I, Agung Rokhman, walked along the narrow stone-paved alley toward Pak Ahmad's mobile coffee stall. Under that simple stand, rumors about the palm oil plan rushed around like a gale, so anyone who hadn't heard them was surely out of touch.
When I arrived, the makeshift stall made from an old truck bed was crowded. Pak Ahmad, wearing a worn apron and holding a twig broom, was serving plastic cups of black coffee to several customers. The aroma of robusta coffee mixed with palm sugar wafted through the air.
"Hello, Pak Ahmad," I greeted softly as I stepped closer.
He turned, beaming broadly, lifting one hand that held a small spoon. "Oh, Agung! What'll you have today?"
"I'll take a milky coffee," I answered, sitting on a wooden bench beside him.
While I waited, I observed the cluster of villagers: a few older men leaned on the middle bench, discussing the latest palm oil prices; a group of women huddled in the corner, whispering about headman's money promises; teenage girls giggled in another corner, talking about potential job openings in the plantations. All this gossip created an atmosphere of rising uncertainty.
"What's going on, Pak?" I asked. "The palm oil news is really blowing up."
Pak Ahmad handed me my milky coffee while picking up a cigarette. "Yeah, Gung. I heard an investor came through yesterday, bringing a new proposal, and they say palm oil yields could double if they inject new chemical fertilizers."
I lifted the cup and took a small sip. "Chemical fertilizers, huh? That will damage soil quality. The durian orchards will suffer too."
Pak Ahmad nodded heavily. "That's why I told some of the men at the stand next door. If this goes on, our well water could become contaminated."
Our conversation paused when Bu Siti, my mother's regular seamstress, approached with two cups of coffee. "Here, Mas Agung, for you and Chandra later." She smiled warmly before continuing her tale. "I heard Pak Suyono has already met twice with PT Makmur Lestari executives this week. Word is they're offering special bonuses if they build a new concrete road through the village and provide school funds for farmers' children."
My heart trembled at those enticements. Infrastructure and education were real needs, but behind it all lay a threat—our birthplace risked being repurposed.
I turned to Pak Ahmad. "Have many villagers been tempted?"
Pak Ahmad exhaled thin smoke. "Some. But many are still unsure. They're afraid that if the durians are uprooted, the palm oil harvest won't be as sweet as promised."
I stroked my chin. "We need more concrete evidence—voices of villagers refusing, environmental data underscoring the importance of agroforestry, maybe a comparative study with another village that already converted their land."
Before Pak Ahmad could respond, a young man in a worn denim jacket strode by while flicking on his phone. "Hey, bro! Check this out!" he called to his friends.
They peered at the screen, then burst into quiet laughter. I moved closer, and the phone's display showed a short video by a local influencer who used to review durian dishes. The clip claimed that our village would be entirely converted into palm oil plantations to create more jobs. The video's caption was provocative:
"Palm oil is the future! Durian is outdated and slow! #PalmOilProgress #DurianFallsBehind"
That 30-second video had already been viewed hundreds of times, and villagers' comments were pouring in—some skeptical, others lulled by those sweet promises. This gossip, fueled by social media, threatened to fracture the solidarity of the 'Durian Guardians' before the real battle even began.
I finished my coffee. "This is exactly where our fight lies. We can't rely only on formal discussions at the village hall. We need to penetrate the public sphere—social media, influencers, short videos. We need a counter-narrative."
Pak Ahmad tapped the bench. "How do we do that, Mas?"
I furrowed my brow, thinking quickly. "We make our own video about the durians in our orchard—farmers' stories and children's voices. Show the beauty of agroforestry, not just palm oil promotion. And we ask local pro-durian influencers to join in."
Pak Ahmad chuckled. "Easy, they say. If that can sway the youth, we'll have the next generation's support."
Suddenly, their laughter died when a group of worried women appeared at the stall. They sipped coffee quietly, and one named Bu Arum whispered to Pak Ahmad, "Pak, some mothers from the neighboring hamlet want us to go; they said they've been invited to a palm oil event tomorrow. Word is they'll have a microcelebrity eating palm oil–based durian to promote it."
I stood up. "A palm oil event? Tomorrow? Where?"
Bu Arum shook her head. "In the open field near the bridge, Mas. They're holding a 'Shining Palm Oil Festival,' with training on quick palm oil harvesting, demonstrations of new fertilizers, and discounted farming tools from vendors."
Ripples of dread spread through me—an event like that could shift mass opinion. I drew in a steady breath, then formulated a plan.
