During the carefree days of the early 1960s, my younger brother (Little B) and I revelled in the realm of boundless adventure. Although we encountered a few misadventures that momentarily gave us pause, they failed to dampen our spirits or deter us from seeking further excitement and embarking on new explorations.
We were quintessential products of our unforgiving and often harsh surroundings, encompassed by the dense tropical jungle that enveloped our remote rural village. Unlike children of today, perpetually engrossed in the glowing screens of their mobile phones or computers, we had the sprawling expanse of the jungle, mountains, and rivers as our playground. These natural landscapes offered us endless opportunities for amusement, whether it was seeking out delectable wild edible plants, capturing fish and crustaceans, or observing the fascinating array of small creatures and avian species that graced our environment.
Just like the towering mountains, their majestic peaks reaching out to touch the heavens, and the colossal trees that stood tall, their branches intertwined with the sky, our youthful spirits soared as high as the treetops. In the depths of our imaginations, we transformed into true denizens of the forest, calling ourselves tree people, for we revelled in climbing to the very heart of the forest canopy. It was there, amidst the rustling leaves and dappled sunlight, that we often crafted our crude yet cherished sanctuaries – wooden platforms and bamboo treehouses, our humble abodes in the sky.
One year, having matured a little bit with more bodily strength and endurance, and having acquired more jungle survival skills, we planned an ambitious project. We decided to build a treehouse that had a fireplace, big enough and high enough up a tree to accommodate more than just the two of us. We also envisioned a fancy ladder to make it easy for us to go up and down. For this purpose, we found amongst the picturesque landscapes surrounding our paddy farm in the deep jungle several miles from our remote rural village, a leaning tree by a nearby river. It became the birthplace of our treehouse escapades.
With resourcefulness only kids possess, we harnessed the power of bamboo, felling stems upstream and fashioning them into a makeshift raft. With our buoyant vessel, we navigated the river’s gentle current until we reached the chosen tree. After deconstructing our raft, we hauled the bamboo stems up the tree one by one, forming the foundation of our lofty haven. The platform took shape, strategically positioned for exhilarating leaps into the inviting waters below.
Week after week, whenever school didn’t hold us captive, we toiled away at our treehouse masterpiece. Walls rose, a roof took form, and our humble abode transformed into a source of great pride and joy. Alas, the tree’s location across the river from our farmhouse posed challenges. We had scoured the nearby woods but found no suitable trees on our side. Thus, we had no choice but to settle for the alluring, if inconvenient, leaning tree on the opposite bank.
Our treehouse, however, was not without its trials. During the monsoon season, when the river swelled and the currents grew treacherous, we could only gaze longingly from the opposite bank, wishing we were inside our aerial sanctuary.
Nonetheless, we spent countless hours within our leafy retreat, even taking afternoon naps amidst the branches. But one fateful day, our idyllic existence was shattered.
As the sun peeked over the horizon, Little B and I eagerly rose from our slumber, brimming with the anticipation of checking our fishing lines and traps in the river before retreating to our beloved treehouse. To our astonishment, a rowboat was anchored below, tethered to a small tree underneath our treehouse. Curiosity piqued, we swam across the river, only to find an unfamiliar face emerging from our treasured sanctuary. Without hesitation, we raced back, sprinting to our farmhouse to alert our parents.
Father, with a mix of urgency and curiosity, hurriedly joined us down by the river. To our surprise, he recognised the man occupying our treehouse.
“Pak Man! Is that you?” Father exclaimed.
With a chuckle, Pak Man rowed his boat toward us, confirming his identity. In the familiar Sarawak Malay, he explained that he was travelling upriver to sell his wares to the villagers there.
“Why didn’t you come up to the farmhouse?” Father inquired.
“I considered it when I arrived yesterday evening, but then I saw this marvellous treehouse,” Pak Man replied, a mischievous glint in his eye. “I couldn’t resist spending the night up there.”
Father couldn’t help but laugh. “You mean to tell me you slept in their treehouse?”
Pak Man nodded gleefully, stepping off his boat. “Surprisingly comfortable, I must say. You should give it a try.”
Father pointed toward us, emphasising the true owners. “It belongs to these adventurous boys. They’re always building something or the other.”
