Simyong’s stall is busy this afternoon. The sun is high, the heat fierce, the air thick and sticky on the skin. Out front, Simyong and Matik are peeling sugar cane stalks and feeding them through a noisy machine. Plastic bags of fresh cane juice line the selling table. Various takjil are arranged neatly: bingke, assorted fried snacks, doughnuts, and layered cake, all waiting for customers looking for something to break their fast with. On the other side, Kati is frying prawn fritters — the village’s obligatory treat.
Several adults sit on long wooden benches. Some stay on their motorbikes, waiting for their cane juice to be ready. Meanwhile, small children run around the stall, occasionally whining for snacks since they are not fasting. The atmosphere in this late afternoon before iftar is lively but relaxed. Conversations overlap with the sound of the machine and the clanging of frying pans.
A Spontaneous Public Space
The hunt for takjil is the perfect moment to blend in. After a day in which the whole village seems empty, the takjil stalls become spontaneous public spaces for MJ residents from all walks of life. Simyong’s stall, which only opens during Ramadan, has now become a strategically placed informal meeting point.
I order two bags of cane juice and choose to sit on the long wooden bench, right next to a woman who has been quietly waiting for her order. This is my first visit to the new stall, and Simyong, who is known to be very warm and open, quickly draws me into easy conversation.
Simyong is a PUMK committee member. Our conversation begins with light small talk about the PUMK, its programmes and activities. I mention that my plan to meet the village head that day has fallen through. Simyong responds immediately, explaining that the village head is in an important meeting: a discussion about the village’s partnership with PT Sintang Raya. The oil palm partnership turns out to be a hot issue in the village.
Simyong then gestures towards the woman in the yellow headscarf sitting quietly beside me.
“Well, this lady here, Cik Gu, she just signed a partnership agreement,” says Simyong, tying off a bag of cane juice.
Cik Gu smiles faintly, slightly uncomfortable at suddenly becoming the centre of attention. I turn towards her a little, trying to read her expression. She nods slowly in confirmation. I introduce myself, and she does the same. It turns out Cik Gu is also a PUMK committee member who works as a primary school teacher in her daily life.
She explains that her land has just officially been enrolled in the partnership scheme with PT Sintang Raya. Her reason is straightforward: she no longer has the capacity to manage the land herself. Managing a plot requires significant labour, money, and time, and her current circumstances make that impossible. I sense a tiredness in her voice. Managing land means clearing, maintaining, protecting from pests, ensuring yields. All of that demands substantial capital and a time commitment that is difficult for someone who is both a primary school teacher and a PUMK committee member.
Cik Gu emphasises that the partnership is, in her view, the most viable option. Rather than leaving the land neglected or unmanaged, it is better to bring it into the company’s system. As for the terms of the agreement, she does not go into detail. However, she says she will receive Rp10,000,000 per hectare as an upfront payment. Cik Gu has put forward three hectares for the partnership. According to her, the land will be managed by PT Sintang Raya for roughly seven to ten years before being returned to the landowner to harvest the yields. Cik Gu also adds that the funds from the partnership will later be managed through a cooperative.
Layered Choices
Important questions do not always surface in meeting rooms or official documents. Sometimes they emerge at a stall bench, between people buying takjil, in casual conversation. Cik Gu’s story represents a dilemma facing all village residents: whether to hang onto ancestral lands that they struggle to manage, or hand them over to others and gain time and funds to do other things, such as running their PUMK. Choices like these contain many layers: how to navigate the demands of daily life, limited energy, and promises from outside parties.
My cane juice has been pressed. The takjil containers are slowly emptying. The stall returns to its usual rhythm, people coming and going, conversations shifting. But for me, that brief conversation will shape my fieldwork choices going forward. I need to find out how the cooperative’s working mechanisms operate, how residents view this agreement, and how far the village government plays a role in shaping the direction of that relationship. Ultimately, this raises the question of how the future of the land is imagined and shaped by those who live closest to it. Will the oil palm partnership provide opportunities for the community to manage their own resources, or will it actually narrow that space further?