The morning air in Durian Village felt cool, a world apart from the smoke and roar of city traffic. I took a deep breath, savoring each inhale of fresh air. The scent of damp earth mingled with the distinctive fragrance of durian leaves, stirring childhood memories that had long lain dormant in the corridors of my mind.
"Aha… so this is the aroma of nostalgia," I murmured softly as I walked slowly among the rows of trees.
Since dawn, I had left the house. After yesterday's meeting with Chandra, I felt the need to begin the day by wandering through the durian orchard—the place I used to frequent as a child. Chandra said he would prepare data and plan the villagers' gathering. In the meantime, I wanted to understand the "soul" of this orchard, because to me, these durian fields were not merely a commercial plot but an integral part of village life.
I stepped along the narrow path, which was slippery from the dew. With each step, I recalled running after Nina, exhausted after flying her kite, battered from falling onto the wet ground. Or the times Chandra and I hid behind a tree, reading comic books while our teacher lectured on a scorching afternoon. The wave of nostalgia was so potent that it tugged at my heart.
Suddenly, to my left, I grabbed a broken branch that I once used as a makeshift sword when pretending to be a knight. I raised the stick as if about to strike an imaginary enemy. "Hah!" I whispered.
But reality quickly reminded me otherwise. In front of me stood a middle-aged man wearing a woven hat, busily tending the base of a durian tree. His eyes widened when he saw me. I bowed politely.
"Good morning, Sir," I greeted. "What are you doing, Sir?"
The man smiled warmly. His features reminded me of Pak Wiyo, the durian farmer who used to share ripe fruit with us.
"I'm Pak Warjo," he said, extending his hand. "Many villagers used to confuse me with Pak Wiyo, but I prefer to be called Warjo. You're Agung, right? Mr. Rokhman's son?"
I nodded. "Yes, Sir. I used to help my father care for the orchard."
"Ah, your father was a good man. This orchard was built over many years—it didn't happen overnight," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Now we're all a bit worried, hearing the village head's plan."
I met his gaze and exhaled. "Indeed, Sir! I only heard about it yesterday. They want to clear all these orchards for palm oil."
Warjo shook his head. "Palm oil yields a fast harvest, but not for the future. If this land becomes palm oil, many things will disappear—biodiversity, clean water, even the village's spirit."
My resolve flared, but I also felt anxious. "Pak Warjo, I want to help. What can I do?"
The old man offered a wry smile. "We need documentation and proof that these durian orchards hold immense value. Not just economically, but also ecologically and socially. Photograph the orchard's condition, record local wisdom, and gather stories from the villagers."
"All right, Sir," I replied enthusiastically. "I'll compile a field report."
Warjo patted my back. "Good! You've got the spirit of youth. Don't let them destroy what our parents fought for."
I walked away, my mind brimming with ideas. As I went, I took a swig from the mineral water bottle I'd brought. The chorus of insects and birdsong formed a soothing soundtrack to this place. The old camera I carried around my neck was ready to capture every detail.
At the far end of the orchard stood the dilapidated hut where Chandra and I once spent hours reading comic books or pouring out our hearts. It was still there, though its roof leaked in several spots. I carefully lifted a decayed wooden plank and opened the weathered door.
"Wow… our secret hideout," I whispered, sitting on the cracked wooden bench. Dust adhered heavily to its surface, and each shift made it tremble.
I examined the hut's walls, still covered in childish carvings I had once etched with a blunt nail: my name, Chandra's name, even the arrow "maze" drawings we made while playing hide-and-seek. This hut was a small monument to our childhood.
After sitting for a moment, I photographed the corners of the hut, then took out my small notebook. I jotted down the date, time, a simple GPS reference I'd generated on my phone, and several descriptions: "Old hut, wooden foundation, presence of X coordinates… historical value to the community."
Suddenly, gentle footsteps approached. I turned to see Chandra standing in the doorway, clutching a stack of thick books.
"Ah, here is our official Documentation Chair," Chandra teased, setting the books atop the bench. "Spent a lot of time in here, huh, Gung? We could become researchers of ancient durian orchards."
I laughed. "Rather than be an ancient researcher, I want to be a hero of the orchard." I shook his hand.
Chandra sat opposite me, opening one of his books titled Local Economy and Agroforestry Potential. "Here are some references that might be useful. We need data on the economic impact of durian: average income per family, harvest seasons, market prices, and also ecological effects."
I nodded. "I just visited Pak Warjo's house; he agreed to help with data. We need to form a small team to handle documentation, conduct interviews with villagers, and map locations. You handle the books and theory, and I'll handle the fieldwork."
"What's the schedule?" Chandra asked, jotting notes in his notebook.
I looked at the sky through the hut's roof. "Starting tomorrow, I'll tour the orchard and interview five farmers each day. You can validate data at the school—since you're the informatics teacher, get your students to help input the data."
Chandra paused a moment, then grinned broadly. "Great idea! We can also educate the kids about conservation. They're tech-savvy; maybe they can create an interactive map."
"I like that," I replied. "Meanwhile, we'll collect a digital petition—gather electronic signatures."
Chandra lifted a statistics book. "And if we display this information at the village hall, the subdistrict head and local officials will find it hard to ignore the evidence."
I pounded the bench. "Perfect. All right, our mini meeting is adjourned."
That afternoon, we kept our appointment at Pak Warjo's house. There, he showed us crop records from the past five years, video footage of abundant durian seasons, and even local proofs of traditional durian-based recipes, folklore behind Durian Village's name, and old photographs.
I captured everything with my phone and digital camera, transcribing his handwritten notes into my notebook. Meanwhile, Chandra busied himself questioning Pak Warjo on technical aspects: average yield in kilograms per tree, maintenance costs, net income, and impact on groundwater.
"For quality seedlings, we need to collaborate with research institutions," Pak Warjo said. "But villagers became complacent when the village head promised cash payouts. Some farmers are already tempted."
I furrowed my brow. "We have to show them that premium durians also yield more stable long-term income. Palm oil grows fast, but eventually its profits plateau."
Chandra chimed in, "Exactly! Sustainable economics matter. We can include case studies of other villages successfully developing their durian industry."
Pak Warjo nodded enthusiastically. "There's a village in Central Java that now draws tourists every harvest season. Their durian processing facility also employs locals."
We noted all of this. The sky had begun to redden by the time we said our goodbyes.
"I feel more fired up, Gung," Chandra said on the way home. "With this data, I hope the villagers grow more convinced."
I gazed at the stony path ahead. Moonlight patches guided us back. "I hope so," I replied. "But it's not just about data. Tomorrow morning, I'll invite villagers to experience this nostalgic aroma. We'll hold a tour of the orchard—chat informally and eat durian."
Chandra chuckled. "Free durian? The villagers will definitely show up."
I smiled widely. "The only way to make them care is to give them the experience. Not just numbers, but feelings, too."
That night, I wrote in my small diary about my father's legacy. Blue ink danced across the pages, weaving numbers, advice, and goals for the next morning.
May 30, 2025
Today I walked through the orchard, met with Pak Warjo, and formed an action plan. Economic and ecological data are gathered. Tomorrow, the "Aroma of Nostalgia Tour" for the villagers. I'm ready to be a quick tour guide—haha!
I closed the diary and looked at the dark sky. My heart pounded, not from fear, but from newfound passion. This village, this orchard, is part of my life's story.
"Tomorrow, we begin a new chapter," I whispered.
And in the silent night, the aroma of durian nostalgia seemed to whisper, "Welcome home, Agung."