Written by Emerson Huuk
Meandering south from Krui, navigating curled roads and potholes of the swear and swerve variety. Shopfronts and markets teem in my peripheral…Between shifting rain squalls, burn piles sizzle and vaporize over the bitumen. The air is thick and the light nor-wester does little to lift it.
Earlier I was told that seismic tremors were felt throughout the night. Woven so plainly into daily life here…the deep spirit of this place, is in many ways reverberating.
Ahead of the next bend, a jam of pedestrians and honking cars rolls into view. I make eye contact with a woman leaning on a petrol bowser and pull up short of the bedlam to refill my scooter.
Crackles from a loudspeaker drop in and out…It seems like the entrance to a mosque is being swarmed. Arms waving, feet shuffling dust in the heat. A South Sumatran police car sits at its’ gate. While technicians inside dangle from the top of a minaret…
“Heyo! Where’d you surf?” A French accent hoots behind me. Nursing a yellowy, red bike to the other side of the pump.
“Honey Smacks this morning then The Peak.” I snicker, counting out some rupiah from my back pocket. “Wasn’t out for long.”
He leans over, still on his scooter. “Peak looked crowded…Desperados getting their fix before the swell drops.” His crooked sunglasses and sweat-drenched brow arouses the proprietor too, chuckling into her hijab.
I pay for my fuel and mention to the Frenchman that I might backtrack to the coast road. Avoid the congestion…
“They complaining about the loudspeakers aye” Gesturing to the crowd with a head jerk.
“Oh yeah? Too loud?” I offer.
He shakes his head. Catching the broken glasses as they fall…
“They want it loud. Acoustics are shithouse though…cigarette?”…
Sharing a Kretek in the shade, the Frenchman brings me up to speed.
“Common practise is to max-out mosque speakers.” He tells me. “So the call to prayer can be heard by as many worshippers as possible.”
“Naturally, this is a symbol of greatness in Islam…Given most mosques are run by locals, upgrading and maintaining is hard. They just don’t have the money.”
I toss my thumb over my head, back toward the rabble. “Were they trying to upgrade the speakers just now?”
“You’d think so!” cries the Frenchman, taking a long drag before continuing. “Maybe the Government is regulating…Have you heard the echo when neighbouring mosques overlap prayer calls?”
“No” I admit.
“It’s horrid!” He said, giving me a look that would linger long after we had split. “I have heard of people being followed and harassed online for complaining about it.”
“How long have you been here?” I pry.
“10 years in Indo. Since I’ve been here, complaints about ‘prayer noise’ have grown…Mostly in Jakarta, but even Muslims! Dealing with insomnia and tinnitus. It’s crazy! Don’t get me wrong, I love Adhan but over here It’s like the wild west sometimes!”
“Are you French?”
“Morocco. I speak French… and Arabic, English, Indonesian haha!…In Morocco there are no problems with the mosques and Adhan. Things work well, most of the time…”
“In Saudi Arabia,” he continues. “The government orders mosque speakers be routinely ameliorated and restricted to one-third of the maximum volume…Back in the archipelago, no such law exists.”
Turning the key, I putt soberly back towards Mandiri beach. Smoke obscures a clearing of grass up the valley. Tiered gravestones, decorated against the wet forest behind…
Back to the ocean, the road weaves again. A string of vacant warungs and beached jukung line the pavement now. And the smell of stir fry forces me off course once more.
Next to a fridge of cold drinks, a squat man sits, eating from a bowl with his hands. Looking up, his eyes fill out and quickly he lifts the bowl to me.
“I cook more”…Offering a rice grain smile as I retrieve my wallet.
A young girl scampers in from a back room. Picking up an old Bintang bottle from a crate of empties, she blows gently over the mouthpiece. Watching, as her father fires the kitchen up again…
Beyond the warung and shelly sand, shirtless boys tip-toe over coral laid bare. I sit and watch them, hunting for crayfish with masks and snorkels. Before the tide fills in…
“Why you sad?” The man slides a bowl of marlin and rice in front of me.
“Long day?” He grins.
“Long day.” I echo “Terima kasih…For dinner.”
“Besok, besok”. He smiles and points at photo of Ujung Bocur above me. “Tomorrow it comes, more swell”.
Maybe he hadn’t seen the forecast or maybe he’d misheard. I found out later, Besok means the future. It doesn’t mean the next day, it could be a week…Soon…Habitual of some, living in this loose sense of time.
I finish my coconut water, just as a distant call to prayer begins to chime out across the water. Another mosque shrouded behind the palms. The sky was flowering, as evening sets in.
I nudge my host for another one. “Did you hear the protest at the mosque today?”
“Yes…What it is, is, what it is” he replies stoically.
“Do you agree with the protesters? Against regulation?”
“They afraid of change” he smiles, coconut in one hand, machete in the other. “We need more…WHACK!…from the Government…WHACK!…Some things change…WHACK…some stay the same haha!”