“In that case,” Pak Man declared, “consider it a one-night rent owed to them.” He handed me a packet of salted fish, a token of his appreciation.
Father protested, insisting there was no need for repayment. But Pak Man stood firm, insisting it was a gift, a gesture of long-overdue reunion.
“Once you’re done with your sales, make sure to stop by again,” Father said.
Pak Man nodded, returning to his boat. “I will. See you in a few days.”
With a graceful stroke of his paddle, Pak Man’s boat drifted upstream, disappearing from our view. True to his word, he returned a few days later, though Little B and I missed the reunion as we were confined to our school desks.
Then, on a sunny Saturday morning, two months later, we made a delightful discovery. Dangling from a rafter of our treehouse was a bamboo container. It contained our favourite treats: salted ‘bilis gonjeng’ wrapped in banana leaves. Immediately, we knew it was another generous gift from Pak Wan. Word had surely reached him through our parents that Saturdays were our treasured treehouse days. He knew that we would find his gift.
A month later, on yet another late Saturday evening, we found ourselves lingering in the treehouse, smoking the fish we had caught throughout the day along the river below. As nightfall approached, our mother made her way to the river to wash some pots and pans, checking on us in the process. We informed her of our activity and the possibility of spending the night in the treehouse. She cautioned us to be careful and to return to the farmhouse if we changed our minds.
Lost in the captivating ritual of our culinary endeavour, we became blissfully unaware of our surroundings until a gentle call echoed through the dusk. It was Pak Man, arriving in his boat, his presence announced by the gentle ripples in the water. With a warm smile, he inquired if he could seek solace once more within the comforting embrace of the treehouse. Overwhelmed with delight, we extended a heartfelt invitation, eager to share our sanctuary.
Later that night, after dinner, Pak Man expressed profound gratitude for the food and refuge we had provided. He asked if we would like to listen to a story. We nodded in unison, the crackling sounds of firewood in the fireplace serving as an accompaniment. He began weaving the tale of ‘Roro Jonggrang,’ a renowned myth from the mystical lands of Java, where the ancient Prambanan Temple, now a revered UNESCO World Heritage Site, found its origins.
To our astonishment, Pak Man revealed his true heritage, dispelling our initial assumption that he was of Malay descent. He was, in fact, a proud Javanese, whose ancestors immigrated to the captivating shores of Sarawak many moons ago.
And so, beneath the rustling forest canopy, we listened intently as Pak Man transported us to a realm where gods and mortals danced in ethereal harmony. Love, betrayal, and divine retribution intermingled to shape the destiny of Prambanan Temple.
According to the legend, a prince named Bandung Bondowoso fell in love with a beautiful princess, Roro Jonggrang. He proposed to Roro, but she did not return his affections. However, instead of rejecting him outright, she demanded that he build 1,000 temples in just one night. She would marry him only if he could do that.
Using his supernatural powers and the assistance of spirits, Bandung did as she asked. However, sensing that he was almost successful, Roro instructed her subjects to set fire to the eastern horizon to create an illusion of dawn. The glowing light deceived the roosters into crowing, as they did every morning.
Bandung realised that he had been deceived and became furious. With his supernatural powers, he turned Roro into a stone statue, which the local people began to call Durga, the Goddess of Beauty. The spirits and gods that Bandung had summoned suffered the same fate, transformed into stone alongside her.
The Prambanan Temple complex represents the 1,000 temples that Bandung built, with the largest embodying the statue of Roro Jonggrang herself. The legend is an integral part of Javanese cultural heritage, told often through traditional Javanese dances and theatre performances.
As the sun rose the next morning, our taste buds tingling, we eagerly devoured more of Pak Man’s salted fish, cherishing the connection we had forged with him — the unexpected tenant of our treetop hideaway.
In those precious moments, as we savoured the rare delight and revelled in the wonders of being far above the ground, our treehouse transcended its mere structure. It became a vessel for friendship and the embodiment of the adventurous spirit that defined our youth. The unexpected encounters with Pak Man transformed into treasured memories, serving as reminders of a time when we proudly embraced our role as the tree people of our forest.
Quote: ‘In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks.’ – John Muir (1838-1914); a Scottish-American naturalist, author, environmental philosopher, and early advocate for the preservation of wilderness areas in the United States.
DISCLAIMER:
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
