The Rainbow Troops (4 page)

FILICIuM DECIPIENS
are usually planted by botanists to attract birds. Their bountiful leaves know no season. Gorgeous parakeets would often visit them, and before attacking our
filicium
, those lovely green birds would first survey the area from the branches of a tall
ganitri
tree behind our school, scouting out the possibility of competitors or enemies. Then, with lightning speed, those voracious birds would dive down and plunder the small fruits of the
filicium
with their razor-sharp beaks. While eating, they constantly turned their heads to the left and right in a paranoid fashion. Moral lesson number three: If you are gorgeous, you will not lead a peaceful life.

After the parakeets would come a flock of
jalak kerbau
birds, relaxed as could be because their appearance attracted no one's attention. They had no predators, not even humans. They enjoyed each bite of fruit carelessly left behind by the parakeets, then defecated as they pleased—even when their mouths were full. Those bloated little birds, full of fruit, meandered about, to and fro.

As afternoon approached, a few ashy tailorbirds birds would land in silence on the branches of the
filicium
. Calm and beautiful, they would peck at caterpillars crawling on the tree, eating less greedily than the parakeets, and then fly off again, as noiselessly as they had arrived.

Like those birds, our days were oriented around the
filicium
. That tree was a witness to the dramas of our childhood. In its branches we constructed tree houses. Behind its leaves we played hide-and-seek. On its trunk we carved our promise to be forever friends. On its protruding roots, we sat around listening to Bu Mus tell the story of Robin Hood. And under the shade of its leaves, we played leapfrog, rehearsed plays, laughed, cried, sang, studied and quarreled.

For us, school was amazing. I often heard that kids complained about going to school. I couldn't understand it at all, because despite the poor appearance of our school, we were crazy about it from day one. Bu Mus and Pak Harfan made us fall in love with school, and more than that, they made us fall in love with knowledge. When the school day was over, we complained about going home. When we were given ten homework assignments, we asked for twenty. When it came close to Sunday, our day off, we couldn't wait for Monday.

The whole first week, we didn't touch a book.

Bu Mus and Pak Harfan told stories all day long. We were intoxicated for hours by magical stories from faraway lands that taught about life struggles and wisdom, like the moral stories from
The Arabian Nights
. They touched our hearts and taught us empathy.

Then, the first day of our second week.

I came really early. I couldn't wait to see Bu Mus and Pak Harfan. I was surprised when I opened the door to the class. Off in the corner was a drowsy cow, and in the opposite corner, sitting just as calmly, was Lintang. Even though his house was the farthest, he always came earliest.

On that happy day, after practicing singing
Rukun Iman
, the Six Pillars of Faith—a great song, the author of which, unfortunately, remains anonymous—Bu Mus taught us A, B, C, D and E. We chanted cheerfully.

The next week, slowly, we learned to write the first seven letters of the alphabet, from A to G.

"Seven letters per week," said Bu Mus.

"Within one month, you will know all the letters, and after that, we will learn to write them!"

The third week, I was incredibly delighted, because I had discovered new, strange letters, like O, Q and V. I only saw these new letters in Indonesian sentences every so often. Why did they make something that was rarely used? Just to make our lives more difficult. As I was sighing about that, someone sitting beside me raised his hand.

"
Ibunda
Guru," he shouted excitedly.

Bu Mus looked over, "Yes Lintang?"

"Can I have the enrollment form from the first day of school? I want to fill it out."

Bu Mus smiled, "Patience, Lintang. We've just learned the alphabet. Later, in second grade, when you learn how to write, you can fill it out."

The boy from the coast stood up, "I would like to fill it out now,
Ibunda
. I already promised my father."

We were all startled. Bu Mus hesitated, "You can fill it out?"

"I can,
Ibunda
," Lintang answered clearly.

Even though Lintang insisted he was able, Bu Mus was still doubtful. She opened her desk drawer, pulled out the form and moved toward Lintang. We all got up at once and crowded around him.

Bu Mus set the form on his desk. Lintang took a pencil from behind his ear, bit the end, and reached for the form. As she watched Lintang's thin and dirty fingers carve each letter of the words, I saw Bu Mus get goose bumps. Slowly but surely he crossed the t's and dotted the i's in the names he added to the form—in cursive!

