Miss The Far Distant Village

If there is a place that I longed to arrive at home after long gone abandoned, surely that longing is not as big as my longing to the village, village, village hamlet. The place of the earthy people lives life in the breath of simplicity. It's as simple as the wind that blows on the day to touch the night. The place where happiness is so abundant, and the smiles are so cheap emanating from the sincere faces.

My village's face has not changed much. Little changed. Everywhere more and more shops or shops sell the need or more precisely the lifestyle. Apparently, the poisons of consumerism raged to the ends of the village. Smooth cars are increasingly milling about in the narrow roads of the village.

The rest has not changed much. The houses are as simple as the old ones. People are still part of the profession as before. Farming in paddy fields, scavenging fortune in the forests that have been controlled by the government, raising cattle and sheep, or just selling a perfunctory like herbal or daily necessities. Except most of the younger generation, who are reluctant or more precisely prestige to plunge into the fields or into the forest, like their ancestors. They chose to work in the city, even if they were just housemaids of the rich or became factory workers. Or if not, go abroad, to hongkong, korea, saudi, or to malaysia

The noise of chicken, cow and goat or sheep embry, and cici cuit birds, still sounds like before. I got out of the house, pedaling my red bike ontel, slowly down the village road that split the wide fields stretched on the left and right of the road.

On the way, I was opposite a farmer who drove hundreds of his ducks from the fields to his cage. Kwek-kwek, boisterous sound of the ducks. Then, at the crossroads that led to the wonoasri forest I stopped. Kujagang my bike, I sat on the edge of rice fields. My eyes wandered across the rice fields as far as the eye could see. In the corner of the eye I saw a farmer working busy.

My heart is greeting: how are you my village? The rice fields seemed to want to tell me about the sigh of the fate of the farmers who so-so alone. The fate that never culminated from the puddle of poverty. About the rulers of the country who always escape and neglect in upholding social justice.

On the edge of the village street I heard the creaks of an aging bicycle. As if to sing the songs of the agony of the villagers who work hard to find firewood or grass from the forest next to the end of the rice fields there. But maybe I was wrong. The proof, a genuine smile and friendly always stuck in their innocent and sincere faces. The faces are so willing to accept what life gives berry, without the need to complain.