I walked toward the home of one of the villagers, Pak Sutikno. The morning air was so quiet that I could hear only the bamboo leaves' whisper as dew settled upon them. Yet beneath that calm, tension was rising—like the stillness before a tropical storm makes landfall. After several days of orchard tours, workshops, and meetings at the village hall, a subtle unease had settled among the villagers. Whispers at the coffee stall, anxious looks in the farmers' eyes—all spoke of one question: "What will the Durian Guardians do next?"
I exhaled softly when I reached Pak Sutikno's small, corrugated-roofed yard. In front of his house, several farmers were tying young durian trunks to bamboo stakes, preparing support so the branches wouldn't snap when fruit began to grow. They spoke in hushed tones as I tapped Sutikno's shoulder; he turned to me with a forced smile.
"Good morning, Mas Agung," he greeted, his voice slightly hoarse as though he smoked too much but still wanted to appear welcoming.
"Good morning, Pak," I replied, bowing my head respectfully. "May I speak with you for a moment?"
He nodded and invited me into the little pendopo (open pavilion) beside his house, where villagers often gathered. The wooden pillars were covered with old spiderwebs, and the earthen floor was slick with dew. We sat facing each other, separated only by a small table holding a steaming pot of coffee and several glass cups.
"The palm oil rumors keep getting stronger, right, Mas?" Sutikno began as we settled in. "This morning I heard at the stall next door that many farmers have already decided to join the Palm Oil Festival… they say there will be equipment bonuses, free fertilizer, and a lot of sweet promises."
I raised an eyebrow, troubled by this development. "I've heard the same, Pak. That's what I feared. Many villagers feel pressed for quick cash, especially with rubber and corn prices dropping."
Sutikno took a loud gulp of his coffee. "And with durian, we have to wait two to three years for the next harvest. Young farmers need capital. They're impatient—they're afraid of being poor in their own home."
I lowered my gaze. Indeed, one weakness of our movement was the imbalance between short-term needs and long-term gains. Durian deserved a high price, but waiting three years requires serious financial planning.
"What do you suggest, Pak?" I asked gently. "How can we help them get capital without forcing them to sell their orchards now?"
Sutikno tapped the table in agreement. "Maybe we could revive the village cooperative. We collect small contributions from farmers who have greater risks, then use that pool as low-interest loans on short terms."
I listened with interest. "That's a good idea. 'Koperasi Durian Berseri,' for instance. We could also involve the village bank to provide microloans, with a recommendation letter from the subdistrict head and the Durian Guardians."
He nodded proudly. "Exactly! But we need government support. How do we bring them on board?"
I closed my eyes briefly. "Tomorrow, I'll ask Chandra to meet the subdistrict head at his office. We'll submit a full proposal with economic data, the cooperative's plan, and the villagers' petition signatures. That way, the subdistrict head is obliged to help."
Sutikno nodded firmly. "Agreed. For now, we can only wait. Tomorrow morning, I'll gather some young people and women here for a small meeting."
I stood, picking up my nearly empty coffee cup. "Thank you, Pak. This is very helpful."
As I left the pendopo, I passed three young men—Maman, Yudi, and Anton—carrying PVC pipes for irrigation. They looked at me with wide eyes.
"Mas Agung!" Maman called out. "We heard some farmers are worried—some want to sell their orchards to PT Makmur Lestari… they're offering fifty million rupiah per hectare."
Yudi added, "Yeah, they say the palm oil hype is huge, so if you sell now, you can get a lot of money for livestock and corn fields."
I forced a bitter laugh. "Not yet, friends. Organize a meeting so we can discuss the cooperative and the microloan scheme. I'll help."
Anton tilted his head. "That's a good idea, Mas. But what about those already registered for the Palm Oil Festival?"
I took a deep breath. "We're not forbidding them from attending that event, but we'll ask them not to sign any land-sale commitments. We'll prepare an anti-sale form—a pledge signed by villagers agreeing not to sell more than twenty percent of our land for the next generation."
They exchanged glances and nodded. "Okay," Maman said. "We'll start early in the morning and visit households."
I patted Maman's back. "Stay motivated. Remember, if we explain the benefits of durian, it's not to scare anyone."
Later that afternoon, I returned to the village hall, where the "Aroma of Nostalgia" workshop had ended three days ago. The blackboard still stood in the corner, complete with the agroforestry diagram and a durian-price graph. I gathered the newest leaflets from the table and sat on a wooden chair, waiting for Chandra.
A few minutes later, he arrived in a hurry, carrying a thick folder. His face looked worn, as though he'd been called by phone dozens of times.
"Well?" I asked as he settled into the chair with the folder in his lap. "Is it good news?"
Chandra shook his head slightly. "It's been slow. The subdistrict head supports your cooperative idea but asks us to prepare a more concise proposal first. They want a standard format: SWOT analysis, budget plan, and timeline."
I breathed a sigh of relief. "That's better than a flat refusal."
Chandra handed me a freshly printed village map. "This is the map they requested. My students already mapped every orchard—coordinates, size, and tree conditions."
