‘Those guys who guard the motorbikes.’ I pause, waiting for Shane to indicate recognition.
‘What guys?’
‘The ones who charged me for parking last time I was here.’
‘You serious? I don’t pay anyone to look after the bikes. Do you remember what they looked like?’
I shake my head.
‘Well, it’s probably not a bad idea,’ Shane says, half to himself. Then he gestures to the computer. ‘Get to work.’
43
The boys whip me up a nasi goreng when I knock off. The morning was busy. I barely thought about Matt and didn’t even stop for lunch. Now, with a full belly under the AC in my room, I feel a rush of shame, and of stupidity at being tricked. At least Matt won’t be around town for the next couple of weeks. And even after that, it sounds like Shane wants me working at well above the normal tropical pace, so I probably won’t get much free time at all.
My mind wanders back to the dukun’s, to the strange collection of objects he placed in the circle of rice: prayers, bones, glass, hair. Matt was completely absorbed by the ceremony and it gets me thinking that to live here, to really live here harmoniously, it’s almost like you have to unlearn everything you know. Starting with a physical unlearning. The first bad nasi campur and you come unravelled. It’s only after hitting battery acid bile that you can start to reweave your resistance, unpick and restitch. Sickness is never just physical. There’re the mental battles, trying to move limbs antagonised with inertia, the frustration of endless, unproductive hours, the loneliness of not speaking your own tongue and that mocking and trenchant question: why are you doing this to yourself? To live here, toughening up physically and toughening up mentally to deal with the constant physical stress – the malaria, the dengue, the gut-bugs, the moisture-sucking heat – are only the first steps. And then what next? It’s like Meri said. At some point you have to stop fighting. You have to let go of everything that frustrates and infuriates. Every person who throws a plastic bottle over a ferry railing, every person who rips you off on the bus or at the market, every time someone elbows you aside at the checkout, or ignores you if you’re with a man. You have to let it go otherwise you get ground down, come undone …
Just as I’m falling asleep, my phone vibrates. There’s a message from Josh. The message says: Wait for me.
What the hell does that mean?
44
The following day I knock off at three thirty, hit the beach. A group of fishermen are crouched over a net. They look up, kreteks blazing in the corners of their mouths.
‘Hello Mister,’ says one, fingers dancing.
‘Sore,’ I answer.
‘Sore!’ comes a chorus, this time with smiles. ‘Dari mana Bu?’ Where are you from?
One of the bolder fishermen looks at me from under a faded baseball cap. ‘Dari Amerika?’ he guesses.
America? I feign horror. ‘Nggak. Australia!’
‘Ohhh, Australiii!’
His fingers keep moving.
‘Sudah bisa berbahasa Indonesia, ya?’
‘Iya.’
The man asks me the usual questions in Indonesian, then the conversation takes a troubling turn.
‘Is it true,’ the fisherman asks, ‘is it true there’s free sex in Australia? Sex bebas?’
‘What do you mean?’
I’ve been asked this question plenty of times and still have no idea how to answer truthfully. But something serious is at stake here, perhaps the reception of every female tourist at Shane’s from today onward.
‘Well,’ says the fisherman, ‘there are always tourists at Shane’s. Mainly young guys. But sometimes they come with their girlfriends and they sleep in the same room together, even though they’re not married. So they’re having sex aren’t they? Sleeping in the same room? Like free sex!’
The rest of the men look at me expectantly.
‘Pak, nothing is free.’
The men snigger, they know about maintenance.
But baseball cap isn’t so easily placated. ‘How many boyfriends have you had?’ he insists.
What a question! What can I say? Fifteen. Twenty. I’ve lost count. Sometimes there are things you can’t explain. Cultural differences so vast you don’t know where to start.
‘Different cultures yeah, Pak,’ I say as a final cop-out.
