Troppo (11 page)

In Indonesian bathrooms and toilets, there's usually a bak mandi: a big basin or a tub full of water. You scoop water from the bak mandi to flush the toilet or to wash. As I soap up, I find teeth-marks on the inside of my thighs. Feel a quick thrill. Mmm. I work shampoo through my hair then pour a saucepan-full of water over my head. With head tipped back, I notice something on the roof, a shard of something, a mirror.
What the hell is a mirror doing on the roof? I squeeze the soap from my hair, rinse my body, and move around, still looking up at the mirror but now from a different angle.

Reflected in that little bit of glass is a tiny, purple cock. It's being beaten back and forth, back and forth.

I want to scream. But I steel myself, tie my sarong above my boobs, race out and kick open the door of the bathroom next to me. The guy has his eyes closed. He doesn't notice me at first. I force a laugh. Point at his little dick and laugh. His eyes flutter open. And he flushes the same crimson-purple as his dick. Then he runs. Shoulders past me and runs. Down to the end of the garden and through the blue door and out onto the beach.

I feel like vomiting.

Ibu Ayu is nowhere to be seen and neither is Pak Joni. I rush up to my room, dress, then rush out; to town, to safety, where there're other people around.

My first stop is a shop on the main road selling mobile phones. I sort myself out with an Indonesian number and a SIM. No excuse now. Then I continue along the road to the supermarket, feeling a sluggish supply chain of sweat working its way from the roots of my hair to the inside of my thighs. Sometimes I bandage my thighs with cheap sarongs to stop them rubbing raw but I was too frantic this morning – hopefully the trousers will soak up most of the sweat and won't chafe. Every so often someone calls, ‘Hello Mister!' and I force myself to look up and wave. Near the supermarket, something splits the skin above my ankle.

‘What the …?!'

A group of kids in clag-coloured shorts are skittling rocks across the road at me.

I pick up the rock and throw it back. ‘Little shits!'

They scatter with evil and lively grins.

The supermarket is artificially lit and polar-cooled. I move down the aisles, enjoying the air-conditioning, heart finally slowing. I'm craving chocolate. A little bottle of lemonade. I need some more soap. And I'm almost out of shampoo and conditioner. A man opens the door, letting in a thick oblong of smoky air. I linger in the air-conditioning until the shop assistant gives me a sideways look. As he scans my items, the slightest twitch of his nose divulges distaste. Three blocks of expensive chocolate? The
most
expensive shampoo and conditioner? I feel that guilt again, knowing I've just spent the equivalent of a week's wage on indulgences.

Back outside I'm greeted by an unmistakable squawk. The Kiwi. Marika leans sideways on her motorbike in a pair of tiny denim shorts. Her legs are gorgeous, crossed like elegant brown exclamation marks. Behind her yawns the dusky opening of a local grocery store with its begrimed aqua gallons and tails of laundry powder. I veer toward her. After my unsettling morning, I'm anxious for some company.

‘Oh my god! Were you just shopping in the Circle K? You were, weren't you!' She smirks. ‘You know, this is where all the locals shop.' She gestures behind her. ‘It's half the price. And Ibu Nuri has the most adorable baby. A laki-laki. Oh – you do speak Bahasa don't you?'

‘Cool, thanks for the heads-up,' I say, ignoring her question. She's a tough one to like, but after this morning, I'm not too keen on spending any more time alone. And given the outfit she's wearing, she must have some strategy to keep the stalkers at bay. ‘Are you busy at the moment? Do you wanna go for a coffee or something?'

She wraps a set of manicured fingers around the motorbike handle. ‘Actually, I'm off to work.'

‘Oh yeah. Where do you work?'

‘I've got a business here.'

‘What's your business?'

‘IT.'

‘IT?'

‘Yeah. I've started an internet cafe. First one in Batu Batur.'

‘An internet cafe? I didn't think there was any internet! Where is it? Do you reckon I could grab a lift?'

She seems stumped by my enthusiasm.

‘Well, if you like. I haven't managed to get a place right in the centre of town. It's just on the outskirts. Near Dennis and Meri's.'

‘No worries, I can walk back into town.'

‘Fine.'

She keeps the bike steady with those killer legs and guns it to life.

