The Last Man Standing

There he stands, a lone holdout to the frenzied development that is eating up a patch of Bali’s pastoral scenery.

There is a small strip of land tucked between a housing estate and a stream that backs onto my house.  It’s the sort of land that has developers in this area salivating. The trees that line the river are a lone haven for a myriad of birds and at night the frogs maintain a chorus throughout the dark hours.

It’s a modest rice plot by Bali standards, 50 are by local measurement (about 50 square meters). Only about 30 are of this can still be planted.  The rest is too dry now. In-fill housing has done its bit to slow the flow of water, but mostly ineffective drains clogged with garbage render the land too dry to be of use.

Still, the farmer comes daily to tend his plot and manages to coax two crops a year out of the soil. Other well irrigated areas can sustain three crops a year, but it seems that waiting for the rain to come takes too long in this corner of Bali.

I asked if there was a Klian Subak or organizer of the irrigation, the person in charge of ensuring all plots of land obtain adequate water flow.  There is indeed a Klian, but he is rendered ineffectual by a mountain of rubbish that gets dumped into the waterways.

During the wet season the runoff from the fields quickly proves too much for the drains to handle and water pours across the streets, rapidly reorganizing piles of garbage from one side of the road to the other.

Yet, despite the scourge of modern life, the Last Man Standing in Seminyak is there day in and day out to check his land.  I often see him just standing and looking for long periods of time.  He brushes his hand over the lengthening stalks of rice, pulls out weeds and scares away the birds.  His connection with the land goes back centuries.  No doubt his great-great-great grandfathers stood in that very spot and looked at the stalks turning gold in the noonday sun.  And all hoped and prayed to the gods for a good crop.

I often lean over the fence and check on the progress of the rice. I am fascinated by the process.  Despite all forms of modern farming, rice is planted, harvested and husked the old-fashioned way.  It is back-breaking, physically exhausting work, all done by hand.

I am humbled to see the small band of ladies come with their conical hats, the type worn across Asia throughout the centuries.  They move swiftly, cutting with their scythes, making short work of the stalks, which are then neatly stacked into piles before commencing the arduous task of swatting each bundle against a board to shake off each precious grain.

The ladies maintain a steady banter throughout the day.  They laugh and gossip while small bands of children dart around.  They doze in the midday heat under the shade of the trees by the stream.  In the distance the drone of an earthmover can be heard above the whine of a tile cutter.  Another villa inches closer to one of the last plots of rice left.

Across the river the earthmovers have driven off and silence returns.  A once lush field is stripped of soil and is lying gray and barren in the baking sun.  An ugly brick wall is hastily erected around it now blocking an informal public path that previously connected two roads.  I wonder how the women in decorative ceremonial sarongs and kebaya will make their way to the pura.  Laden down with offerings for the gods, their trek through the rice fields will take longer, skirting around the dead patch of land in the middle of fields.

The rice farmer from across the river stares at his patch despondently. His current crop is not looking healthy.  It’s covered in dust from the project behind the ugly wall and the water from the irrigation canal has slowed to a trickle.  Will future crops survive?  His face is creased in a frown, he is not so sure.

I wonder how this will affect the price of rice in the market.  Will the delicate balance of supply and demand be thrown off?  Will there be a time when a sack of rice will literally be worth its weight in gold.  Will rice become too precious to offer even to the gods?

I worry that one day a huge box of 100,000 rupiah notes will prove too tempting for the Last Man Standing in Seminyak.  One day he’ll cease to come.  The small band of ladies will have to look elsewhere for work.  The land will be gone, trees cut down, birds and frogs disappear. 

And the rice will no longer turn golden in the noonday sun.

+ Simon

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