I studied the map seriously. "Good… this will help us identify which lands need capital most urgently. Let's divide zones: A for fertile land, B for medium quality, and C for newer plots. Each zone can get a different assistance program."
Chandra jotted down "Zone A/B/C" in his notebook. "I've also secured support from an environmental NGO facilitator. They're ready to provide training on organic fertilizers and branch pruning."
I offered a slight smile. "Perfect. So the cooperative can offer affordable organic fertilizer as an alternative to palm oil chemical fertilizers."
Chandra looked at me intently. "But, Gung, there's some bad news. Some villagers feel we're moving too quickly to involve the government and NGOs. They say we might be strengthening the headman's position rather than the villagers'."
That feedback stung. "So some think we're getting too close to the elites?"
Chandra nodded. "Yes! They're afraid of a hidden agenda. They think we're creating a new dependency."
I lowered my head, thinking it through. When we opened the door to assistance, we risked control from outside—just like what we criticized PT Makmur Lestari for. I needed to ensure this movement remained truly rooted in the villagers' interests.
"We need an open forum," I proposed. "Tonight, let's hold a small face-to-face meeting in the pendopo. Invite all segments of the village—farmers, youth, women, and traditional leaders. We'll explain the cooperative's goals, the NGO's role, and how villagers will participate. No hidden agendas."
Chandra smiled in relief. "Agreed! I can help prepare slides for a brief presentation on objectives, mechanisms, and FAQs."
"I'll prepare discussion modules," I added. "Some prompting questions: 'What are our fears?', 'What are our hopes?', and 'How do we preserve villagers' sovereignty?'"
Chandra stood and grabbed his laptop. "All right! I'll edit your slides, and we'll start at eight p.m."
I patted his shoulder. "Let's go, Chan."
As night fell, Pak Sutikno's pendopo once again became the hub of discussion. Oil lamps and small lanterns hung overhead, illuminating attentive faces. About twenty people sat in a circle on woven mats, looking at each other expectantly.
I stood at the front, holding a simple microphone connected to a portable speaker. Behind me, the projector displayed a slide with the title "Koperasi Durian Berseri: By Villagers, For Villagers."
"We invited every villager without exception," I began. "Tonight's goal is simple: to build shared understanding about the future of our durian orchards and our village."
Heads nodded slowly, but many eyes remained skeptical, as though people were waiting for a reason to object.
I continued, "First, why do we need a cooperative? Because many young farmers struggle with capital. We're not erasing land ownership; we're only helping strengthen short-term finances so no one is forced to sell their orchard."
A middle-aged woman, Bu Lilis, raised her hand. "But what if the cooperative becomes a new debt? We're afraid we'll be forced to sell when the interest comes due."
I nodded empathetically. "That's a valid concern. That's why we'll set very low interest—one percent per month, maximum—and a one-year repayment period. If a farmer can't pay on time, cooperative members will offer a rolling grace period. We'll also provide financial management training so no one gets trapped in debt."
Bu Lilis offered a faint smile. "If so, it might be safer."
The slide switched to registration requirements: "Applicants must own at least half a hectare, submit a Short-Term Business Plan, and provide a track record of monthly contributions." I explained each item until everyone understood.
After the presentation, I broke the assembly into small discussion groups. Each group had one facilitator—either one of Chandra's students, a senior farmer, or an NGO representative. Discussion topics included hopes for the cooperative, concerns, and suggestions for improvement.
I moved from group to group, listening to debates. Some suggested a savings-and-loan model based on member contributions; others requested additional training in durian marketing to stabilize selling prices.
About half an hour later, I returned to the front. "Thank you for your input. We've identified three main points: capital for young farmers, extra training, and a debt-relief scheme. We'll include all of these in the cooperative's bylaws."
The crowd offered light applause. The tension that had filled the air gradually dissipated.
Chandra displayed the final slide titled "Next Steps" to close the meeting. "Tomorrow evening, we open cooperative registration. Bring your ID and land-ownership certificate."
I lowered the microphone. "Thank you all. This is a small victory: we've talked together without pressure."
Villagers began to leave the pendopo, their faces visibly relieved. A few tapped my shoulder to express their support. My hands trembled with emotion at the beauty of seeing grassroots democracy in action.
On my way home, I glanced back at the pendopo's lantern glow, its radiance slowly fading behind me. The durian leaves around the house whispered in the night breeze, as if a small knot of hope had been tied among the branches.
I pulled out my phone and typed into the "Durian Guardians" group chat:
"Koperasi Durian Berseri: village forum was a success! 🥳
Thank you to everyone who attended and contributed.
Registration opens tomorrow—details at the village hall.
Please spread the word to neighbors!
#DurianHeart #KoperasiBerseri"
I pressed send and gave a small, satisfied smile. Many challenges lay ahead—two days until the Palm Oil Festival, NGOs to involve, and reports to submit. But tonight, I knew one thing: the villagers' unease had become our strength, not a weakness. By speaking together, we found a path forward.
I closed the app on my phone and gazed at the sky. Stars peeked shyly through the thin clouds. I whispered softly, "May our hope be as steadfast as the durian's deep roots."