“Class,” she said, holding up a bucket of small anchovies. “If there are 100 anchovies, and four fishermen need to share them equally, how many does each get?”
She had spent every night for a week staring at a blank computer screen. The words from the thin, gray-covered manual— Depdiknas. 2008. Panduan Pengembangan Bahan Ajar —kept echoing in her head. “Prinsip: relevansi, konsistensi, kecukupan.” Relevance. Consistency. Adequacy. They were just words until you had to breathe life into them.
One afternoon, after failing yet again to explain fractions using the standard “cut an apple” example—most of her students had never seen a fresh apple, only the shriveled ones from the market—she picked up the Panduan . She flipped past the bureaucratic jargon and landed on a dog-eared page she had missed before: “Mengembangkan bahan ajar dari lingkungan sekitar.” Developing materials from the surrounding environment.
Years later, when Andi became the first person from the village to attend university, he didn’t pack a fancy laptop or new shoes. He packed that twine-bound booklet.
“How do you know?”
The new curriculum had arrived like a sudden monsoon. The old textbooks, the ones with the dog-eared corners and familiar exercises, were declared obsolete. In their place, teachers were expected to create their own bahan ajar —teaching materials—tailored to the students’ local context.
She bound the sheets of paper with twine and called it “Bahan Ajar Berbasis Budaya Bahari.” It was not perfect. The typing was messy, the diagrams hand-drawn. But on the cover, she proudly wrote the source that had finally made sense: Depdiknas. 2008. Panduan Pengembangan Bahan Ajar. Jakarta.
That night, instead of forcing abstract problems, she walked to the harbor. She watched the fishermen divide their catch. She saw how a pile of 60 fish was split into three equal shares for three families. She saw how a large tuna was cut into six portions, each representing 1/6.
Andi’s hand shot up first. “Twenty-five, Bu!”