Stories from Deli

Lulofs, 1920s

At five o’clock,  while it  was still dark,  the ton­-tong  roused  the  coolies  from  their deep sleep.  They  awakened   moaning  and  yawning,  stretched themselves  and  scratched.   During  the  night  they had  been  bitten  by  bugs  and  mosquitoes.   Some  of them washed,  bending over tins of water in front of the  huts.   Others  merely  rinsed  their  mouths  and changed from a sarong into a  pair of shorts.  Then, when  the ton-tong sounded  again  and  all the other ton-tongs sent  back  an  echo, they took  their spades on   their   shoulders   and   walked   to   work   slowly, sleepily, reluctantly.  They always marched in single file, dark silhouettes  moving  through  the dark  day break.   Above  their  heads  the  stars  paled  on  the greyish  sky,  and  disappeared  before  the  deepening glow coming up from the east.  All around  them on the   distant   horizon,   encompassed   by   the   virgin forest, half enveloped still in the milk-white morning mists, was land that would one day become the new estate.   It  was a  colourless,  dead  plain where every thing  that  had  once  been  alive  had  been  uprooted, burned, destroyed.   There had been the  stately trees of the  ancient forest, the thorny rattan, the creeping, stifling  weeds,  the  ferns  and  the  mosses,  the  snow white and dark purple orchids that had exhaled their perfume  unseen.    There  had   been   animals  too, serpents, scorpions,  ants, and centipedes.   They  had crawled,  wriggled,  worked,  and  reproduced  in  the hot: putrefying  weeds, decaying wood,  and  detritus of all kinds.  

Continually  a life just ended  had  risen again,  pushing,  murdering  and  throttling other life, striving  upwards  towards  the  glimpses  of  sunlight that  filtered  down  between  the  high  crowns  of  the trees like drops of melting copper.   For centuries on end  the  secret  struggle  for  life  had  gone  on  in  the perennial  dusk.   Suddenly  men  had  come,  cutting, uprooting, destroying  the  majestic  tree  trunks,  and the  myriad  suckers  of  the   creepers.   The   blows  of axes   had   resounded   through   the   forest,   and   a thundering   roar,   magnified a   thousandfold,   had echoed  through  the dim depths  like the  sound  of a dire  disaster  as these  old  giants  of  the  forest  fell dying.   Still, under these colossal  trunks with foliage lying criss-cross  all over  the ground,  the black, soft, moist humus had continued to live.  While the trunks and the branches of the trees were dying, the tough, juicy  creepers  and  parasites  had  continued  to grow and prosper. Ferns had shot up, orchids had flowered with  a last  magnificent  efflorescence  from  the  bark that was crumbling away.  Deep under this chaos of leaves and fibres, creeping  creatures still lived,  unaware as yet that death was rioting above them.

Then  in  one  morning  at  one stroke  fire  had  put an  end  to  all  that  remained.    It  had  flared   up, crackling,  hissing,  sizzling  among  the  mighty  tree trunks.   It  had  greedily  devoured  and  digested  the things of the forest that had remained  untouched for centuries.   It  had  stretched  its  thousand  contorted arms towards  the  blue sky where the  brassy sun was less consuming  than itself.   There had been  a  raging era  of  fire,  a  furious  flood  of  flames   bellowing   as it reached  up heavenward.

Before they had  realised what  was  happening,  plants  and  animals  had  been annihilated.   For one second  they had  been  checked in  their accustomed  ways.  Then  they had  perished, destroyed  utterly  by  the  ruddy fire.

By night, nothing had been left but  a smouldering, smoking  mass of debris,  a  black,  hot  world  of ashes and  soot and  mangled fragments.   All that remained of  the  river  of flames  was  a  thin  deposit  of greyish dust.   Tiny  tongues  of fire  licked  the  corpses  of  the trees, and  crept along bits of trunk that had escaped the  full fury of the  fire.   The  evening  breeze carried away  thin  strips  of  calcinated  grass  and   fern  and dropped  them  in  the  form  of a  tenuous  black  dust. Then the wind freshened  and  blew on the smoulder in  stumps until the fire blazed up again and, though satiated,  began  to  feed  once  more,  devouring  the last  remnants  of  its  vast  banquet.  

Sometimes  the smouldering  heaps  crumbled  together  with  a  dull, tragic thud or with a last tired sigh.  Then a shower of  sparks rose up  into  the  air and dropped  asunder, like red stars chased across a landscape  by the  wind. One   tree  remained  standing  isolated  in   the  ill used  plain,  a  mighty  trunk  whose  crown  had  been merely singed.  The  axe spared  it  henceforth,  as the fire had  done.   It  was  the  most sacred  of all  sacred trees,  the  king  tree.   Its  white  stem,  so  many  centuries old, alarmed the coolies.  They dared not touch the  tree  that  could  be  destroyed   by  Allah  alone. Lofty  and  pure,  it  contemplated  alike  the   destruction  and  the  construction  wrought by human hands-mighty in themselves, but  puny in comparison with the  strength of the  sacred  tree.

Barren,     empty,     desolate,     overpowered     and humbled,  the  land  lay  there,  waiting  patiently  for the  yoke  of  civilisation.   Chinese were  turning  the earth  with their spades, searching  it  deep with their cruel    implements.   With    an    endless    repetition throughout  the long scorching  day, they lifted  their arms and  bent their  bare yellow  backs, down which the  sweat  ran  in  rivulets.   The  piercing  rays  of  the sun  tortured  the  naked  parched  land.   It roasted  to a  darker  brown  the  brown  bodies  of  the  Javanese coolies, and  it  burnt the white skins of the  Europeans to  a  dull  red  hue.   But from  these  uniformly  yellow bodies  it  seemed  to  glide  off  powerless,  as  though they had been animated  by a life more obstinate and ruthless  than  the  gruelling  heat  that  fell  from  the sky and  rose again from the  earth.

Along the edge of the forest, canals were being dug. There  the Javanese  coolies  stood  up  to  their  thighs in the grey, putrid, evil-smelling water of the swamp. To   each   the   mandur   had   allotted   a   task.    Ruki looked  straight  ahead  of  him  along  the  bed  of  the waterway   which,   almost   choked   with   mud   and vegetation,  ran  into the forest.  Trees had  fallen into it and across it, and  lay there, together with decaying plants and  dead  animals,  rotting into a  black, slimy paste from  which  new  plants  were  already shooting up   vigorously.    

From Coolie (Madelon Lulofs-Szekely), describing large scale deforestation in North Sumatra committed by European planters.