Off-The-Beaten Track
Galang Island is a poignant memorial to the drama of the Vietnam War. After being battered by ocean waves for months, thousands of refugees reached its shoreline and refused to go back. Fatris MF investigates.
Through the aircraft window, the cluster of small islands in the waters off Batam looked like flakes of heaven that had fallen to Earth. During the eighteenth century, these islands were a port of call for ocean going privateers and pirates. They set up their base camps here and also signed agreements not to set foot on the mainland.
It’s not known where these pirates came from originally. Some claim that they hailed from Mindanao or from the small islands that lie between the Philippines and Sulawesi, however the truth has been lost in the mists of time. One thing is certain though, they were accomplished mariners who sailed on winds from the north. The Melayu people called them angin samun, meaning, “The winds that bring the plunderers.” They pillaged the towns along the east coast and robbed the merchant ships passing through the Malacca Strait.
Then, once the winds had doubled back, they would return from whence they came. As they waited for this moment, they would stay on these islands, which from a plane look like mere tufts of greenery.
Amidst this cluster of small islands, one in particular was to be my target. As my professor once said, “Should you have the chance to visit the east coast, do not forget to go to Galang Island. There you will come to understand the ancient Melayu philosophy: ‘If you are afraid of dying then you must have the courage to live!’” My plane would soon land and the professor’s words would be proven true.
A blustery wind was blowing as I arrived at Batam’s Hang Nadim Airport. Then the clouds broke and the evening started early. “Rain hastens the onset of darkness,” wrote the famous Indonesian poet, Chairil Anwar, in one of his verses. And so it proved as Batam’s sky lay across the island like a dirty blanket.
Batam by night roars with machines and clatters with the footsteps of thousands of workers streaming home from factories to the sound of clanging bells and howling sirens. These factory workers come and go as shift replaces shift. I could also hear pounding nightclub music through the taxi window that I’d left open. It’s like a city that never sleeps. No matter how modern a city becomes however, it can never shed the myths and stories, or indeed the hardships and emotional baggage, of its past
“This is Bukit Senyum [bukit means hill, senyum means smile], but we need not spend time here. Out of every 100 people, 93 are up to no good!” explained my taxi driver as he pointed towards the gently sloping hill upon whose flanks the houses were twinkling in the warm night air. The taxi accelerated and forged through the darkness until I arrived at my hotel.
Sekupang harbour was teeming with people all waiting to depart to various islands. Small boats, capable of carrying around ten passengers each, jostled for position, their outboard motors growling at each other. Locals call them pancung, a word which means to carve up or cut off. “Before the Vietnamese people came ashore on Galang, these pancung were already here,” one of the tekong (skippers) told me.
Vietnamese people? Coming ashore? The tale of a young girl called Nguyen will explain this episode in history. Nguyen ran aground on Galang Island, so the story goes, along with thousands of others fleeing the aftermath of the Vietnam War. These so-called boat-people had set sail without a compass, and they drifted on the open sea, first coming ashore in Malaysia, only to be chased away before finding themselves in Indonesian waters. Finally, they dropped anchor off Galang. They were extremely weak after struggling with the waves for so long without adequate food or provisions.
