As I headed out for the night on Gili Trawangan, I became aware of the Silk Spider watching me, waiting for me to make one fatal mistake before trapping me in its web.
The spider had remained stationary since my arrival ten days earlier on Indonesia’s notorious drink-diving island. The only evidence of the spider’s sentient existence was the softly pulsating mark on its back and the ever-expanding web the beast weaved.
Strolling down the dusty strip constituting the island’s main drag, I kept an eye out for any passing cidoma. The horse-drawn carriages became a familiar sight as they ferried people towards the distant morass of light and sound at the heart of the island’s nightlife. To me, they seemed like ancient haunted carriages. Their empty frames clunked over the sands and stone, appearing one second and storming into the ether the next. Theirs was an endless cycle, an infinite loop of Trawangan’s highway and byway.
The guesthouse owner I’d befriended earlier called me over to one of the beach’s gazebos. There, he, his friends and a bottle of arak (rice wine) awaited. Introductions made, we jumped to the business at hand: ceremonial shots of arak to celebrate the lethality of arak.
Island Living
Before we knew it, a few hours had passed; the day had faded into night as the moon shimmered and dissipated on the sea’s surface. The stars were out in force over neighbouring Lombok, the colossal grandeur of Mount Rinjani forming an abstract silhouette against the night sky. The night sky had taken on a silken, green hue that seemed to undulate and throb peacefully. All felt good on Gili Trawangan. I imagined sliding peacefully into a silken cocoon.
The conversation flowed as well as the arak, or perhaps because of it. My friend explained the subtlety of the island’s delicate ecosystem: the erosion of the coral due to destructive fishing practices and how the divers’ reef tax counters the growing rubbish problem. Even the paradise of Gili Trawangan has its price, or so I gleaned.
Read More: North Sulawesi: Highlights From the Highlands.
Perhaps inevitably, the issue of money reared its ugly head.
‘Surely,’ I ventured, lapsing into excellent pidgin, ‘you must be loaded. I see many people arrive every day, and they must bring money to the island.’
My companions took on a subtly conspiratorial air. They explained the process of sharing money on the island. It sounded like a most unequal affair. The secret cabal behind the scenes seemed to pocket the lot, leaving everyone else to fight over scraps.
Worlds Collide
Ferdinan, the quietest of the trio, piped up and encapsulated the deep-rooted divide on the island. ‘Sometimes the businessmen, they come to the island. They spend time with me and give me money. Sometimes I’m the man, and sometimes I’m the woman.’
He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. The far-off bass thump continued.
I walked back to my lodgings later that night, lost in a reverie. In most other circumstances, Ferdinan’s statement would provoke outrage at the injustice of a situation that left the rich richer and the poor to fend for themselves. It was grossly unfair.
And yet, confronted by such an unpleasant home truth, I felt no surprise. My time spent in Indonesia showed similarly innate issues of corruption and economic disparity. Depressingly, I had no idea about how to resolve it.
As I headed toward my bungalow, begging pardon and weaving between a herd of cows that appeared from nowhere, I spied the Silk Spider. It had seemingly failed to move, but its web had grown infinitely larger.
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