We head through town, skewing wildly around puddles and oxen and men pedalling becaks. Marika's bare legs don't go unnoticed. Some of the older men gape and grin. Others are less impressed; their faces contract in indignation and spite. The younger people are the most shocked. One young woman sends a pellet of spit after us. A young man throws a stick.

By the time we get to the internet cafe, I wish I hadn't been seen with her. You have to be respectful with what you wear. Especially here. It's not Kuta or the Gilis. But who am I to be on a soapbox about dress codes?

I expected quirkiness in the Kiwi's cafe, or a Balinese élan – incense and air-con. Instead, there are the typical plastic booths with at least three people crowded around each computer and a stale grey smell of kretek smoke. The floor is textured with ash and plastic wrappers.

She swans in and an employee at the master computer straightens his back, mouse moving frantically. Then his features
relax. Marika doesn't appear to notice.

‘Joko.' Her tone is professional, even disdainful. ‘Dua kopi hitam, ya. Cepat!'

Joko jumps up.

‘You drink Indo coffee?'

‘Of course.'

She leads me to her office out the back.

The office is immaculate, individualised only by a potted aloe plant and a few photos. Marika cheek-to-cheek with a handsome bloke; Marika pulling into a stormy, serious barrel, wetsuited and game-faced; Marika with her arm around a woman who shares her sharp nose.

‘Is that your mum?'

She looks at the photo. ‘Yeah. She lives on the North Island, in Mahia.'

‘Do you miss her?'

‘A bit.'

Marika wouldn't be older than twenty-four. Probably a year or two older than me. What a gutsy venture, heading out to a remote town in Sumatra, setting up a business, learning Indo, surfing solo. Working for someone else in a bule-only surf camp seems tame in comparison.

‘Have you been here for long?'

‘Not really. Not as long as Matt. He's been coming for about five years. Has a lot of really close local friends. I've only been here nine months but I started this place two months ago.'

‘Do you like Batu Batur?'

She slides her thong back and forth across the ground. I've never seen a high-heeled thong before.

‘When I first got here, I loved it. Now, it's okay.'

There it is again, that challenge, but softer now, as if she's trying to convince herself as much as me.

‘I felt welcome when I first moved here. The people seemed mellow, nearly everyone was friendly. My neighbours,' she gestures to either side, ‘were always dropping in with leftover rice, tempe, chicken. They still do, they're legends. I let 'em use the internet for free.'

She stops sliding her foot and starts seesawing a pen between her fingers. ‘In the last two months though, the vibe has changed. I mean maybe there was always some hostility. Because of Shane. But I dunno. I feel as if it's more than that now.'

‘Yeah, I have to admit, I haven't exactly felt safe here over the last week.'

‘After Franz's?'

‘Well, sure. But I was thinking more the blokes.'

‘Ah.' She lifts her eyebrows. They're expertly waxed.

Something shifts, there's a softening. We're warming to each other. Fraternising. The way women do when there are no blokes around.

So I tell her about this morning in the shower. It must happen all the time – at home as well as here – but I still feel rattled. Dirty in my skin.

She tilts her head to the side. ‘I've had guys wait for me a couple of times on the sand when I've been out surfing by myself. Most of the time they're harmless. As soon as you speak a bit of Indo or better still, Lampung, it trashes whatever myths they have from whatever porn films they've watched. They realise you're an actual person. You remind them by telling them they've got sisters and mothers. Most times they'll ask you to come home and have dinner with their family!'

‘Yeah, I thought it was a bit like that.' The office feels like the inside of a rice-cooker and I hope there's not a sweat patch on the bum of my trousers.

The Kiwi isn't perturbed. She looks cool and classy in her
denim shorts and Parisian thongs. She chucks the pen at the wall.

‘Anyway, I got a few bits and pieces I gotta do around here. You coming over to Dennis' in a couple of nights?'

‘I dunno. Yeah. Maybe. What's happening?'

‘Just a barbecue. A bit of a chat about how we can cut a lower profile. And Matt's gunna fill us in on where we're at with Shane.'

‘Shane? What's Matt got to do with Shane?'

‘Matt hasn't said anything to you?'

I shake my head.