They start to murmur to each other and then one of them shouts and points to the sea. A boat glides toward us through the channel. The men on the boat wait for the shore break to lull, then ease it through a crack in the flat, barely submerged rock shelf. The shelf is probably studded with sea urchins. Pig’s bristles. Not a good spot for a dip before work this evening. The fishermen drop the net and run to help lift the boat up the sand and in line with the other fishing boats. They’re all painted blue. What happens when the winter swells sweep in, when the ocean is blind muscle in June, July, August? Do the men still go fishing? What happens if or when the channel between the two waves closes out? Do many fishermen drown? Can they swim? The men unload the catch and start to head up tracks under the coconut palms: to their wives, to their shacks, to the fish market. I catch the man with the baseball cap before he disappears.
‘Pak! Pak! Maaf ya, menganggu lagi.’ Sorry for disturbing you again!
‘Nggak apa.’ He peers hard at me.
‘Has Shane banned you from launching your boats through this channel?’
The fisherman’s face, already dark with sun and scuppered by sea, darkens further. He’s weighing something up. Deciding whether he can trust me.
‘He wants us to pay a tax,’ he says at last. ‘On what we earn from the fish.’
I wait.
He shifts his weight, uncomfortable now. ‘And our daughters. He wants our daughters to be on call to work for him.’
‘Are you going to pay?’
He sucks his teeth. ‘Nggak.’
I don’t get a chance to ask another question. There’s a roar from down the beach. It’s Rick, the West Australian, shirtless and wearing, in a gesture of extreme irony or extreme ignorance, a conical hat woven from pandanus leaves and worn by the poor, by farmers in rice paddies throughout Indonesia, Vietnam, Laos.
‘Hey Penny!’
He wedges me in a hug and I stiffen; I don’t feel intimate enough with Rick to be comfortable in a hug and it probably confirms the fisherman’s skewed perspective of Western women. At last he releases me. His eyes are like two grey drills. Fervent. Hillsong.
‘What are you up to?’ he asks.
‘Was just having a yarn to these blokes. What about yourself?’
‘Just strolled down for a surf check. Don’t know if I’ll get in the water. Gotta sort out the insurance stuff for the villas.’
‘Yeah, no doubt.’
‘Always got time for a cuppa though,’ he says. ‘What are you doing just now?’
‘Drifting.’
‘I know a place that will still be open if you’re keen.’
I can’t think of anything worse than spending my lunch break with Rick. But no doubt we’ll be running in to each other regularly and so I tell him sure, sure, I’m keen.
45
Whoever set up Roger’s Cafe has tapped into a niche market. If tourists keep coming to Batu Batur, they’ll make a killing. We’re high up enough so that the view over the Indian Ocean is staggering – you could sink into a chair on the deck and watch that view forever, never tire, watch the ocean as it boils blue and folds white, watch as it dices a thousand tropical suns to pieces. Inside are cushions and beanbags and stacks of surfing magazines. The menu is vegetarian and the coffees aren’t packet pre-mixes. Actually, the coffee list is impressive: beans from Aceh, Toraja, Java – and a choice of cardamom- or vanilla-infused milk. I wonder if it will be as good as the list promises. Although I noticed the sign from the road, I never thought to come up and check it out. Why didn’t Ibu Ayu spruik it? Those three grungy backpackers who rolled through Ayu’s would’ve known about it. They were probably having tofu burgers an
d vanilla coffees here everyday. It must be in the Lonely Planet.
There’re about a dozen tourists in the cafe.
‘I might just grab a coffee,’ Rick says.
‘I’ll grab some food if that’s cool, I haven’t had anything since breakfast.’
We sit outside. Beside us, two Germans order.
‘I will take the cappuccino.’
The waitress jots it down.
‘And I would like the freshly pressed orange juice. Freshly pressed. No, no, no. Not from the bottle! Freshly pressed. Do you understand?’
She comes to us next.
‘Boleh minta kopi vanilla. Dan bihun goreng.’
‘I’ll have a long black, thanks,’ says Rick.
His eyes follow the waitress’ bum – it’s jacked up tight in jeans. Then they swing back to me.
‘So you speak a bit of Indo, hey?’
‘Yeah. Yourself?’
