Tarzan’s Golf Course

The first person to tell me that Tarzan lived in Africa and not a remote island off the coast of Sumatra can go swing on a vine. What I do know is that if I were Tarzan, and I’d somehow ended up marooned on Belitung (actually Belitong, as i was informed by an islander) and I wanted to get my handicap down to scratch figures, then this is what I’d have built.

In the middle of the local jungle I found a golf course that, as far as I am concerned, wasn’t there a year ago. The other day when I arrived at the place, (courtesy of the blue sign that I mentioned in a previous  blog) that was the illusion I was under. I continued with that same illusion for two more days, in fact right up until the 5th hole when Kamil, my playing partner said, “30 years”.

In Indonesia it’s always worth checking yourself to make sure you’ve been understood. Jam dua (2hours)and dua jam (2 o’clock) mean completely different things so numbers are especially worth checking. I’d found it hard to believe the last time I was at Bilitong Golf Club that the iced tea was only Rp1000 not the Rp10,000 I assumed it must be, so with this in mind I dragged my playing companion by the scruff of his Ashcroft shirt and said “THIRTY YEARS???”

Ok, so the last part was the thought that fleeted through my mind, doubly so when the caddy repeated it. “they can’t both have misunderstood” I thought, when I realised they they can’t have both misunderstood. And of course they hadn’t, my Indonesian was perfect. I’ll say that again, my Indonesian was perfect much to my confusion, and they’d both confirmed that this course had been here since at least 1982!

Built, evidently, by one of the islands tin companies and up until recently a private course for the senior management from the tin company to use as their plaything, entertaining guests, holding ad hoc competitions or just getting away from the wife and kids on a weekend. Yes, this place now has 35 members and all of them are men.

There is a womens locker room but on the course are no signs of ladies tees.  The only women that I have seen are back at the clubhouse making perfect iced teas. Which is a shame because in Jakarta the caddies are all women.

The course could not be termed immaculate but I have played on a lot worse, Spofforth near Wetherby springs to mind. Some of the fairways are forgiving, such as on the first, some are  much tighter. The 9-hole course makes itself into 18-holes by altering the yardage, for instance, the par 3 third hole is also the par 4 twelth which is a great use of space saving. I may have mentioned but this course has been hacked out of a jungle and everyday the jungle wants it back.

Greenskeepers jobs are made doubly difficult when your job could also kill you. The four of us, Kamil, the two caddies and I, were followed around the course by plenty of people. Evidently I’m the first westerner to play here! But of our entourage, it was the job of three of them to look for errant shots. Basically, if your ball goes into the jungle it’s their job to go find it. You’ll be pleased to hear that we left no-one behind.

So what did this experience cost me? Well the whole bill thing was probably a bit contrived. When I came to pay it was Rp100,000 to hire the clubs, Rp100,000 Green Fees, even though the sign said Rp150,000, and Rp100,000 for the caddy plus RP50,000 danger money for the ball finders. Admittedly I have payed less than this at Gading Raya in Gading Serpong but golf is an expensive hobby in Indonesia and it was well worth it. With my own clubs here £15 would have been well worth it.

It never rains, but it pours

Day four on Belitung arrived a little earlier than I’d hoped. In Pantai Kelayan there really is very little to do on an evening. I’d sat up in the bar area until 8pm reading Sherlock Holmes stories while drinking a couple of large bottles of Bintang but, in the absence of anyone to talk to and the fact that I was getting up at 6.30am to play golf, I had an early night.

I’d nodded off a few times during the day and once my head hit the pillow I realised I was ready for sleep. Assuring myself of a peaceful night due to the mosquito netting (I’d checked and double checked for any ‘rogue’nyamuk, finding none) I was out like a light.

I can tell you what a volcanic eruption feels like. I can tell you what a small earthquake feels like. I had no idea what it is to experience a hurricane and I had even less idea what it is to experience a hurricane in a wooden shack with a tin roof...and hardly a solid wooden shack either. Dropping off to sleep, the noises of animals in the rafters, what sounded to me like rats preparing for some rat olympics, hadn’t  bothered me at all. I felt safe, cocooned in my mosquito netting, with two bolsters to remind me of Yohanna. Interestingly I’ve never heard any annecdotal evidence that a mosquito net will protect you from having the building surrounding you ripped apart as at around 1.30am that’s pretty much what i thought was happening. I say ‘around’ as my phone was charging,and nowhere within easy grasp to check the time.

I lay there for a few moments considering my situation. Having walked up the wooden steps to my cottage, I knew it had more in common with the second little pig’s house from the childrens’ story. I also knew from the noise outside that it was either one bloody big wolf or a storm of epic proportions..deciding on the latter, I worked out that I probably had two options. One, the roof would collapse on me and they’d find my corpse with a slightly undecided look on my face or two, I should get my ass outside and see what was happening.

One look told me that yes it was a big storm. Rain was lashing the place and the trees were bending in the howling wind but there was no sign of anyone. No rallying cry to warn of an impending Tsunami, no sign of people huddled in the doorways of the other shacks and at this point I realised this was probably nothing special if you lived here 24/7. Indonesia sits in an area known as the Ring of Fire, an area continually pounded by all manner of Acts of God and so it was with that little reassurancethat  I went back to bed and had a semi restless night, listening to the symphony of raindrops landing on the metal roof competing with the rats’ 100m sprint final.

My alarm went off at 6.15, a reminder to get up and go play golf but the rain was still thrashing down outside so I reset it for 7.30 and went back to my dreams. New surroundings and new sounds do not always make for the most comfortable nights sleep.

