When the flat spell entered its forth day I was ready to go exploring. It didn’t worry me that I had never ridden a motorbike before. Mr Jack provided patient driving instruction and for a small fee, a few days use of his Honda. After a couple of incident free circuits around the compound I was confident I could stay upright, and stop if needed. Driving down the long dusty road away from Fat Ma’s surf camp towards the looming jungle, I don’t recall registering anything more than a rush of adrenaline as I opened the throttle, and the dark Sumbawan jungle closed in around me. Had I considered the potential dangers of leaving the pampered cultural quarantine of the surf camp, and of venturing alone into the unknown hazards of a impoverished Muslim land of which I new almost nothing, then maybe the events of the day would have transpired differently. But the excitement of the wind rushing through my hair, and the thrill of riding out into the unknown, eclipsed any considerations that a more seasoned traveller would have given for precautionary measures, like taking a map, or at the very least wearing a helmet. I guess you don’t know what you don’t know. Wisdom comes at the behest of experience, and when you don’t have wisdom or experience, then the innocence and vigour of youth becomes your best ally, you throw the dice, and luck or fortune measures your fate.
Sumbawan roads are made for motorbikes. All one needs to do is adopt a happy slalom rhythm. In this fashion numerous hazards can be easily negotiated, shrubs growing out of the cracked patchwork of tarmac, yawning pot holes, and large basking snakes all whiz by in a dreamy rhapsody. I remember families of sunbathing monkeys scurrying off the road, swinging lazily up into the podocarp forest, and chattering noisily as I turned onto stretches of meandering dirt trail, motoring on beneath high arching bush clad mountains, through swampy rice fields, and swirling clouds of brightly coloured butterflies. The remoteness, isolation, and share beauty of the place was intoxicating. For a few miles, I followed the coast on a narrow road cut into volcanic cliffs that dropped steeply into the bright turquoise ocean. I stopped to drink in the dazzling view of the liquid amber reef, sliding into the deep swirling depths of an unknown horizon. I was high on the thrill of exploring this faraway prehistoric paradise, populated it seemed, only by me and the fiercely burning sun.
I was greeted at the first village I entered by rapturous salutations from young children who franticly pursued me down the road, joyfully calling out ‘hello Mister’ in gleeful choruses as though I were the veritable pied piper of Sumbawa. In one village I was stopped and surrounded by a sea of delighted young faces, mouths agape, all staring in wonder at my white skinned strangeness. As I ventured further from the well travelled tourist route that connects the ferry port of Bima to the surf camps of Hu’u, the increasingly ecstatic greetings I received from children became a measure of how far I was departing from the beaten trail, until finally there was no more ‘hello mister’, just excited whoppings and hollerings.
I stopped to photograph some young boys idling at the waters edge on a bleached white sand beach. They looked at me with expressions of perplexity as I periodically gazed at them through the viewfinder. Walking around them in circles to get the most picturesque angle, I crouched down on one knee, and after gazing at the sun, and checking my exposure levels, I noticed their bewilderment was bordering on fear as they deferred to each other in nervous whispers. I smiled and greeted them in Bahasa Bima "Assalam mualaikum" to which they erupted with roars of delight, rushing foward to run their hands through my hair and over my skin before I could take my photograph. I wondered what story they might later tell their friends, of their rare encounter with a crazy white man and his most peculiar traditional greeting.
The villages I passed through were mostly comprised of rickety old huts elevated off the ground on stilts, all crooked angles and crisscrossed ill fitted happenstance. I latter learned that an abode like this commonly serves to accommodate families of twelve or more, with the head of the family espoused to numerous wives and supporting children to all of them. The Sumbawans who populate these villages live ruff, frugal agricultural lives closely intertwined with their family members and communities. Their possession are few, and their opportunities for a life beyond the poverty and subsistence of their local villages are limited. Many of the island’s residents are at risk of starvation when crops fail due to a lack of rainfall and unlike Bali, and their other Indonesian Island neighbours, tourism in Sambawa is still very embryonic, with just a few surf camps making up the totality of the industry.
Given the enormous relative wealth and opportunities to which westerners are privileged, and the jet setting, and comparatively luxurious existence of the surf camp beach boys, it is not surprising that dark elements sometimes enter the cultural mix. I wasn’t completely ignorant of the jealousies that can be aroused by difference, or the extremes of poverty that can sometimes compel violent and criminal behaviour. I had heard a few horror stories over the years, of muggings, and of night time robberies descending into full blown machete assaults and dismemberment. Such stories can be heard throughout the surf camps of Indo, usually told with practiced embellishment by a hard charging, knarled, and weathered old surfer, as he saviours his evening Bintang.
