Roosters crowed from their coops, signaling that a new day had truly arrived. I wiped my face, straightened the collar of my batik shirt—which I had hung on the porch chair to air overnight—and then walked toward the village's main road.
Since I returned, this was the first morning I was roaming the lanes. In the city, I would typically sleep until the sun was high. Now, my steps felt light, as if this earth had bound me to roots deeper than mere memories.
In the distance, a large new billboard stood in front of the village hall. Sunlight gleamed on its surface, reflecting bold letters that read:
"WELCOME TO A SHINING DURIAN VILLAGE
With Pak Suyono, Toward Palm Oil Prosperity"
My chest tightened. This was the village's new face—not the natural face I once cherished, but a hidden political campaign. Every letter felt like poison to the sweet memories of durian, replacing them with a monotonous image of oil palms.
I approached, examining the board's corner. In the lower right, in almost indiscernible small print, was the palm oil company's logo—"PT Makmur Lestari"—and the phrase "Supported by the Regency Government." The bitterness of it struck me: our village had been marketed as a mere commodity.
"Do you see that, Gung?" Chandra's voice suddenly came from beside me. He wore a thin raincoat, since the mist earlier had drizzled lightly. "They planted that board last night."
I nodded slowly, my eyes still fixed on the billboard. "I know! It feels like an insult."
Chandra exhaled. "They want villagers to see this every day until the durian groves feel foreign."
"Can we take it down tonight?" I asked quickly.
Chandra shook his head. "Too risky, militant style. If we're caught, we'll be branded troublemakers."
I suppressed my anger. "We need a subtler approach."
Chandra patted my shoulder. "Relax! I have a plan. But first, should we go straight to the village hall?"
We crossed the narrow lane and headed toward the hall. From a distance, several villagers had already gathered at the door. There was Pak Ahmad, the mobile coffee vendor, holding a plastic cup; Bu Siti, the well-known seamstress; and a few elders carrying folding chairs. The atmosphere was lively, but their faces revealed a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
"Finally," Chandra whispered. "The villagers' meeting is starting."
Inside, wooden chairs were arranged facing a long table. Behind that table sat Pak Suyono, the village head, with a broad smile. He wore a dark green batik shirt, impeccably pressed. Next to him, a man in a white shirt tapped seriously on a laptop.
I held my breath and stepped in, followed closely by Chandra. Villagers greeted us with respectful nods. Some whispered, "Agung has arrived."
My heart pounded. This meeting could mark our first real test: whether the "Durian Guardians" could speak up without falling into provocation.
"Good morning, everyone," Pak Suyono's voice echoed. "Thank you for being on time. Today we will discuss the village's latest diversification program—prioritizing modern palm oil cultivation, which yields faster harvests, requires less capital, and involves cooperation with PT Makmur Lestari."
A few villagers clapped softly. I observed their faces—genuine enthusiasm shining through—which was the tragedy at the core. They believed that financial gain was the solution to every worry.
I opened my phone's notes app and prepared my talking points. My inner voice urged, "Now or never."
After the applause died down, I stood slowly. All eyes turned to me; the villagers whispered among themselves, voicing thoughts about the hometown boy who had just returned. My heart throbbed. I took a deep breath and began.
"I'm Agung Rokhman. Thank you for the opportunity. I'd like to add a few points before we continue." My voice trembled slightly, but I forced it steady.
The villagers fell silent. Even Pak Suyono lowered his gaze, waiting for me to continue.
"Our durian orchard is not just a commercial field," I went on. "It functions as an ecological buffer—preventing erosion, storing groundwater reserves, and preserving biodiversity. Moreover, Durian Village's durians are renowned for their premium quality, which can fetch prices far higher than oil palms."
Several villagers exchanged glances. Citing numbers, I opened my phone and displayed a simple chart I had created last night, comparing average revenue per hectare per year: premium durians versus palm oil. "Look—oil palms bring in about 15 million rupiah per hectare per year. Durian, if managed optimally and sold directly to buyers, can reach 50 million rupiah per hectare."
The atmosphere shifted; whispers of surprise spread among the crowd. An elderly woman named Bu Marni rose gracefully. "That's correct, Mr. Agung. When my daughter was young, many city traders queued to buy our durians. Our hands would get calloused from lifting the fruit."