"All right," I said firmly. "First, we need to have a presence at that event. You, Pak Ahmad, contact the 'Durian Guardians' leaders. Tell them to attend peacefully, carrying small banners. We'll show we care, not that we're there to fight physically."
Pak Ahmad nodded. "Understood, Mas."
"Second," I continued, "we make a documentary video during the palm oil event. Show the contrast between monoculture palm oil and our durian orchards. We need footage of neat durian groves, farmers smiling as they harvest, children playing among the trees. We'll post it on the village's Instagram, TikTok, and Facebook."
An elderly man sitting on a corner bench added, "If necessary, we invite that durian influencer, like Mbak Rina who went viral—she'll come if asked."
I agreed. "I'll contact Mbak Rina. Besides, she's from the neighboring village; she'd definitely care."
For a moment, the stall brimmed with newfound hope. But then a motorbike engine roared loudly, and a black car pulled up in front of the stall. Two men in neat clothes stepped out—looking like company employees.
Their eyes scanned the stall, and then one of them called out, "Pak Ahmad, please put me in touch with Mas Agung Rokhman."
My heart tightened. I took a final sip of coffee, then rose slowly. "That's me," I replied.
They regarded me meaningfully. The man in the smart outfit stepped forward and introduced himself. "Nice to meet you. I'm Budi from PT Makmur Lestari. We'd like to discuss the palm oil plan in this village. May we talk for a moment?"
I restrained my anger, adjusting my tone to remain calm. "Please, have a seat," I offered, gesturing to a bench beside Pak Ahmad.
They sat down, and the other man pulled out a thick folder. He opened the proposal documents, filled with projected profit figures, land maps, and investment schemes. "We wish to offer an integrated village development solution. Our palm oil uses green technology, which doesn't harm the environment and has been tested in several other villages."
I regarded those tempting numbers and sweet promises as mere paperwork. "Honestly, we at 'Durian Guardians' are not opposed to development. But we need concrete guarantees: an independent environmental audit, a minimum 50% of land committed to durian agroforestry, and villagers' participation in decision-making."
The two men exchanged glances. "An independent audit? If our investment is held up by that, the process could be delayed for years," Budi said, his voice tense.
I emphasized: "That's the price to pay for preserving this village. If you don't agree, 'Durian Guardians' will reject all palm oil proposals, because we are ready with petitions and data."
They sighed heavily, then the man in white spoke diplomatically, "All right. We will discuss this with our headquarters. Please give us one week to respond."
I nodded calmly. "One week. Until then, we will prepare data and best-practice agroforestry options for your consideration."
They stood, shook Pak Ahmad's hand respectfully, and returned to their waiting car.
As the car drove away, I looked around and saw the stall's patrons watching us with curious, proud expressions. I exhaled deeply, drained my last cold sip of coffee, then stood up.
"We have one week," I murmured. "Time to seize the moment, 'Durian Guardians'!"
The late-afternoon sun began to descend as I headed back home. My steps felt heavy, my mind full of tomorrow's interview schedule, preparations for the next workshop, and strategies for facing the palm oil festival. Yet in my heart, a steadfast flame burned—Durian Village would live alongside its trees, not be swallowed by a sea of monoculture.
I opened my laptop and checked the village's social media timeline. The short video we uploaded yesterday—featuring the orchard's beauty, children's laughter, and enthusiastic farmers—had already reached a thousand views. Signs of support were appearing: positive comments, old friends in the city offering to help share, even an indie filmmaker offering editing services.
I smiled. This was only a small step. Next week, when the palm oil festival takes place, we will show up with smiles, data, and videos. We will prove that this village chooses a culture of sustainability, not instant profit.
In the silent night, I wrote in my notes:
June 2, 2025
– Coffee stall: update on palm oil gossip and tomorrow's "Shining Palm Oil Festival" event
– Organize 'Durian Guardians' team to attend peacefully, bringing banners, posters, and cameras
– Contact durian influencer: Mbak Rina and agroforestry community
– Prepare short video clip for counter-narrative
– Interview Pak Ahmad and the seamstress women about palm oil's impact
I closed my laptop, reached for the reading lamp beside the wooden platform, and lay down on my parents' old bench. The crickets outside began their evening chorus, bringing a sense of peace. Yet beneath that tranquility, waves of challenge brewed. But I believed that with the 'Durian Guardians' and all the villagers united, we would weather this storm of palm oil rumors.
"May our dreams sprout alongside the durian trees," I whispered softly.