Name of Student : ...
Lintang Samudera Basara
... Name of Parent : ...
Syahbani Maulana Basara
...

We could only gawk at him—Lintang could write, and he could write well! Bu Mus was awestruck, she just stared at Lintang as if he were a stunning pearl in a clam. A moment later, a soft voice escaped her mouth, "
Subhanallah
, my goodness, Lintang, praise Allah's holiness, praise Allah's holiness..."

Lintang filled in every last part of that form, and with a relieved smile, returned it to Bu Mus. That day, we hadn't even been in school for a month, yet Lintang had already fulfilled his first promise—to defend his father's dignity.

MONTHS BECAME years, and before we knew it, we were approaching our teenage years. Our poor school was still poor, but it was increasingly fascinating.

Through our shared trials and tribulations, we gradually grew to be siblings and knew each other's quirks inside and out.

Syahdan
.
His body was the smallest, but he ate the most. He never turned down food. It was as if his mouth weren't able to differentiate between delicious and disgusting food; he inhaled it all. It was baffling, he was so small— where did it all go?

Syahdan's deskmate, the honorable A Kiong, was somewhat of an anomaly. God only knows what possessed his father—A Liong, a devout Confucian—to enroll his only son at this Islamic school. It must have been because of the impoverished condition of his Hokian family.

Nevertheless, when seeing A Kiong, anyone would understand why he was destined to end up at this poor school. He had the appearance of a true reject. He looked like Frankenstein. His face was wide and box-shaped, and he had porcupine hair. His eyes were tilted upwards like sword blades, and his eyebrows were virtually nonexistent. He was bucktoothed, and the rest of his teeth followed suit. One look at his face and any teacher would feel depressed imagining the difficulty of cramming knowledge into his boxy aluminum head.

Surprisingly, A Kiong's tin can head quickly absorbed knowledge, but it turned out that the friendly, sweet-faced and intelligent-looking boy sitting in front of him nodding knowingly during lessons was not very bright. His name was Kucai.

Kucai was rather unfortunate: He suffered from serious malnutrition as a small child—a condition that had a large effect on his eyesight. His eyes couldn't focus correctly, so when he spoke, he thought he was looking at the person he was talking to, but his eyes were really gazing about 20 degrees to the left.

With all of Kucai's other characteristics combined— opportunistic, self-centered, a little deceitful—plus his know-it-all attitude, shamelessness and populist tendencies, he met all of the requirements to be a politician. For that reason, we unanimously appointed him class president.

Being class president was not a pleasant position. He was supposed to keep us quiet, but he himself could not shut up.

One day, in our Muhammadiyah Ethics class, Bu Mus quoted the words of Khalifah Umar bin Khatab, one of the apostles of the Prophet Muhammad, "Anyone appointed as a leader and accepts anything beyond his determined wage is committing fraud."

Bu Mus was definitely furious about the spreading corruption in Indonesia.

"And remember, leadership will be justly rewarded or punished in the afterlife."

The entire class was stunned, but Kucai was visibly shaken. As class president he was worried about being held accountable for his actions after death, not to mention the fact that he already loathed looking after us. He couldn't take it anymore. He stood up and said very pointedly: "
Ibunda
Guru, you must know that these coolie children cannot be kept under control! Borek acts like a mental hospital patient. Sahara and A Kiong fight nonstop. It gives me a headache. Harun does nothing but sleep. And Ikal,
Masya Allah
—My God,
Ibunda
, that boy was sent by Satan!" Kucai was much better than other Indonesian politicians. While they smeared others' names behind their backs, Kucai just came right out and said it to our faces.

"I can't take it anymore. I demand a vote for a new class president!" he said emotionally. Years of built up frustration exploded from his body. He almost seemed to be having difficulty breathing as he huffed and puffed unevenly. He stared at Bu Mus, but his gaze fell on the Rhoma Irama
Rain of Money
poster.

Bu Mus was shocked. Never before had one of her students protested something in such a direct manner. She thought for a moment, and then forced her face to reflect neutrality. She instructed us to write the name of a new class president on a piece of paper and to fold it in half. "In accordance with the principles of democracy, it is your right to vote and your choice must be kept confidential."

Kucai was beaming. He believed that justice had been served and was sure that after years of wanting to not be class president, his suffering would finally come to an end.