Rick spreads his hands and when he smiles, dimples flower on his cheeks. He might charm cheerleaders or the girls at his church but I’m unimpressed.
‘The whole world speaks English. Why would I bother learning Indo?’
I look at my nails. The polish has lifted in bubbles.
Rick lets his hands fall.
Below us, rice paddies are arranged in perfect squares.
The waitress breaks the tension by setting down our coffees. When she leaves, Rick asks, ‘So what do you think of Indonesian guys? Do you find them attractive?’
‘Indonesian guys?’
It’s been a morning of unexpected, too-close-for-comfort questions.
‘Indonesian guys?’ I repeat. ‘I guess it’s like anywhere. There’s good-looking blokes, there’s average-looking blokes.’ Once again, Rick’s assuming an intimacy I’m not comfortable with. I change the subject. ‘Do you think the local crew are gunna try and wreck your villas again?’
‘I won’t give ’em a chance. No way,’ Rick blows across his long black.
‘What about Shane, do you reckon he’s safe?’
‘None of us are. Not at the moment. But it’s inevitable. Development of the area. Look at Bali, no – look at Ibu Ayu and Bapak Joni’s business. They’ve got the right idea. Embrace development. Change with it. They’ve seen the light. Dollars speak louder than anything else in this country.’
I take a sip of my coffee. Black flecks of vanilla dust the foam. I place it reverently back in its saucer. It’s the best coffee I have ever tasted. ‘Do dollars speak louder than religion, do you think? What about when the local crew are out of pocket, like with the fishermen? Can you believe this, Shane even wants to put a tax on them, and –’
Rick interrupts, ‘Looks like your noodles are here.’
I look at him, uncomprehending for a moment. Then exasperated, I give up. What a jerk.
He tries to engage me in frivolous conversation but I grunt monosyllabic answers, concentrate on polishing off my noodles. ‘I probably should go back to Shane’s. I’m on the bar tonight,’ I say through a mouthful.
‘I’ll take you past my villas on the way. There’s something I want to show you.’
Given that Rick’s riding, I don’t have a choice.
46
On the way down the hill we pass two young men rattling a plastic bucket in the middle of the road. They’re gathering money for one of the local mosques. The motorbike in front of us slows and the rider reaches into his bag for some coins.
Rick accelerates, gets on the horn. ‘Fucken terrorists. That’s where it starts, Penny.’
I wish I had a spare thousand rupiah but I’d left a tip with lunch and now only have big notes. On principle I don’t donate to religious organisations, but it would be worth it to see Rick’s reaction.
A bit further on Rick pulls over beside a rack lined with golden bottles. We climb off and wait as a woman fills his motorbike. The petrol stand is positioned in front of a shop selling the usual collection of soaps, sweets, razors and tissues. In front of it, on a low wooden bench, sits an old man with a cane. The man’s eyes are like fermented milk. Two schoolboys torment him. The smaller of the boys is content to tap the man’s shoulder then scamper away. The older of the boys is more malicious, twisting the old man’s skin in a pinch. The old man looks humiliated, furious; he turns his head from side to side to catch the sound of their receding footfalls, their cruel giggles. Rick jumps in first.
‘Oi, you little faggots, cut it out!’
They understand his tone.
For a moment, Rick is redeemed.
For a moment, the old man and the schoolboys face us, their pantomime suspended, and then the old man asks the boys slowly, ‘Who was that?’
‘Bule,’ spits the older kid.
‘Bule?’ confirms the old man.
And then it shifts. It becomes them and us. The old man’s face realigns in a mask of resentment.
Rick doesn’t notice. He’s swinging the bike around, jaw set hard. I climb on behind him and we take off. Five minutes down the road we pass a sign on the left reading Paradise Villas but we don’t turn, we keep going.
‘Wasn’t that it?’ I yell in his ear.
‘Yeah. But I said I wanted to show you something.’
We take the next left. The road is ulcered with holes. Just when I’m starting to get tremors of pain up my back he kills the engine.
‘Jump off,’ he whispers.