Some of the more horrific surf yarns I had heard were delivered, like board riding itself, with the flair and relish of a studied art. A young shredding hotshot with a polished repertoire of flamboyant manoeuvres just can’t beat a salty old dog for a surf story. And because new arrivals to increasingly crowded surf spots are competing for the limited waves on offer, the aim of these stories is often to strategically undermine the confidence of the other. The trick is to push your target beyond the bounds of his incredulity, and as with surfing, timing is essential. One mustn’t rush any hyperbolic embellishments. If your story doesn’t flow harmoniously with the suspension of his disbelief, you’ve lost him. A studied surf dog might begin by arousing the curiosity of his muse in a disinterested sought of way, perhaps throwing off some local lingo he wont understand, and then sharing a few knowing nods and wry smiles with an accomplice. In this way tried hands feel out the vulnerability of the new arrival, measuring the greenness of his experience, given away despite himself by a widening of the eyes as he listens in on an exchange of esoteric knowledge against which he is being carefully measured. The initial probes are best followed with a teaser like “remember unfortunate young Wiley”. In this fashion older surfers pass the evenings, sewing the seeds of fear and doubt in young minds, which ultimately translates into more waves for them the next day as the poor wretch has his sleep ruined by the prowling intrusions of machete wielding desperados, and paddles out the next morning, not to early, to sit wide, clinging nervously to the shoulder, his mind haunted by horror visions of dry reef dismemberment. However, the stories aren’t all histrionics and hyperbole, and it pays to listen to the experiences of your fellow travellers, because jokers and glass blowers aside, the dangers are quite real.
I was about to experience first hand one of the most threatening and volatile situations Sumbawa can serve up on land as I motored lazily through her breathtaking scenery. I had been savouring each stretch of new road with relish, until my hunger for the open horizon began to press up against a nagging cautionary voice, quiet at first, and then more demanding as the heat of the day began to wane and the shadows of the jungle stretched long and roping across my path. At first I noticed stutters in the bikes engine that seemed to rattle out a cautionary warning Im sure I hadn’t heard earlier. I certainly am an old bike, the clanking noises seemed to intone. And then on approach some potholes appeared to grow more craterous, wider and toothier, as they opened up out of the shadows. And I thought, gosh it sure would be easy to puncture a tire in one of those, and then I hit one hard and jarring, and the bike stumbled out the other side feeling a little more fragile, if not stuttering more uneasliy, and I heard a voice say, mechanical failure this far from the surf camp wouldn’t be much fun, and then another voice said, you certainly have come a long way, do you think you can find your way back? These thoughts crept up on me slowly at first until they reached their zenith, stopping me dead in the middle of the road, and I watched an almost visible change sweep across the surrounding landscape as though a cloud had blotted out the sun. I had stretched the umbilical chord of my safety right up to breaking point, and the most unsavoury imaginings began tumbling through my mind, ominous portents of the heavy experience that was about to unload on me.
I’m a heck of a long way from Fat Ma's and I can’t say for sure I can find my way back. This Island is a malaria red zone, and are those swirling flies gathering in the shades of the jungle mosquitoes? To be sure, I have no protective clothing to shield me from their bite, and no repellent! At such moments our mind tends to fixate on the most unsavoury scenes, of a Japanese surfer the week before, pale and moaning in the grips of a malarial fever, being stretchered into a waiting van and driven hurriedly away, or the hardy Sumbawan cook at Fat Ma's who dropped dead one evening over his Nasi Gorang, we were later reassured it was not the food, but Maleria that had killed him!
The sun was dropping low in the sky as I set off in the opposite direction, and looking hopefully at the fuel gage I had the chilling feeling that it hadn’t moved in the last hour! If that is the case, I thought, then I can't afford to miss a turn, but surely my mind is playing tricks on me! Just how strong was that marijuana I smoked with Mr Jack?! These are troubling thoughts which rush upon a man exposed and vulnerable, uncertain if he should take the left hand trail, or the right, perilously low on gas, and anxiously surveying the vast lonely horizons of a third world Muslim country of which he knows almost nothing!
I wasn’t gripped by fear so much as a sharp and urgent immediacy, tempered by the awareness that although I had pushed my safety right up against the edge of potential calamity, there was no immediate problem. All I had to do was to ease that old bike home, watching closely for the familiar landmarks and turnings on the network of dirt trails that would lead me back to Fat Ma's, and as each familiar Mountain and rice field rolled by I felt an ebbing of my anxiety.