We folded up our pieces of paper and gave them to Bu Mus. The moments leading up to and during the vote count were tense. We nervously anticipated the results — who would be our new class president? Bu Mus opened the first piece of paper and read the name inside. "Borek!" she shouted.

The color drained from Borek's face and Kucai joyously jumped up and down—it couldn't have been any more obvious that he himself had voted for Borek.

"Paper number two," said Bu Mus. "Kucai!"

This time Borek jumped up and down and the color drained from Kucai's face.

"Paper number three ... Kucai!"

Kucai smiled bitterly.

"Paper number four ... Kucai!"

"Paper number five ... Kucai!"

And so it continued until the ninth paper.

Kucai was distraught. He was irritated with Borek, who was shaking from trying to hold back his laughter. Kucai was trying to glare at Borek, but it looked as though Trapani were his target.

There were only nine papers because Harun couldn't write. But Bu Mus still respected his political rights. She shifted her gaze over to Harun. Harun let out his signature smile, exhibiting his long, yellow teeth, and shouted sharply, "Kucai!"

Kucai's body drooped limply as it admitted defeat.

SITTING off in the corner was our prince, Trapani. He was as fascinating as the
cinenen kelabu
bird, and he was our class mascot. He was a perfectionist with a most handsome face, the type of boy girls fell in love with at first sight. His hair, pants, belt, socks and clean shoes were always spotless and impeccable. He smelled good too. His shirt even had all its buttons.

Trapani didn't speak if it weren't necessary, and when he did, his words were impeccably chosen. He was a wellmannered, promising young citizen who was a model of
Dasa Dharma Pramuka
—the Boy Scout promise. He wanted to become a teacher and teach in isolated areas when he grew up to help improve education and the condition of life for backcountry Malays—a truly noble aspiration. Everything in Trapani's life seemed to be inspired by the song
Wajib Belajar
, a song about battling illiteracy, by R.N. Sutarmas.

Trapani was very close to his mother. No discussion was interesting to him other than those related to his mother, perhaps because among six children, he was the only boy.

Sahara, the only female in our class, was like the parakeets—firm and direct. She was hard to convince and not easy to impress. Another one of her prominent characteristics was her honesty—she never lied. Even if she were about to walk the plank over a flaming sea and a lie could save her life, not one would escape her mouth.

Sahara and A Kiong were enemies. They would have huge fights, make up, and then fight again. It was as if they were destined to always be at odds with one another. One time, Trapani was talking about a great book,
Tenggelamnya Kapal Van Der Wijk
—
the Sinking of the Van Der Wijk
—Buya Hamka's legendary literary piece.

"I've read that book too," A Kiong commented arrogantly. "I'm sorry, but I didn't care for it. There are too many names and places, difficult for me to remember them."

Sahara, who really appreciated good literature, was offended. She barked, "
Masya Allah
! My God! Where do you get off criticizing excellent literature, A Kiong? Maybe if Buya writes a book called
The Bad Little Boy Who Steals Cucumbers
, it would be more suitable for your literary tastes!"

The rest of use laughed so hard that we were rolling around on the ground holding our stomachs.

On the other hand, Sahara had a soft spot for Harun.

Harun, who was well-behaved, quiet and had an easy smile, was completely unable to comprehend the lessons. Nowadays people call it Down Syndrome. When Bu Mus taught, Harun sat calmly with a constant smile on his face.

In every class, no matter what we were studying, Harun would raise his hand once and ask the same question, all year round, year after year, "
Ibunda
Guru, when will we have our
Lebaran
school break?"

"Soon, Harun, very soon," Bu Mus answered softly, over and over again, thousands of times, all year round, year after year. Then Harun clapped his hands.

During afternoon recess, Sahara and Harun always sat together under the
filicium
. The two of them shared a unique emotional connection like the quirky friendship of the Mouse and the Elephant. Harun enthusiastically told a story about his three-striped cat giving birth to three kittens, which also had three stripes, on the third day of the month. Sahara patiently listened, even though Harun told this story every day, over and over again, thousands of times, all year round, year after year.

