Sep 1, 2026 · 16 min · 5 segments
A Jakarta creative invited to a Sumatran village is haunted by the colonial and neocolonial violence brought to life by the tale of a white crocodile. *Content warnings: Blood, animal death, mention…
My friends and I had come to West Tulong Bawang Lampung on the invitation of the regent.
He was 35 years old, with big plans to make his district not just peaceful and prosperous and free from swine flu, but also a pioneer in cool new cultural offerings.
This young regent wanted West Tulong Bawang's stories to be written down and written well, something better than dusted off old artifacts.
So my friends and I, we each came with our own skills to fulfill his desire.
We first gathered at the residence of a tradition-bearing elder in the hamlet of Penu Manong to interview two doddering old men.
Then my friends went to see a canon that was said to have a peculiar hobby.
It had been wailing loudly ever since it had shot down the flying prayer mat of a missionary from Banten 600 years ago.
Meanwhile, I slipped away and started chatting with a fuel retailer named Daniel.
He was selling gasoline in what appeared to be giant milk bottles, and it was from him that I heard about Afonso for the first time.
Two years later, he and a cousin from his mother's side enlisted in the Royal Navy.
When he was 34, half a decade after his cousin's departure on a second quest to search for the new world, Afonso received orders to lead a ship on an expedition.
But his destination was the old world, the part of it that was still rich.
Month after month went by.
Storms and dead wind.
Bad luck and terrible misfortune.
Various port cities, each with their own charms and distinctions.
The voyage enriched his knowledge, yet did not detract a whit from his imaginings of islands teeming with dances and gleaming with sun, of proud men wearing epaulettes adorned with flying horses and head wraps made from tiger hide, of shapely women wrapped in silk that hid deluxe adornments, gold and silver hoops bobbled with precious stones encircling their belly buttons and tracing the curves of their labia.
It wasn't the difference between dreams and reality that disappointed Afonso, but the Admiral's orders.
The Santa Clarina, Afonso's ship, had to stay in the southernmost waters of Samudra Island with several other ships and their crews.
Afonso was appointed leader.
His task? Ensure the continuity of the spice trade with the Bonten Sultanate and, through other more secretive routes, the trade with a number of Palembang Sultanate nobles and thus maintain the balance of power in the region.
They built barracks for six days.
My friends and I had come to West Tulong Bawang Lampung on the invitation of the regent.
He was 35 years old, with big plans to make his district not just peaceful and prosperous and free from swine flu, but also a pioneer in cool new cultural offerings.
This young regent wanted West Tulong Bawang's stories to be written down and written well, something better than dusted off old artifacts.
So my friends and I, we each came with our own skills to fulfill his desire.
We first gathered at the residence of a tradition-bearing elder in the hamlet of Penu Manong to interview two doddering old men.
Then my friends went to see a canon that was said to have a peculiar hobby.
It had been wailing loudly ever since it had shot down the flying prayer mat of a missionary from Banten 600 years ago.
Meanwhile, I slipped away and started chatting with a fuel retailer named Daniel.
He was selling gasoline in what appeared to be giant milk bottles, and it was from him that I heard about Afonso for the first time.
Two years later, he and a cousin from his mother's side enlisted in the Royal Navy.
When he was 34, half a decade after his cousin's departure on a second quest to search for the new world, Afonso received orders to lead a ship on an expedition.
But his destination was the old world, the part of it that was still rich.
Month after month went by.
Storms and dead wind.
Bad luck and terrible misfortune.
Various port cities, each with their own charms and distinctions.
The voyage enriched his knowledge, yet did not detract a whit from his imaginings of islands teeming with dances and gleaming with sun, of proud men wearing epaulettes adorned with flying horses and head wraps made from tiger hide, of shapely women wrapped in silk that hid deluxe adornments, gold and silver hoops bobbled with precious stones encircling their belly buttons and tracing the curves of their labia.
It wasn't the difference between dreams and reality that disappointed Afonso, but the Admiral's orders.
The Santa Clarina, Afonso's ship, had to stay in the southernmost waters of Samudra Island with several other ships and their crews.
Afonso was appointed leader.
His task? Ensure the continuity of the spice trade with the Bonten Sultanate and, through other more secretive routes, the trade with a number of Palembang Sultanate nobles and thus maintain the balance of power in the region.
They built barracks for six days.
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