‘Maybe he's worried you'll warn Shane. Oh well. Come to Dennis' and you'll find out.'

What the hell? I sit for a moment in uncomfortable indecision – should I press her for details? I let it slide. ‘Can you tell me where you got your eyebrows waxed and your nails done? I got the worst wax the other day and my nails …'

The Kiwi promptly draws me a map. ‘The lady who runs it is from Surabaya – she's an absolute character! But she's closed Fridays and Sundays. Now, did you say you wanted to use the net?'

Marika gets up briskly and I follow her back out into the smoky cafe. All the computers are full. She looks around. Then walks over to two young guys in school uniforms. They're glued to a game. Guns, blood, khaki-coloured animation.

‘Get off,' she tells them in Indo.

I try to protest but she waves her fingertips at me.

‘Don't worry about it. It's not like they're doing anything important.'

The boys shuffle sullenly toward the door.

Three hours later I step outside with the strain of a headache behind my eyes. It's from the glare of the screen, the tidal movement of cigarette smoke between the booths, the multiple cups of black coffee. I picked up an email from Dad and another from my sister Lucy, the kind of travel email that's sent in bulk. She's the brains of the family, a law graduate with distinction who's spent the last year drinking tequila with dark-eyed villains and drug runners in Mexico. We've both definitely got more of Dad in us than Mum, more wildness than caution.

Nothing from Mum, but that's not unusual. As a kid I remember her constant worry, constant disapproval. As an adult, I recognise a natural pessimist. When I decided to go to Bali with Dad, Mum was beside herself. It's probably only now I've begun to acknowledge how much I hurt her. She met Dad in Indo in the late '70s and they fell in love. But it's as if her memory of this country has been soured; she hasn't been back since they split up when I was twelve. Now she's living over East, doing the rich hippy thing at Byron Bay, a moderately successful interior designer.

Nothing from Josh either. Instead, I clicked through photos on the company website of a ‘team-building' night they had recently in the city. Josh looked like he was ten schooners deep, flashing those fine, dark, private-school-boy eyes at the women around him, the first grey threads through his dark hair.
Back at the bungalows I'll charge up my phone, send him a message, arrange a time to talk.

I wave down a becak. The seat probably fits four Indonesian bums to my one. The man is perched on the bicycle behind me. He kicks off the curb. ‘Ibu Ayu's bungalows,' I tell him. We creak along the left-hand side of the road, skirting puddles and goats with jangling brass necklaces. I keep looking at the sky, expecting it'll start raining. The becak rider doesn't look to the sky, or to the sea, or to the pensive, gloom-fringed mountains. He stares straight ahead, expression bleached of dream or whim. Only his legs move, with effort. When we finally arrive at the bungalows I give him an extra twenty thousand rupiah. For a moment, there's a greedy gleam in his pupils. Then it dims, as if he's already spent the money, as if his wife has already demanded he hand it over. He turns a slow, speechless semicircle and pedals back to town.

Ibu Ayu is on the dining deck peeling a snake fruit. The skin of the fruit lies in puzzle pieces between her forearms. ‘Penny!' she calls out. ‘Kenapa kamu nggak mau sarapan?' Why didn't you want breakfast?

I join Ibu on the deck and accept a piece. The salak is dry and tart, a little like an apple, a little like an unripe pear. While I'm crunching, I explain what happened in the shower. She's horrified.

‘Maaf sekali Penny, aduh! Where's Joni?'

‘Don't – no, don't call Bapak! It's okay. There's no-one around now.'

I resist an urge to look over the guesthouse wall to the tree line.

‘It's not your fault. Penny always dress, ahh, how you say?'

‘Sensibly?'

‘Exactly. In long shirt, long skirt, like Indonesian lady, ya? But
the problem is, sometimes the girl coming here, for example, I had girls six month ago from France. French girl Rip Curl team, you know? All surfing, making film.'

A look between consternation and wonder settles on her face.

‘These girls go away surfing in the morning, then in the afternoon they come back and surfing again, just here, out front.' She waves a contemptuous hand toward the water. ‘But then – and this is the problem – after they surfing, they sunbake! In bikini! Just here on the beach! Wah!'

She pushes the salak peels into a spiky square.