The number three was indeed a sacred number for Harun. He related everything to the number three. He begged Bu Mus to teach him how to write that number, and after three years of hard work, he could finally do it. The covers of all his school books soon had a big, beautiful and colorful number three written on them. He was obsessed with the number three. He often ripped off the buttons on his shirt so there were only three left. He wore three layers of socks. He had three kinds of bags, and in each bag he always carried three bottles of soy sauce. He even had three hair combs. When we asked him why he was so fond of the number three, he pondered for a while, and then answered very wisely, like a village head giving religious advice. "My friends," he said knowingly, "God likes odd numbers."

I often searched Harun's face to try to figure out what was going on in his head. He smiled whenever he saw me doing this. He was aware that he was the oldest among us, and he often treated us with care, as if we were his own little brothers and sister. There were times when his behavior was very touching. One time, unexpectedly, he brought a large package to school and gave each of us a boiled caladium tuber. Everyone got one. He himself took three. His demeanor was very adult-like, but he truly was a child trapped in an adult's body.

The eighth boy, our honorable knight in shining armor, was Borek.

In the beginning, he was just an ordinary student. His behavior wasn't peculiar. But a chance meeting with an old hair-growth product bottle from somewhere on the Arabian Peninsula forever changed the course of his life.

On that bottle was a picture of a man; he was wearing red underwear, had a tall, strong body and was as hairy as a gorilla.

From then on, Borek was no longer interested in anything other than making his muscles bigger. Because of hard work and exercise, he was successful and earned himself the nickname
Samson
—a noble title that he bore proudly.

It was definitely strange, but at least Samson had found himself at a young age and knew exactly what he wanted to be later; he strove continuously to reach his goals. He somehow skipped the identity-searching phase that usually leaves people doubting themselves until they are older. There are those who never find their own identity and go through life as someone else. Samson was better off than them.

He was completely obsessed with body building and crazy about the macho-man image. One day, he lured me in and curiosity got the best of me. I didn't understand how he knew the secret to building chest muscles.

"Don't tell anyone!" he whispered while glancing around. He jerked my hand and we ran to the abandoned electric shed behind the school. He reached into his bag and pulled out a tennis ball that had been split in half.

"If you want to have a bulging chest like mine, this is the secret!" He was whispering again, even though absolutely no one else was around. I looked at the two halves with surprise and thought to myself:
Apparently the secret to an amazing body is in this tennis ball! It must be a great discovery.

"Take off your shirt!" demanded Samson.

What is he going to do to me?

"Let me make you a real man!"

The expression on his face indicated that he couldn't figure out why every man didn't use this method—a shortcut to the perfect appearance.

I was hesitant, but I had no other choice. I unbuttoned my shirt.

"Hurry up!"

Suddenly, Samson forcefully shoved the tennis ball halves against my chest. I stumbled back and almost fell. He had caught me by surprise and I was powerless, my back against some planks of wood. To make matters worse, Samson was much bigger than me and was as strong as a coolie. I wriggled around trying to break free.

And then I understood. The tennis ball halves were supposed to work like that strange thing with a wooden handle and a rubber cup that people use to unclog toilets. In Samson's crazy head, those tennis ball halves functioned as a tool to pump up chest muscles. Before I knew it, I was being tortured in Samson's strong grip by the powerful suctioning of the tennis ball halves.

I felt the life being sucked out of my insides—my heart, liver, lungs, spleen, blood and the contents of my stomach—by the cursed tennis ball halves. My eyes felt like they were going to pop out of my head. I choked, unable to speak. I signaled to Samson to stop.

"It's not time yet—you have to finish counting names and parents first, and then the results will show!"
Count names and parents? Oh man! Darn it!

Counting names and parents was our own foolish creation—doing something within the amount of time it took to say the full names of everyone in our class and their parents. For example: Trapani Ihsan Jamari Nursidik, son of Zainuddin Ilham Jamari Nursidik. Or Harun Ardhli Ramadhan Hasani Burhan, son of Syamsul Hazana Ramadhan Hasani Burhan. No way could I endure these things sucking the life out of me for the entire amount of time it would take me to count names and parents. Malay names were never short!

Samson didn't care. I was a fish trapped in a net. My breaths became short. The suctioning of the tennis ball halves felt like stings from killer bees. My body seemed to be shrinking. My legs flailed around hopelessly. The suffering felt as though it would never end.