It was dusk and I had no cares left for anything more than the rewards of a hot meal and a cold Bintang when I finally reached the village of Hu’u after a long and full day, just twenty minutes shy of Fat Ma’s surf camp. I eased off on the throttle, weaving through the numerous locals gathered in the street, including dogs, chickens, and cattle. It is an end of day custom in villages that have no other means of entertainment, no TV or radio, or even any power, no books, or any of the amenities we take for granted in developed countries, for people to gather together in the evenings and share each others company. A tractor driven by a boy not older than twelve, carrying numerous other children as passengers, approached me out of the crowd and I slowed, tooting my horn and swerving to the shoulder. The accident that followed, and the subsequent events that were to play out over the following anxious weeks, are forever burnt into my memory, and looking back now I can see the beginnings of the whole unhappy drama unfolding in slow motion.
The tractor turned violently at right angles directly into my path, and I swerved, only to feel the bike sliding out from under me. Kicking free, tumbling and sliding on my hip over loose gravel I watched horrified as Mr Jack’s Honda disappeared under its rearing front wheels, which lurched and grinded to a teetering halt almost on top of me! I lay stunned in the dust, and as I looked up at the pile of twisted metal that so easily could have been my body, I experienced a moment of disconnected numbness, and the thought flashed through my mind that potentially my injuries could be serious. Slowly I moved my limbs, and to my great relief, found myself rising up off the ground, breathing deeply, and miraculously unscathed, but the reel trouble was only just beginning to brew.
The accident had been witnessed by half the street it seemed, and as I shakily dusted myself off, feeling for any fractures, and scanning for blood, concerned villagers who were arriving at the crash scene from every direction, began enthusiastically joining me in squeezing and manipulating my limbs, all giving me the unreserved benefits of their chiropractic expertise. They talked excitedly amongst themselves as some ran their hands vigorously up and down my legs, and others rubbed eagerly on my arms. Despite my thanks, and my best efforts to reassure people I was okay, more and more came. I was soon surrounded on all sides by quite a mob, I guessed 40 or more villagers had gathered just moments after the accident, and as I looked out over the top of their diminutive frames, I could see that thick and fast still more were coming, in fact they were running, all aroused by the cacophony of noise and activity being generated by the expanding crowd, and eager to participate in the fun. I couldn’t understand what was being said, but it seemed that my wellbeing was no longer the focus of attention, instead everybody was talking all at once, and some were shouting!
The tractor continued on its merry way while Mr Jack's motorbike disappeared amongst the jostling crowd, the mood of which was deteriorating quickly as several heated arguments began to escalate in volume and volatility, exciting still more hecklers to join in the fray. More worryingly, the massaging of my arms that had begun with therapeutic intent, began to assume the more troubling characteristics of a restraining hold. And in the fading light I feared an imminent evening strafing by Mosquitos would soon find me defenseless! I felt as though I were caught in the grips of a nasty rip, being pulled slowly and surely into the impact zone of a heavy situation. I knew there could be no fighting, my best chance was to stay calm, alert, and watch for an opening.
An angry young man was reaching the climax of an emotional testimony, and suddenly I was in the dock, and looking out at a stacked jury who were returning cold, dark, and accusatory stares, and as the gallery grew more bipartisan I was sure a punitive sentence would soon be forthcoming. And then I heard a voice at my shoulder, “Hello Mister, I am Imal, brother of Mr Jack. Things look bad for you Mister! Come now! On my bike I take you surf camp. Please, we leave now Mister!
There was a moment of confusion and indecision amongst the mob as I fended off a few grasping hands and leaped onto the back of Imal’s waiting bike. There were angry shouts of "Ho hey yeh!" from bystanders who rushed at us, grabbing and snatching as we broke free and accelerated away. My relief was short lived. We were soon travelling at such a speed, I started to wonder if I might have been safer with the angry mob. I shouted at Imal "Wooo, slow down!" But instead Imal accelerated to such a frantic pace that it was impossible to dodge all the potholes. When we hit them jolts rippled through my entire frame so that I could feel the throbbing in every bruised limb, and some we hit so hard it was all I could do to stay on the bike. I felt like the ill-fated fall guy in an old silent movie, it was just to horrible and over dramitised to be believed! And then I heard engine noise behind us. I glanced back and counted half a dozen bikes roaring up in hot pursuit, some with one rider, others in tandem. They were closing on us, and as they drew near I could see that they were brandishing machetes, pointing at me and waggling their blades ostentasiously, all sneering and bristling with exaggerated indignation. Leaning close into Imal's back I shouted into the wind "What the fuck is going on! Hey man, what the fuck is happening!"
“They say you damage tractor. They want you pay money now!”
They were almost on us as we swung in through the front gates of Fat Ma's surf camp, with Imal letting out victorious whoops. "They not follow here!" He shouted triumphantly.
And so it was a sadder and a wizer man who walked slowly and shakily into Fat Ma's restuarant, and slumped down before the inquiring gaze of his fellow surfers, silent and stunned, contemplating the frightening implications of a more lively cultural experience than he had bargained for!
