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In thecoastal village of Talwa,just a few miles from Sumbawa Besar, the sun rose over the Flores Sea, casting a golden glow across the thatched roofs and mangrove groves. It was the year 1780, and in a small, open-air forge at the edge of the village, a blacksmith named Pak Darma prepared for a special task. The village elder had requested a parang—a sturdy blade to clear the jungle and honor the spirits during the upcoming harvest festival. Pak Darma, a third-generation blacksmith whose family had honed their craft in Talwa for decades, knew this blade needed to be both strong and sacred.
He began by gathering his materials, the air thick with the scent of charcoal and salt from the nearby sea. For the outer layers of the blade, he selected iron he’d smelted from the black sand of Sumbawa’s riverbeds. The iron was tough but soft, perfect for absorbing the shock of chopping through jungle vines. It glowed faintly red as he pulled it from the bloomery furnace, a small clay oven where he’d melted the sand with charcoal over days. For the blade’s core, he turned to a precious piece of high-carbon steel, a gift from a Javanese trader who had sailed to Sumbawa with goods from distant lands. This steel, harder and sharper, would form the cutting edge—a heart of strength for the parang.
Pak Darma worked at his forge, a simple setup with a charcoal fire roaring under a thatched roof. He shaped the steel into a thin, flat strip, hammering it on an anvil until it was just right. Then he took two bars of iron, one for each side, and placed the steel strip between them, like a filling in a sandwich. This “taco” structure, as some might call it today, was a clever way to save on the costly steel while making the blade both sharp and flexible. With the layers ready, he stoked the fire until it blazed a fierce orange, heating the metals to a glowing 1200 degrees Celsius—hot enough to weld them together without melting.
Sweat dripped from Pak Darma’s brow as he lifted the glowing stack with tongs, placing it on the anvil. With rhythmic strikes of his hammer, he pounded the layers into one solid piece, sparks flying like tiny stars. The iron and steel fused under his careful blows, forming a single billet—a rough block of metal ready to become a blade. He didn’t fold the billet repeatedly like he would for a noble’s keris, where swirling pamor patterns might show the spirits’ favor. This parang was for a village elder, a tool for work and ritual, so Pak Darma focused on strength, welding the layers just enough to ensure they held fast.
Next, he shaped the billet into a blade, heating and hammering it until it stretched into a broad, slightly curved form—18.5 inches long, 1.1 inches wide near the base, tapering to 1 inch near the tip. The blade’s thickness slimmed from a sturdy 0.2610 inches at the handle to a finer 0.0810 inches at the tip, giving it balance for chopping through dense jungle growth. He curved the tip slightly, so it could slash as well as chop, a practical touch for a tool that might need to fend off a wild boar or rival clansman.
With the shape set, Pak Darma turned to heat treatment, a step to make the blade both hard and tough. He heated it again, this time to around 800 degrees Celsius, until it glowed a bright cherry red, then plunged it into a trough of water from the nearby river. The sudden cooling hardened the steel core, locking in its sharp edge. But to keep it from being too brittle, he tempered it by gently reheating it over the fire to about 200 degrees Celsius, letting the iron outer layers stay flexible while the steel core held its strength. This balance meant the parang could take the shock of chopping without snapping—a must for a village tool.
Finally, Pak Darma polished the blade with river stones, smoothing its surface until it gleamed, though he left no fancy patterns like the pamor on noble blades. This parang was meant for work, not show, its layers hidden but strong. He fitted it with a handle of dark teak wood, carved with a Naga head—a serpent spirit with an upturned snout, a symbol of protection in Sumbawan tradition, reflecting the Hindu-Buddhist beliefs that lingered on the island. The grip, made of horn, was sturdy and smooth, ready for the elder’s hand.
As Pak Darma finished, the sun dipped low, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. He held the parang up, its 23.25-inch length catching the light, and felt a quiet pride. This blade, simple yet strong, would serve the village well—clearing paths, harvesting crops, and carrying the Naga’s protection through every swing. In Talwa, where trade ships brought steel and stories from afar, Pak Darma’s craft kept the old ways alive, forging tools that were as much a part of the land as the people who wielded them.