Free Troppo by Madelaine Dickie Page A

can save enough money for the bus.’
    That would be one hell of a bus trip. ‘Kasihtahu aja, ya, kalau mau bantuan,’ I say flippantly. Let me know if I can help out.
    If she’s serious, it’s unlikely her family will let her go. But then again, there’s a surprising mix of young people in Kuta. It’s one of the things that makes the place so exciting, the fact that there’s this constant influx of young people from all over the archipelago: all full of dreams, all living in shared accommodation, all falling in love, falling out of love, getting drunk, learning English, sending home money to their families. Each group tends to stick together – the guys and girls from Lombok hang out, the crew from Flores share accommodation, the soccer games on Kuta Beach at dusk are determined by island – the Sumatrans will be playing one game, but in the next game down, it’ll be boys from Sulawesi.
    â€˜How old are you?’ I ask curiously.
    â€˜Seventeen.’
    â€˜Are you still at school?’
    â€˜No, I left when I was fourteen.’
    â€˜Ahh. So do you have a boyfriend?’
    She gives me a cheeky, spirited smile and her face transforms. ‘Nggak!’ she lies.
    â€˜Masak! Pacarmu masih di kampung, ya?’ Yeah, right! He’sstill in the village, isn’t he?
    She just smiles again. I learn that Ibu won’t let her go into town unaccompanied and that she has no friends here. She’s not keen to come surfing with Matt and me in the morning – she can’t swim and surfing isn’t something she wants to try. She does like soccer though; maybe, if I liked, we could go and watch the game tomorrow evening at dusk?
    â€˜I’d love that!’ I tell her.
    She squeezes my hand in excitement.
    â€˜But Ibu will be cool with it, with you taking the afternoon off?’
    She drops my hand. ‘Probably,’ she says.

21
    I wake with the call to prayer and lie still, listening to the timbersigh of the bungalow, the black roar of surf over the reef. The waves here are nothing like the freezing, shark-chopped slabs in Albany. Indo’s a warm-water playground of perfectly sculpted reefs that trap and jack perfectly groomed waves. Even so, I hope Matt won’t coax me out if it’s too big. It’s been a long time and I don’t want to have to do the paddle of shame back in.
    I swing my legs out of bed and find the light switch.
    Half an hour later I’m hunched behind Matt on his motorbike, clutching a board under each arm and holding on to him with my knees and thighs. It’s cold; my cheeks and fingers and eyes smart. Matt’s wearing a hoody, jeans and beanie. Before we left, he said, ‘You might wanna get a jumper, eh.’ I laughed and replied, ‘Nah, I’ll be right.’ Stupid, stupid! I press my forehead against his back, imagining my hands wrapped around a glass of black coffee instead of cold fibreglass.
    It happens every trip, an acute pang of First World guilt. We’re flying along narrow roads, passing women and men whose bodies are halved over new rice, passing old women buckled under bundles of sticks and yet here
we
are, off to surf, off to play and play and play, for
months
if we want, while these farmers work their guts out, for our coffee, for our rice.
    By the time we get there the sun’s just coming up. We’re south of Batu Batur, over the river and around to the southern end ofthe next bay. I climb off, arms aching, careful not to bump the boards together. Matt parks the bike under a palm. He warned me not to bring anything of value, not to bring anything.
    â€˜They’re pretty desperate here. I’ve even had sunscreen stolen. Fuck knows why, they don’t even use sunscreen!’
    â€˜Can’t you lock stuff in the bike?’
    â€˜Yeah, but the seats are easy to lift. Year and a half ago some American blokes had their bikes stolen from this spot.’
    We have