I smiled and handed her the microphone. "So, I hope we consider long-term value, not just promises of instant cash."
Worried expressions appeared on the faces of some farmers, holding fertilizer subsidy forms in their hands. They had not expected this meeting to awaken their doubts.
Pak Suyono half stood up, pressing the "mute" button on the microphone. "Thank you, Agung. Those figures are interesting, but diversification helps mitigate risk. If durian prices fall someday, palm oil can be the safety net."
I shook my head. "Risk propositions must be evaluated with proper data. I spoke with a neighboring village in Central Java, which experienced drought in 2024; their oil palms withered, and prices collapsed. Meanwhile, durian crops remained stable due to the microclimate in agroforestry systems."
Chandra handed out a one-page research summary about the benefits of durian–palm oil agroforestry. "We can apply this as a mixed-cropping model, not full monoculture of oil palms."
Pak Suyono frowned. "Agung, Chandra—these are preliminary suggestions. We need further study."
I scanned the room. The villagers listened intently. "I propose forming an evaluation team immediately—consisting of farmers, agronomy experts, and NGOs—to draft a blueprint for sustainable orchard management. Let's build the 'Shining Durian Village' brand—Shining meaning Sustainable, Prosperous, and Climate-friendly."
A young man named Mahfud, a high school student who often helped carry durians, raised his hand. "Agung, we can create promotional videos. I learn video editing at school."
Suddenly, the mood softened. The village head looked at me with mixed emotions—he seemed impressed, surprised, and maybe even a little threatened.
"All right," Pak Suyono finally said. "We will form a small team this week. I ask Agung and Chandra to lead coordination. Then we'll present this to PT Makmur Lestari for a new collaboration focused on durians."
Chandra's round face brightened. "Yes, Sir."
The meeting continued with technical agendas, but the essence had shifted: durian groves would not be replaced by oil palms. Instead, their position had been strengthened. I hid my happiness, thinking silently that this was our first small victory.
Outside the village hall, the midday sun began to spread its warmth. Chandra and I stood on the porch, looking out at the lane, which had once been thick with heated discussions.
"Wow," Chandra said. "We managed to carve out space. Not everyone is convinced, but enough to change opinions."
I nodded slowly. "This is just the beginning. The real challenge awaits—ensuring the evaluation team works quickly and transparently, so PT Makmur Lestari's head office can't game the system."
Chandra patted my shoulder. "Don't worry! With field data from Pak Warjo and our documentation, it'll be hard for them to deny."
I offered a small smile. "When do we start?"
"I already contacted the local NGO. They're coming tomorrow morning with an agroforestry expert team from the city university. That's ahead of schedule."
My heart beat faster. "Great! I'm ready to bridge the villagers and the expert team."
Chandra looked at me meaningfully. "Gung, do you know the meaning of leadership? It's not just speaking in front of people, but being responsible for every decision. We must ensure villagers' hopes aren't misused."
His words were serious and piercing. I closed my eyes briefly to digest their meaning. "I understand. I'll be careful."
In the distance, a few elementary school children ran by carrying small baskets full of freshly picked durians. They laughed joyfully and waved at us.
I held out my hand, and a boy with a flat nose and innocent eyes handed me a small durian. "This is for you, Kak Agung. I picked it myself."
I took the fruit warmly. "Thank you. I'm sure it's sweet."
The boy ran off, and I bit into the durian I cradled. Its sweet, creamy flesh spread across my taste buds, as if providing fresh energy and strengthening my resolve.
"This is for Durian Village," I whispered, my mouth still full. "For the future we weave together."
Chandra chuckled softly. "After the meeting, I'll treat you to durian at Bu Retno's stall."
I nodded, smiling. "Deal! But remember, we're not just talking about durian—we're talking about villagers' lives."
Chandra's expression turned serious again. "Exactly! Let's bring a new face to this village—not just a palm oil billboard, but an optimistic face of resilient durian farmers."
We ended that morning's meeting clutching durians and hearts alive with purpose. Durian Village truly had a new face—a face fought for, defended, and grown through new awareness. And I, Agung Rokhman, had taken the first step to restore my parents' legacy, all while standing guard against the foreign scent of oil palms that threatened our home.