We creep for about a hundred metres further along the road then crouch behind a screen of palms.
‘See!’ Rick stabs a finger. ‘That’s what it’s like trying to get anything done here.’
We’re at the back of the construction site. Four blokes are curled up like cats in squares of shadow. They have cast their tools around them and are sleeping, or lying so still as to appear asleep.
Rick takes note.
‘Red, checkers, black, green,’ he mutters to himself.
‘What’s with the colours?’
‘Colours of their shirts. So I know which ones to fire first. Their faces all look the same. It’s just to prove a point, really, because in a week I’m gunna lay off the lot of them. Bring in a bunch of Javos to finish the job. The people here are too difficult. Always asking for more money, always making demands, always out to rip me off. They’re real savages compared to the Javos.’
It’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard. His construction site has already been targeted once. Sacking his current employees will only create further hostility. He’ll be lucky to get the bungalows finished at all.
I follow him back to the bike and this time we approach the villas from the front.
From this angle the construction site is a frenzied hive. There are blokes welding in sunnies, using nail guns in thongs. A couple of open drums are being used to heat tar.
‘I tell ya,’ Rick starts to say as he walks to the closest villain-progress, ‘the biggest drama I’ve had has been over the cost of materials. Get this – for the past eight months, if I gave my site manager say, one hundred thousand rupiah to buy wood or washers or whatever, only fifty thousand rupiah of that was being spent on materials. He was getting his mates in the shops to dodgy the receipts and pocketing the rest. See, they look at you and think, you’re white, you’re a bule, you don’t know how things work here and you’re not gunna stand up to them if you find out. Wrong. I’ve been kicking around long enough to have contacts in high places.’
We veer around to the back of the villas and now, there are no slouchers in sight.
Red, checkers, black, green.
‘So I told my site manager, listen mate, I can –’ he clicks his fingers, ‘and have men in a black limousine with machine guns here tomorrow.’
I’m disgusted beyond the point of responding.
‘Bastard still owes me six million rupes! Corruption, mate, it’s everywhere.’ Then Rick catches a glimpse of a green shirt and is off.
I can’t stomach the thought of watching him fire the bloke.
‘Hey Rick! I’ll catch you la
ter!’
He looks over his shoulder and those mad-warm eyes peel me. ‘Sure Penny, it was really nice talking to you. Really nice.’
Tongue-trills and whistles follow me down the road.
47
It’s interesting to observe the way power animates a person, how it swells the chest, deepens the voice, hardens the handshake. Perhaps power, not politics, is the art of controlling your environment. Right now, Shane’s a chilling portrait of power. Tengku, Umar and Kristi are seated submissively at a table while he towers over them, arms folded in a way that accentuates the bulge of his muscles. He’s delivering instructions, fast and direct, but breaks off mid-sentence when he sees me.
‘Penny. Here. Now.’
I sit down next to Kristi.
‘I was just saying, day after tomorrow, I’m heading to Medan. I won’t be away long, just until the end of the week, but while I’m gone, someone needs to be here all the time. Do you understand me? The place is not to be left empty. Now, do we remember what happened last time I went away?’
He hasn’t had his first drink for the night and his tone is mean, like a single blade razor catching unsoaped skin.
‘Kristi, tell Penny what happened last time I went away.’
Kristi is silent.
An interrogative white light pools on the table between us.
‘Well?’
Kristi stays silent. She looks so young: no breasts, no stomach, just those bruised Modigliani eyes.
I can’t bear the tension, can’t bear the soft rain of fear in my chest, can’t bear how he’s trying to shame her. It’s not too unusual for something like this to happen in the workplace at home but things are done differently here. You never shame people in front of their colleagues. Shane’s doing this for my benefit.
‘Well,’ I break the silence, ‘whatever it was, it’s not gunna happen this time. Is it guys?’ Tengku and Umar offer no support; they’re absorbed by their hands. ‘Don’t worry about it, Shane. We’ll be right. Have you got a number we can call you on while you’re away, you know, in case anything –’
Troppo Page 13
