Bulek Eye

Last Sunday, I left the expat orbit behind and daytripped to a tennis match with a little team I’ve joined. In the early morning hours, two dozen Indonesian men in the their 40s and 50s, well-heeled, driving SUVs, struck out for Sigli, a farming hub two hours north.

I jumped in with two young lecturers from the local university, Johhni, a jovial engineer and Rahman, a quiet law specialist. We sped out across the rice paddies in Rahman’s vinyl-interior Toyota minivan, cheese pop circa 1985 blasting from the tape deck. Celine Dion made an appearance, as did Whitney Houston. In the paddies, stooped workers in straw hats sliced at the rice plants with handheld scythes. Behind them to the southwest was a massive forested ridge, maybe 2,500 meters tall. The cone of volcano loomed directly ahead, silhouetted in morning mist. I dozed in the back while the other two gabbed (I assume) about internal academy politics up front.

Banana plantations gave way to hardwood and softwood groves as we climbed up around the side of the volcano. Some of the forests had been freshly cut. A sign by the side of the road said “Stop illegal logging!” in English and Indonesian. We passed a small collection of wooden barracks where tsunami refugees were being housed, and also a huge police base.

Three years ago, this two-lane road was offlimits to tourists and both sides of stormy Acehnese conflict — rebels and Indonesian military — had alternating roadblocks. On this day, Rahman merely had to avoid enormous potholes, construction crews hiding behind blind curves, swaying buses and trucks, and leathery, old men in sarongs riding their bicycles against the traffic.

When we reached Sigli around 9am, the sun was already beating down on the two smooth hardcourts, just a stones’ throw from the main downtown mosque. The Sigli group looked younger, fitter, better equipped and, due to that simple math, just plain better. Sportingly, they did offer up plenty of little plastic water containers, sweet breakfast cakes, mandarins, bananas and peanuts.

But by 10 am, it was clear that all the peanuts in Sigli weren’t going to rescue us. They methodically took down our first several doubles groups (nobody plays singles in this heat, so hot that nobody bothers to measure). And the temperature only continued to rise. To combat it, players waiting on the sideline in a tiny, open cement clubhouse sparked up cigarettes. In the shade, they rapped dominos down on a wooden board. A pack of boys watching patiently started to play tag. And I just sweated it out on the sidelines, sucking down as much water as I could: I was the sixth and final group scheduled to play before lunch.

One of the Banda guys wanted to talk politics while blowing smoke at me. “Who do you like, George Bush? Clinton? Obama?” “George Bush bad, he just make War. Obama,” a big thumbs up. “Obama, Indonesia.” Apparently, his time in Jakarta as a grade schooler is scoring points.

Towards 11, the girl in a white head scarf behind the food table was getting antsy like me. “Mister, you don’t play?” I think the kids half expected Pete Sampras himself to lope onto the court, and this wait was only building the anticipation.

But thanks to the oppressive heat, I was a poor imitation. Through four games we hung tough, me and middle-aged, scrappy Mr. Hamza, and we kept the score tied. Then I started to feel drunk. After we switched sides halfway through, the sun was directly in our face. They threw up lobs and my legs wobbled every time I tried to get in position to hit an overhead smash. I dumped a bunch in the net and I think we lost 7-4.

But the loss was a small pain compared to sitting down. I thought I was going to pass out cold. I couldn’t focus my hands to grasp the water cups fast enough. One young player kindly offered up his pack of cigarettes. Another man handed me a cup of coffee. I passed them both up but after watching people throughout the day I see these are gentle coping mechanisms.

“Panas?” everyone kept saying when they saw my red face. “Panas.” Hot. Thankfully Johhni, the next youngest guy from Banda was also struggling. “Panas,” he said shaking his head after his match. Granted, he was wearing sweatpants like most of the older guys (I was in shorts). But he’d also lived here his whole life.

After noon, when the gang had downed a hot lunch of fish and greens on rice, the courts emptied out for prayer. Johhni and Rahman changed into slacks and cleaned up a bit and walked over to the mosque. I lay down on a bench in the shade and tried to relax. The muazin called over the loudspeaker. When he’d finished, a couple of boys in flip flops took over one of the courts. One twelve year old whalloped big looping topspin forehands with my racket, which he’d grabbed off the bench.

