We are fine, in case you’re wondering. The big ‘quakes were well to the south. Hayley said she felt a little sway during the first one. I haven’t heard if there were any big surges at the coast, after a small 1-meter tsunami hit Padang. There is more info about the tectonics along the Sumatran fault here. The geologists had recently predicted a big one would hit around Padang, for what it’s worth.
Oakley

Ramdan, the Islamic month of fasting and prayer, will begin any day now. It opens with the sighting of a new cresent moon in the 9th lunar month, an event we are on the cusp of. Anticipation’s in the air. Already, some kids have been out of school and scooting around on their motor bikes with a little extra rambunctiousness. They’re throwing firecrakers out side on the lane at night.We’ve been told to expect loudly broadcast prayers around the clock and scant food  during the day — most of the grocery stores close up. Even the cigarette companies get in on the holiday. In the banner above, from tobacco company Clas Mild wishes everybody a happy “month of fasting and devotion” (Ibadah Puasa ). It hangs across one of the mosques under construction in Banda. Be not shocked: If Islam is the national religion, smoking is the national pastime. No word yet whether cigarettes sales are up during the month, as folks try to supress hunger.

Stocking food,

Oakley

It’s rare I miss a Wednesday or Friday afternoon here on the court at Komplek P.U., where a group of civil servants plays some up-tempo doubles. I come for a sweat, to practice Bahasa Indonesia, to hear snippets of the guys’ lives and —for an hour or two — to slip out of the strange skin I appear to wear most other times when I’m in a group of Indonesians. Jolly Mr. Tam, the small guy on the far left, works in the city’s water and sanitation department during the day and teaches tennis lessons in the evenings when he’s not playing. He lives just across a narrow lane from the court and he’s adding on to his little house to accomodate an in-law. Mr. Jainun, in the far court on the left, has a little wobbly boy toddler he brings around sometimes. Mr. Anh, who you can’t see, is losing a battle to a cataract in his right eye. He always wants to try out his English. His son, Iksan, is a young policeman with a big forehand who stops to play when the competition looks good. He carries a picture of his lithe new wife in his wallet.

Round and round we go on the court for 6-game sets, sweating more than a set dictates, then sitting and waiting on the aging stadium benches, sucking down water, trying to produce some new Bahasa words and remember the names of Hollywood movies I saw 6 months ago. If I’m lucky, I get a second set. The mosque at the back is mostly an ornate back drop. One can apparently still swear “Allah!” and get away with it. But just before the prayer call at 7, when the old men in their sarongs and pointed felt caps stare silently out from the praying area, we must pack it up. I shuffle out onto the lane, wave good-bye to Tam’s family sitting in his postage stamp yard, a few trees around them leveled for the addition. Sampai Jumpa. They laugh, with me. See you next time.

Oakley