Stuart Nettle August 28, 2009

We lurched into the bar of the hotel at Padang, glazed with the accrued sweat of three plane trips and a bustling bemo ride. In the corner of the bar an elderly gent twinkled the ivories and crooned a cover of Roberta Flack's Killing Me Softly, while in front of the piano a local lady held her baby to her breast, swayed to the music and sung the words softly in Bahasa. In the bar we met our surf guide Nick, a twenty five year Indo veteran and, as it happened, a fella that I'd spent a few weeks camping with at Scar Reef back in 1995. Back then I got the Indo bug bad and spent every winter traipsing between Timor and Panaitan Island getting my fix. The Mentawais, further to the north, were still largely unknown and the expense of exploring them was enough of a deterrent for me. But it had been ten years since I'd set foot anywhere in Indonesia. A mix of overcrowding, losing good friends in the Bali bombing and the allure of Australia's limestone coasts saw me spending my annual leave receiving desert therapy; barren barrels by day, campfires by night. However, early this year an old mate told me of a space available on a boat he'd chartered and threw it out to me: did I want to come? Thus did I find myself in the bar at Padang on the way to my first Mentawai trip with six other fellas from Cronulla listening to a nightclub singer sing a song about dying slow deaths. On the journey we'd forked out coin 'officially' for entering Indonesia, and 'unofficially' for bringing more than three boards in. Then we'd paid the bemo drivers after we'd already thought our transfers were sorted. And finally we had to pay Nick a harbour departure tax  so we dipped our hands into pockets one more time. 'Killing Me Softly' with taxes and bribes. The song became our theme and every time we had to cough up we'd start humming the tune. We laughed at the words and their new meaning and gave the tune a lot of airplay over the next two weeks. Bribery and graft: if you've spent any time in Indonesia you know how the system works. Smile and ask how much. Halve it and smile back. Shake your head politely at the counter offer. No, no , no....smile some more. Then pay. For a week we didn't have to worry about such situations. Boat trips may disconnect you from the locals but you get a hell of a lot of surfing done. Then the swell tapered off and we headed north.Waiting at the Playgrounds area for the next swell to hit we had cause to start singing our theme again. One night our boat was boarded by a couple of serious looking fellas in full military regalia followed by a young cherub who spoke English and told us that these were 'important men'. It was enough to alarm us. Our crew responded better. While hoarded together with the imposters they were pensive but without anger. They conducted the business with an acceptance of the protocol. Then the money started changing hands - lots of money. Finally our captain was taken in a boat and driven off into the darkness, not to return till 11pm. When we asked he said that every captain of a charter boat in the area was taken to a covert meeting and told how much they were going to have to pay. The next day another boat drew alongside with yet another fella wearing military clothing. We rolled our eyes and started humming, but personally the tension was starting to wear me down. Killing Me Softly... However, the visit was a short one and no money changed hands. When the officer left, our captain assured us that he was a good man. From what we could figure, and as absurd as it sounds, he was an Indonesian anti-corruption officer wanting to know who boarded the boat last night, where our captain was taken and how much money changed hands. The situation in the Mentawais, at least for the boats, is messy. The locals are now aware of their resources and exactly how much they are worth to surfers. However, due to alliances with foreign business interests the situation is far more complex than simply locals taxing the bules. It's Indonesian on Indonesian and I felt uneasy being the cause, however unwitting, of such corruption. On the ride back from the harbour to the airport we approached a muddy and narrow stretch of road. Our bemo slowed as an unkempt local fella stood on the road impeding the traffic flow. When we got nearer our driver reached into his own pocket for rupiah, wound down the window and placed the money into the mans outstretched hands. The man then stood aside to let us pass. No words were exchanged but the stranger smiled and our driver smiled back. It didn't kill him a bit.