A couple of them came over and sat with me after playing. “Mister, Dari Mana?” They all wanted to know. Where are you from? Then we listed off players. “Rafeal Nadal,” they said. “Andy Roddick,” I said. “Roger Federer….James Blake…,” they said.

I got three of them to join me at dominos and we just barely finished one game before the men came back from the mosque, surrounded the table and booted the kids out. I stepped away as well.

In my second match, with a wily old guy, Isa, who has half his teeth, we stole seven games from an older Sigli pair. Sitting down after that one, I noticed a player from Sigli had taken off his shirt. In Banda, none of our group shows even a knee. I thought about it a while. My t-shirt was spongy. I looked at the shirtless guy a couple more times. Finally, I shed mine. And it’s never felt so good to take off my shirt.

Johhni and an older dude lost another match to a 50-year-old man in a stiff, green Che Gueverra hat and his teenage partner who could have been his son. Both the Sigli guys attacked the net like pros. Immediately afterwards, Che hat looked at me and said. “My friend, we play you.”

I rounded up a Banda guy with a massive forehand but we could not get to the Sigli pair. The more the heat wilted me, the stronger Che hat got. Everytime they needed to hit a strong return or big serve they did. The old man aced me up the middle in the final game and served out the match for a 7-4 win.

Four-o’clock approached. “We go to pray, be right back,” Rahman said. A match was going on between some younger locals and they halted and leaned against the fence for two minutes right at 4. When the muazin’s voice stopped, they picked up where they’d left off.

I’d had enough of the sweltering tennis life for one day and I asked Rahman if we could leave. “This is the last match; we wait till the end.” I went to the store for three more bottles of water and Pacari Sweat sports drink.

When I came back, the match had ended and everyone from both teams was in a circle. Two captains from Sigli and our organizer, Muhammad, each spoke; they started off with a “Assalamu Alaikum,” to which everybody responded the same, heartily. Then they launched into winding, 5-minute monologues, which Rahman later said were thanks yous and more detailed appreciations. During one speech, my teammate Mr. Aswa, grabbed a drink bottle wordlessly out of my hand. The gathering finished with a giant handshake between both teams. A couple of the Sigli guys, including the kid who I’d played last, gave me warm “Thanks yous.” “See you next time,” I offered.

The wind through the windows felt awesome on the trip back. An hour into the journey, we pulled into the town of Saare, on the back of the volcano. The markets and food stalls and coffee drinkers crept into the road here and traffic slowed to a crawl. We stopped with two other team cars and took over a table at a crowded café. They all ordered coffee and I tracked down some spicy mie noodles at a stall down the row.

There wasn’t a parking spot to be had and buses were emptying out: it was nearing 7 and people were flowing to a newly built, unpainted concrete mosque with a Turkish dome. My crew left me to finish my noodles and walked across the street to pray.

When the muazin’s voice stopped just after seven, the entire feverish village fell hush. I looked out on the road and the traffic had cleared. People seemed to freeze for a moment. On the hillside, a dusky, marine mist floated. Sittin in my shirt, now stiff with the day’s sweat, I drank deeply from the pause.

It grew dark as we descended into Banda. Johhni fell asleep at shotgun. Rahman and I rapped a little in English as he dodged motorcycles. He wanted to know if it was rude when he asked whether I was married with children, in, maybe, the first five minutes I knew him. My response there in the car was to go on and on about the dissolution of the American family and only 30% of kids in nuclear families and husbands doing the cooking. “So is it a problem, if I ask you?” he said again. “No, I said.” Then I asked: “What do you think of Sharia law?” “We need to have limits,” he said. “So you favor it?” I said inching closer. “It’s a good thing.” I thought about pressing him, about how Hayley is chaffing under the clothes restrictions and the paternalism that seems to come with it. But Rahman quickly turned up the radio. It was Bob Marley, singing ‘Could you be loved?’ And, after a long day, it was hard to argue with Bob.

Take care until next time,
Oakley