The South China Sea at the dawn of the 20th century was a fierce womb for those who came seeking asylum. The wooden junk ship carrying a group from Fujian groaned, its timbers creaking violently as if ready to surrender to the house-high waves. On the slick, tilted deck, Liu Lai stood frozen. His coarse ramie clothes had long been soaked, clinging to his sturdy frame with a biting cold. On the eastern horizon, the sky was iron-grey. There was no golden glow from the sun, only thick clouds creeping low, as if the universe itself was mourning everything they had left behind in their ancestral land.
"A-Lai, come inside! By the heavens, this wind will kill you before our feet can even touch the land!". The voice was soft yet trembled violently amidst the roaring storm. Liu Lai turned. Behind the narrow hatch door, Shu Xian—his wife—stood with a face pale as death. Seasickness had robbed the rosy hue from her cheeks for weeks.
"I must ensure we stay on the right path, Shu," Liu Lai replied, his voice heavy and steady against the gale. "The captain said we have passed the strait. Java is just ahead. Just a little further".
Liu Lai stepped into the musty hold. The smell of damp and the scent of human bodies packed into the tight space greeted him immediately. In a corner, secured by chains and pegs, lay the Liu family's most precious treasure. It was not gold bars, nor sparkling gems. There, in old teak chests beginning to dampen, lay a faded red Wu Shi costume. Its sheep’s wool was starting to shed, but its large eyes still seemed to hold a flicker of fire. Beside it, a row of Kung Fu weapons—a pair of double swords, a long staff, and a nine-section whip—glinted coldly whenever the light from the swaying lantern hit them.
Shu Xian stared at the chests with weary eyes. "Why must we carry such a heavy burden, Lai? Wouldn't it be easier if we came only as ordinary traders? Without these sharp irons, without a lion’s head that only drains our strength?".
Liu Lai knelt before his wife, grasping her ice-cold hands. His eyes locked onto hers with intensity. "We are not just bringing ourselves, Shu. We are bringing our roots," he whispered solemnly. "This land is foreign to us. If we let go of the Wu Shi and this Kungfu, we lose our identity. We will merely be shadows lost in someone else’s land. As long as this Wu Shi exists, the Liu family remains the Liu family".
The journey ended when the ship finally docked at a northern coastal port. The scent that greeted them was a sickening yet exhilarating mixture: sharp spices, damp earth after tropical rain, and the stench evaporating from the colonial port’s gutters. On the pier, Dutch soldiers in stiff white uniforms and fedora hats stood arrogantly. Their cold blue eyes scanned every coolie carrying sacks of sugar as if they were livestock.
Liu Lai felt the hair on his neck rise as the gaze of one soldier settled on his group. There was a deliberate distance created, an invisible barrier declaring they were merely the "Other," guests whose presence was constantly suspected.
"Do not bow too low, but do not challenge their eyes," Liu Lai whispered to his kin as they passed a checkpoint guarded by bayonets.
They continued their journey inland by dokar (horse carriage). The wooden wheels creaked as they split the rocky road, passing through lush teak forests. Sunlight filtering through the leaves created long shadows that danced on the ground, as if the forest spirits were watching their arrival. Their destination was Ponorogo, a town in Java Island rumored to be a promising heart of agricultural trade.
Ponorogo welcomed them with a magical bustle. In the markets, shouts in thick Javanese clashed with the laughter of traders and the rhythmic clip-clop of horses. Yet, beneath the crowd, there was something wild. Faintly in the distance, Liu Lai caught sight of a fight between two men surrounded by a mass of people dressed in brownish-black. Their movements were fast, tactical, and powerful—something very similar to the martial arts he had studied in Fujian.
Fortunately, Liu Lai met fellow migrants. Through their help, he managed to rent an old building in a strategic corner of the town. He transformed the front of the building into a grocery store, but its soul resided in the back: a spacious kwoon—a Kung Fu training hall with a hardened earth floor.
"This place is good enough," Liu Lai remarked one afternoon, sweeping the dust dancing in a beam of evening sunlight. "We will build the ancestral altar here. And there, right above the back gate, we will hang our Wu Shi head".
However, that peace was disturbed sooner than expected. One day, while Liu Lai was training basic forms with several young Chinese men, the clinking of weapons and the stomp of their feet drew the attention of local residents. A few local men stopped in front of the open kwoon door. They wore black clothes with distinctive udeng or headcloths.
"What are they doing, Kang?" a local youth asked curiously.
"It looks like dancing, but the strikes are firm. It’s as if there is a soul in every movement," his companion replied with a tone of wonder mixed with suspicion.
Liu Lai halted his training. He instructed his students to rest, then stepped forward and nodded respectfully. "This is our tradition. Like your silat," Liu Lai said in broken market Malay.
An old man with a thick mustache stepped forward. His eyes were sharp, reflecting a long and hard life. He stared at the Wu Shi chest in the corner, then turned to Liu Lai with an intensity that made the air feel heavy.
"There is Reog here, Sir," the old man’s voice was deep and authoritative. "The Singo Barong or Tiger Head guards this land. He does not like other lions trying to roar in his territory. Let us hope the sound of your drums does not disturb his sleep".
The sentence was not merely a warning; it was a challenge disguised behind politeness. The old man turned and left, leaving Liu Lai in a suffocating silence.
That night, as Ponorogo grew still, Liu Lai stood in the backyard. From afar, he heard the rhythmic beat of kendang drums and the haunting, winding wail of the selompret—the sound of a Reog troupe practicing somewhere. His skin prickled. He realized one thing: he had not just brought the Wu Shi to this land; he had brought it into another lion's den.
He looked up at his red Wu Shi head hanging in the darkness. The lion’s eyes seemed to glow. Tomorrow, he knew, everything would never be the same again.
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