Kelayang Beach Cottages

2 nights had been spent in Tanjung Pandan and I opted for a change of scenery. I’d already found the Kelayan Beach Cottages and, once checked out of the Herlikat Hotel, rode the moped the 30 minutes to get to the cottages.

This place has a beautiful beach and the wooden shacks that overlook the beach are rustic at best. They have two cottages, fan or air con and as there is only 50,000 a night difference I agreed to the air con room at 300,000 per night (aprox £20). The rooms are spacious, mine has a big double bed surrounded by mosquito netting and a bathroom with a western toilet and a shower. The fan room has a squat toilet more traditional in Indonesia and the view from all of the wooden verandas is the palm tree-lined beach.  I arrived at 9.30am, changed my shorts to swimming shorts and went and grabbed the nasi goreng that I’d ordered when I checked in.

Straight out of a packet, it didn’t bode well for what I’d hoped would be good food here but for breakfast it was fine. Food over, I walked the 20 or so yards to the beach and just threw myself in the warm, blue water. The beach here doesn’t have as much detritus as the beach at Tanjung Tinggi. Last year, all the beaches were perfect but the tides at this time of year still wash all manner of flotsam and jetsam onto the beaches. This doesn’t really change until after May. Anyway, Tinggi was a bit of a mess but Kelayan is gorgeous. Palm trees swaying in the breeze, fishing boats parked just off the shore, the famous rocks dotting the bay and a couple of to gaze at. (One of these, i swear, looks like a chicken but found out later is thought by the locals to look like a Garuda, Indonesia’s mythical symbol).

After the swim i thought i’d read my kindle...I’m reading “The Legends of King Arthur and his Knights” by Sir James Knowles...but instead, fell asleep on an uncomfortable single plank. Not so uncomfortable that i didn’t sleep though.

This afternoon has been spent swimming, writing, reading and I’ve just finished a really nice piece of roast chicken accompanied by a sauce made from sweet, thick soy sauce, chopped fresh chillies and a squeeze of lime juice. Served with rice, it obliterated all thoughts of this morning’s nasi goreng.

It’s so insanely relaxing here my only real regret is that Yohanna couldn’t join me.

Interrogation with a smile....

Indonesian nature is to be blunt. The language doesn’t really use please and thankyou, they have it but just don’t use it in the way that we do. Does it mean Indonesians are impolite? Not in the slightest. Just a lack of formally polite words and a seeming disregard for privacy.

Handshakes are a bit odd here too. I remember the first time I shook an Indonesian’s hand. The pained expression on his face, along with the eagerness he had to let go of my less-than-steel-like grip, was obvious. Along with a reluctance to shake hands on departure, this led me to believe I’d made something of a social ‘faux-pas’.

It turns out hand shakes are more symbolic here. I was brought up by my father to believe that a weak handshake was a mark of the man you were shaking hands with. A weak handshake meant possibly a wimp, possibly not to be trusted and at the very least, damnably insincere. (My dad was a copper and is a northerner to boot so weak handshakes were especially unmanly) “shakes hands like a girl, he does” still brings a smile on remembering an occasion when he talked about an example of the above description.

But, back to the story. March 18th found me writing blog entries outside a small warung in Tanjung Pandan. Located next to the beach I was drinking delicious local black coffee,  watching the world go by and getting inspiration for my writing. I was sat adjacent to a small park with kids play equipment and a great view of the beach and receding tide.

Do you know that feeling you get when someone’s stood directly behind you, staring at you? Hairs on the back of your neck are on alert and our nascent spider sense slightly tingling? Well, that’s what caused me to turnaround in my chair. There behind me was a short, stout Indonesian guy with a beaming smile and wearing an immaculate Batik shirt in hues of orange and black. ”Hello” he said. “How old are you?” What do you say to this? Do you look angry that someone’s interrupting your afternoon coffee?  Do you look perplexed at the question? Do you just ignore the question and hope he’ll go away? My time here has taught me many things and the first is to relax and see where it goes.

“I’m 44” i replied in bahasa Indonesian, “how old are you?” i continued. Ignoring the question, he carried on, “Are you married?” This is all extremely normal. Indonesians, especially those that don’t meet many westerners, are ridicolously curious. Turning the tables, I stood up and towered over him (I’m 5’9” by the way) holding out my hand i said in Bahasa Indonesian “My name’s Daron, what’s your name sir?” he looked at my hand a moment, maybe he’d met a bule from northern England before, then extended his hand, smiling all the time. Our palms touched, just the very slightest interlocking before quickly releasing. This is how Indonesians shake hands.

Turns out his name was  Ramansah, he’s 43 and he’s a govenment official. He was at the beach this Sunday afternoon with his wife, kids, brother and brothers family and wanted to try out his English. It’s not that he didn’t respect my privacy, it’s that I’m a westerner, on his island, and he speaks a little English and wanted to practice.  The questions came thick and fast and each time I asked a question in bahasa Indonesian he seemed a mixture of disappointed and frustrated that I wouldn’t just sit there and answer him. Still, the conversation continued and I continued to answer his questions. At one point he invited me to his house for dinner but I declined, partly because the thought of an extended interrogation over dinner wasn’t really appealing. Looking back I think it was a wasted opportunity and it always helps to know people in government. Still, I have his number and I’ll call next time I visit the island. Probably.

He left following another brief handshake and deliberately drove his car in a contrary direction tothe one in which he needed to go, just to give the family the chance of seeing up close the guy he’d been talking to. All of them beamed smiles in my direction, waving their hands.

Intertesting.