Killing a Scorching Afternoon in Sumbawa

It’s too hot.

I am watching the ceiling of my wooden bungalow, and I cannot even think. I don’t want to even think. I don’t want to get lost in my own mind. It’s just too hot.

They told us blackouts are not very common, but there was an accident. A landslide or something similar. It seems a pillar of the network fell down, and now the whole village is completely cut off. It could not have happened on a worse day. Must be 35 celsius. Maybe more. Maybe it’s just the humidity. I don’t really know how this works.

No AC, no wifi, no batteries. I do have a book, but it’s a boring one. It’s too hot for boring books. I am tired of lying down. I need to get out of here.

I see my surfboards at my feet. I should go surfing, paddle out in the water, refreshing myself. The tide is still too low, though; it would just be a suicide. It will take at least a couple of hours before I can try to get over the reef safely. The wax on my decks is melting. Damn, it’s really too hot.

There is loud music coming from somewhere outside. Balinese metallophones and flutes. I’m in West Sumbawa. Why is there Gamelan music in Sumbawa?!

It’s so loud and disharmonious that I cannot even try to sleep. It almost feels like the orchestra is inside the bungalow with me. Let’s find out what’s happening in this village.

I walk out, and now it’s not just the heat, but the light too. So bright, my shadies are basically useless. And it’s already past 3 pm. Am I hallucinating? I don’t have a watch to check if my assumption is correct. Never had a watch.

The village is deserted. I guess it’s too hot not just for the foreigners. The locals are staying in their homes as well, hiding from the sun. I meet a couple of stray dogs on the main road. They decide to slowly follow me, probably thinking I am getting some food somewhere. Dogs are naive.

Then an old man and his kiosk. A fried food kiosk. He is sitting behind it, arching his back on the chair to the point that the chair could actually break at any given moment. We greet each other quietly and quickly. It’s too hot to stop for a conversation or bargaining. The dogs stop. They smell the fried stuff.

I finally find the entrance to the small road that goes behind my bungalow. I had to go all the way around. I can hear the music again, the metallic sounds, the “out-of-control” flutes. I walk toward it. What’s the point, though? Even if I find the orchestra, I am not going to complain with them or ask them if they could play quieter. But here I am. Discovering. Following the music under the scorching sun.

Boredom is a powerful motive.

The orchestra is not really an orchestra. I count fifteen kids at max. Nobody older than eighteen for sure. They are all sitting on the ground under a blue plastic tent. I bet it’s hotter down there than being under the sun despite the shadow it provides. They do not seem to put too much commitment into it. They are playing restlessly, not caring for the “director” indications, not caring for coordination and harmony. They just play. Each one of them flows on its own. Lost and careless.

Then I see the reason. Three white men, of old age, sitting on plastic baskets. Sweating. They are simply staying there, barely covered by some tree branches, watching the kids playing and listening to their chaotic music. I bet they paid them for a show. Or maybe this simply happens every Friday. At least I think it is Friday. I should look into that. I don’t want to listen to the same metallophones next Friday.

Mystery solved. Back to the bungalow. Maybe the electricity is back.

Of course it is not.

Watching the wooden ceiling again. Sweating again. Still not able to distract myself. Again. Why is time flowing so slowly sometimes? And why is it rushing so fast, others?

I cannot help it. I think about her. Nothing was too slow with her. Every moment was so slippery. So ephemeral. Always at a good pace with her.

This is the opposite. Perennially hoping for something to happen. I came here to detach from the net and just surf. Now I would pay whatever to be “connected”. Connected to anything, really. I just want to fill my mind before it continues to get filled with something too intense for a hot day.

My friend Fer charges in. The savior 1, the door 0.

“Let’s go surf. Now.”

“What about the tide? Shouldn’t we wait like…one more hour to be safe?”

“Bro. We go now, or I pack and leave tonight.”

Remaining here alone? Horrible scenario. I cannot be alone for more than half an hour, and I cannot imagine surviving a full week alone.

“Okay.”

I’m convinced.

We grab our boards and walk toward the beach.

I cannot see the waves yet, but I can already feel the cold water on my skin. I’m good.

This article was originally published on my Substack.