"Tempat Akhir Menutup Mata..."

Crowds of sweaty people push through more throngs of others, trying to see what was happening at the front.

To not rouse your curiosity and leave you hanging, let me draw a picture for you to see.

A high, looming pole rose, more than five feet into the blue sky of Indonesia.

Another one stood tall and mighty beside it, the same height. The dazzling sun shined down with an adequacy not seen on other days in the year.

The palm trees nearby swayed with the soft, three p.m. breeze, its leaves leniently rustling with its kin. Ripe coconuts hung down tantalisingly, leaving a fun task for juvenile men to do, which is to climb, pluck off the fruit, and throw them down, one by one.

Sweat beaded at the eyebrows of two men, their skin not tanned anymore, but already burned black by the ferocious sun, who isn't planning to stop its rays anytime soon.

The blokes heaved and gasped, their hands tightening on the pinang poles, as they hauled their bodies up. The crowds roared and cheered, egging them on with loud shouts of encouragement.

Even though they were only clad in identical black shorts, sweat covered their backs and fronts, their breaths dense, their chests heaving.

At the end of the pinang pole, hung an assortment of objects that swayed to and fro haphazardly. A new bicycle, its blue paint glimmering in the sunlight in a captivating way.

A box of the latest version of a cooler fan hung too, its sight ever so delicious to the hot foreheads of the competitors. A smaller object, that caused you to have to strain your eyes to see it, was there too.

Upon closer sight, it downed upon the rivals that it was a wallet packed full with new bills from the bank. The rectangles of paper coloured red, the most expensive, blue, and a light green peeked out, making the sight a captivating one.

A few other grand prizes included an empty TV box (the TV had been safely got out of the box and put on the ground), a new ironing set that was the gift of the dreams of many ladies, and a couple fat stacks of money.

The pole wobbled at the men's every movement, and for a moment, the left one swung erratically, taking the breaths of the people below.

With one last heave and one last gasp for breath, the man on the right latched his hand on to the TV box, before letting his touch linger then fall as he himself slid down the pole like a fireman struck by emergency.

The crowd erupted.

Cheers, whistles and applause rang through the air, filling the outdoor space with lots of noise. No one cared or was disturbed, however, for this was a special day.

This was the Independence Day of Indonesia.

And through the clamorous hubbub, a man's voice was heard blaring from a speaker set right in the middle of the village people's venue.

"Bapak-bapak ingkang menangi Bapak Herianto saking Wonosari!!!" He yelled into the microphone, which briefly subdued the overwhelming sounds, before it restarted once more, but this time with a new vigour.

(Ladies and gentlemen, the winner is Mr. Herianto from the village of Wonosari!!!)

A few miles from there, the waves crashed onto the sandy shore peacefully, and the sun sank down into the horizon, painting the sky in colours of orange and pink, red and yellow.

The mangroves creaked slightly with the salt-air wind. Plump mangos hung from their respective trees, very orange and ripe, ready to be picked soon.

An old farmer sits with his sandals off, the wrinkled, brown skin exposed to the salty ocean breeze as his sunken black eyes reflected the beautiful sunset.

"Rame banget wong enom iku. Aku kangen wektu nalika padha ora lomba lan liya-liyane, nanging banjur, ana uga perang-swara lan bedhil." He mumbled wistfully.

(The youngsters are so noisy. I miss the times when there weren't any races or stuff. Then again, there were war-sounds and guns.)

Between his index and middle finger was a cigarette, carefully balanced in the rather formidable position. He sucked in deeply, and let the fumes of white smoke exit his mouth and nose simultaneously.

His farmer's hat hung tilted to one side, as if he was a scarecrow that had been long not attended to.

Then, he started to hum. Hum a song only known by true Indonesians, the ones that were born and raised in the tropical country.

"Indonesia... Tanah air beta.. Pusaka.. Abadi nan jaya.. Indonesia: sejak dulu kala, selalu di.. Puja-puja bangsa..

Disana.. tempat lahir beta.. Dibuai, dibesarkan bunda.. Tempat berlindung di hari tua.. Tempat akhir menutup mata."

("Indonesia... My homeland.. Heritage.. Eternal and glorious.. Indonesia: since time immemorial, always in... the nation's worship...

There... the place where I was born... Cradled, raised by mother... A place of refuge in old age... The final place to close thy's eyes.")

The man closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his finger absentmindedly crushing the tip of his cigarette into the sand.

Then, he started to lay down, the back of his tattered shirt pressing into the sand. He took off his hat and laid it beside him, before he did the same with the stub of his cigarette.

The sea birds flew over the sky, their silhouettes black against the colourful sky. They were flying home, the old man knew, and he was too.

He dug his heels into the sand, the fragile, stretched skin that used to hurt now painless. His face took on a peaceful look, like the way a child would fall asleep, safe and comfortable in his mother's arms.

He slipped both of his hands into his pocket, feeling for the photograph that he slipped in before setting out to fish for the day.

"Linda, anakku, bapak tidak bisa menunggu lagi."

(Linda, my child, I cannot wait anymore.)

His voice was hoarser than before, slightly choked with tears as he stared at a picture of a small, young child. A girl, maybe about three.

She was smiling, and holding a fishing net. She was also wearing her father's hat, the one that sat beside her father now, and it was way too big for her tiny had, so it lolled to the one side, making her look a bit silly and lopsided.

"Bapak pulang ya nak. Sudah waktunya. Bapak sudah mendengar panggilan dari Tuhan."

(I'm going to go home, my dear. It's already time. I have heard his call from God.)

The old man fiddled with the photograph for a moment longer, his thoughts evidently lingering. He slipped the piece of paper into the front coat of his shirt, before patting it down like it was a talisman he carried in his heart.

"Tempat.. akhir.. menutup mata." He mumbled, his voice rough like sandpaper.

He closed his eyes, clenched his fists, let go, and breathed for the last time as the sun set over Jawa, one of Indonesia's most popular regions.