I still remember a wandering petty trader who graced our farming community during my childhood in the 1950s and early 1960s. Seemingly without a permanent home, he traversed the landscape, driven by an insatiable curiosity and a yearning for new experiences. The joy lay in the journey rather than in reaching any particular destination.
My first encounter with him occurred at our farmhouse, several miles from our village, in the late 1950s when I was preschool age. I mention “farmhouse” because our community migrated to the farms at certain times of the year to avoid the long daily trek from the village.
On that fateful day, the trader was accompanied by a younger companion who called him Pak Harto. When someone asked if “Harto” had any meaning, he explained that in Javanese, it meant “wealth” or “prosperity,” reflecting a positive connotation associated with affluence. In everyday contexts, the name evokes ideas of success and well-being.
However, when the trader returned alone a few months later, we had forgotten his name and continued to call him Bujang Arud. It wasn’t until much later that someone thought to ask him again, but by then, we had grown fond of the nickname.
“Bujang Arud” was a poetic blend of the Malay word “bujang,” meaning single or unmarried man, and “arud,” which is Bidayuh for boat. This humble wooden vessel was his lifeline, allowing him to navigate the winding river near our farm.
His visits were erratic, like the tides that guided him. Sometimes he would arrive once a month; other times, he would vanish for months, only to reappear like a ghost from a cherished memory. His route began in Kuching and other coastal towns, stopping at riverside villages until he reached the edges of our paddy fields.
Bujang Arud claimed he was no trader; he merely sold goods to finance his wanderings and connect with people. He thrived in the company of others, drawing energy and joy from the brief encounters he cherished.
His wares were simple yet practical — mini knives, small machetes, and pots and pans that could be treasured for years. He carried sarongs and simple blouses, knowing well the women in our community liked them.
For the men, he offered tobacco and “straight razors,” long, intimidating blades that folded neatly into their handles. A skilled salesman, Bujang Arud took the time to instruct his customers in the careful art of using and sharpening these blades, which were especially appealing to those with a lot of facial hair.
Families delighted in his offerings of “bubok” (preserved krills), salted fish, and “belacan” (shrimp paste), staples that filled their kitchens with flavour.
Ever heard the saying, “Master of all trades but master of none”? It rings true for most, but not for Bujang Arud. He was a master of many trades, one of which was cooking. Whenever he wasn’t too busy, he would whip up a storm in his boat kitchen. My favourite was his “nasi goreng”, which he told us was a must-have dish among the Javanese people. This fried rice was often made with leftover rice and typically included shrimp, vegetables, and spices, frequently served with fried eggs, krupuk (crackers), and sambal (spicy chilli paste).
My siblings and I watched him work his magic on multiple occasions. He would gather vibrant ingredients for this flavourful symphony. Day-old rice sat in its bowl, ready to transform into something extraordinary.
With a sharp knife in hand, he finely chopped garlic and shallots, their pungent scents enveloping us and awakening our senses. He added a hint of chilli for that perfect kick, along with soy sauce and “kecap manis”.
He heated a generous splash of oil in a wok, watching as it shimmered like liquid gold. The moment the garlic and shallots hit the hot oil, they began to sizzle, releasing an intoxicating aroma that made our mouths water. He added the shrimp, letting the heavenly smell fill the kitchen with savoury goodness.
Next, he tossed in a handful of vibrant vegetables, watching as they brightened the pan and brought life to his creation. He scooped the cold, day-old rice into the mix, breaking up any clumps as he folded it in, allowing it to absorb the rich flavours. The soy sauce and ‘kecap manis’ coated every grain, infusing the dish with depth.
With a final stir, we felt the energy in the kitchen as everything melded together, the heat bringing out the best in each ingredient. We could hardly wait to taste the masterpiece he had crafted.
Lastly, he transferred everything into a big tin pot for us to carry to our farmhouse where our mother served the fragrant fried rice on banana leaves, topping it with perfectly fried eggs. Fresh cucumber and juicy tomato slices were arranged alongside, providing a refreshing contrast. A handful of crispy “krupuk” crowned the dish, promising a delightful crunch with every bite.
As we took our first mouthfuls, the explosion of flavours transported us. Each bite was an explosion of textures and tastes, warming our souls and leaving us craving more.
This was not just a meal. It was an experience that lingered, a comforting embrace of home-cooked goodness inviting us to savour every moment. The vibrant flavours and satisfying textures called us back for another plate.
Throughout my childhood, from the early 1950s to the 1960s, petty traders like Bujang Arud were the lifeblood of our community, weaving a network of goods and services that sustained us. They trekked from village to village, their goods slung in backpacks or sacks suspended from shoulder yokes.
The life of these traders was fraught with challenges. Each journey exposed them to harsh weather, treacherous terrain, and the threat of bandits. Bujang Arud handled these risks with a blend of resourcefulness and resilience.
Unknown to us, he was a master of self-defence, practising a martial art he called silat. One day, a few sceptical young men challenged him to prove his skills. He invited them to try, and in moments, he subdued them, earning their respect. They called him “guru” (teacher) and eagerly sought his guidance, but true to his wandering spirit, he declined, saying he was a petty trader on the move.
The following year, after the rainy season and annual harvest, he returned, this time with a woman by his side. He introduced her as his wife, a delightful surprise that stirred whispers throughout our community.
Once he had sold most of his goods, Bujang Arud confided to my father that he and his wife wished to stay for a while and try their hands at farming. My father introduced him to a landowner, and soon the couple built a modest home not far from our farm, though distant enough that visits became rare.
Word of their presence spread and eager young men flocked to him, requesting lessons in silat. With their help, Bujang Arud created a flat sandy clearing in front of his house, where weekly training sessions flourished.
Each trainee brought a “kong” (a tin can) of milled white rice as payment — cash was scarce, but this arrangement suited them both, for Bujang Arud needed the rice while he made preparations to start farming.
Still, despite the strong bonds of camaraderie and friendship, Bujang Arud’s restless spirit remained untamed. His wife longed for her seaside village, and perhaps unsurprisingly, he abandoned their home in 1966, not long after I left the village to attend a government boarding secondary school in Serian Town, roughly 38 to 40 miles from Kuching. When I returned during a school holiday the following year, the jungle had already reclaimed the house.
We thought that was the last time we saw Bujang Arud, but we were wrong. Always footloose, he suddenly appeared one day a year later during the height of the rice harvest season. It was a momentous occasion for us and several of our neighbours.
That night, a gathering was held in a neighbour’s farmhouse. The space was too small for everyone, so it became a sitting-room-only affair, with a few men forced to sit on the verandah. Amazingly, once the food and empty dishes had been taken away to be washed, all the men could fit into the living room, where they sat in rapt attention as Bujang Arud regaled them with stories about the places he had visited and the amazing characters he had met.
Years passed, and in the mid-1970s, while I was in my twenties working at Radio Television Malaysia in Kuching, I overheard his name mentioned by some colleagues at a nearby table in the office canteen. Curious, I inquired further and learned that inadvertently, they were talking about the wandering trader from my youth. He had finally settled down and was serving as a “silat guru” for a non-governmental organisation in town.
I was glad for him. The wanderer had found a semblance of permanence, whatever that meant to him. Good for him, I thought, as the memories of our encounters lingered like the gentle ripples of the river he once traversed.
quote photo:
Ralph Waldo Emersonquote:
‘Life is a journey, not a destination.’ — Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882); an American essayist, lecturer, philosopher, and poet, best known for leading the transcendentalist movement in the early 19th century.
DISCLAIMER:
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
