, dressed
in plantation workers’ uniforms, appeared out of the bush and asked if we had
come down from Mirav. Despite the frequent vehicle changes, the information
had somehow managed to follow us. These men, Darius told me, were spies
(intel) paid by oil palm companies and the military to monitor community
members’ movements. By this time, the sun had started to set. Darius suggested
we take a shortcut through a nearby plantation to reach the city. I knew this
was risky, but my friend insisted. After all, the concession was established on
his clan’s customary land. After riding several hours through a landscape of decimated vegetation and burning forest, we arrived at a plantation checkpoint.
The strident shout of a security guard stopped us in our tracks: “Halt! Where
are you going? Report first!” “Idiot,” muttered Darius. The guard strode over
with his rifle in hand and barked, “Who are you? You don’t have the right to
pass here. This is oil palm road. Find another road. You don’t have any business here. You’ve probably come to steal oil palm fruit. We know you Marind
people. Where’s your id card?”
Darius removed his helmet slowly and turned the engine off. I could hear
chainsaws buzzing in the distance. My companion grabbed his hair and, in one
swift movement, ripped out a thick tuft of his frizzy locks. He handed them to
the guard and said, “This is my identity. This is my land. I am Darius, head of
the Mahuze clan, descendant of dema (ancestral spirit) Tete Kenepe, brother
of the sago and dog. I own everything here for my ancestors inhabit this land.
They did not sit down or order any food. I felt the lingering eyes of the armed
men behind me. I was glad to be sitting facing the back wall, as Darius had
advised me to do when we first walked into the kiosk. When the soldiers went
outside to answer a phone call, Darius quickly heaped a spoonful of chili sauce
on my rice and told me to eat with my right hand, Indonesian-style. “You need
to look like a settler (pendatang),” he whispered. “You can pull it off—you’ve
got Asian blood. Just let me do the talking.”
Sure enough, the soldiers started asking questions. Darius introduced me as
a cousin twice removed of Father Andreas, who was in charge of the parishes of
the Upper Bian and well known across the region for his close ties to Romanus
Mbaraka, then regent of Merauke. I was on the way to the city to meet the archbishop and discuss plans to initiate small-scale agriculture funds for transmigrant women in a nearby settlement. I had been living abroad for several years,
hence my embarrassingly poor language skills and difficulty digesting chili
sauce. The soldiers laughed. The atmosphere relaxed. We talked about faraway
homes, the foods we missed, and the heat and drought afflicting Merauke.
Darius and I continued our journey. We stopped once along the way to stretch
our legs but moved on quickly after a group of young Javanese men, dressed
in plantation workers’ uniforms, appeared out of the bush and asked if we had
come down from Mirav. Despite the frequent vehicle changes, the information
had somehow managed to follow us. These men, Darius told me, were spies
(intel) paid by oil palm companies and the military to monitor community
members’ movements. By this time, the sun had started to set. Darius suggested
we take a shortcut through a nearby plantation to reach the city. I knew this
was risky, but my friend insisted. After all, the concession was established on
his clan’s customary land. After riding several hours through a landscape of decimated vegetation and burning forest, we arrived at a plantation checkpoint.
The strident shout of a security guard stopped us in our tracks: “Halt! Where
are you going? Report first!” “Idiot,” muttered Darius. The guard strode over
with his rifle in hand and barked, “Who are you? You don’t have the right to
pass here. This is oil palm road. Find another road. You don’t have any business here. You’ve probably come to steal oil palm fruit. We know you Marind
people. Where’s your id card?”
Darius removed his helmet slowly and turned the engine off. I could hear
chainsaws buzzing in the distance. My companion grabbed his hair and, in one
swift movement, ripped out a thick tuft of his frizzy locks. He handed them to
the guard and said, “This is my identity. This is my land. I am Darius, head of
the Mahuze clan, descendant of dema (ancestral spirit) Tete Kenepe, brother
of the sago and dog. I own everything here for my ancestors inhabit this land.
