BY ALEXANDER MERING
The moon moved from the jackfruit tree, illuminating a few stray fireflies circling above the village where a wedding was taking place.
The night was late, but the deafening noise from the dangdut songs mixed with folk songs blaring from the stage had attracted the non-stop attention of people from all over.
Baca Juga:Writing as a Bridge
It was not only the locals, but also workers from the palm oil plantation and forest harvesters from the nearby camps.
A few of the men sat cross-legged under the blue tents by the side of the stage. It was near the warung- warung (stalls). One or two of them looked in our direction with suspicion. They knew Laurensius Edi, but surely they did not know me, as I had only started frequenting the village this past month.