Intrepid golfers try to revive a course destroyed in the Indonesian tsunami
They've hewn a makeshift pitch-and-putt out of the detritus near Banda Aceh to affirm a former way of life not yet buried.
from the December 26, 2007 edition
Page 3 of 3
The group returned to reclaim the land in the summer of 2006, steadily clearing debris, installing a few short holes, trying to bring order. Rustam Effendi, Seulawah's round, lively caddy captain, led the construction of a plywood shack to serve as the clubhouse. They dug a pit toilet.
In October of this year, they began asking the equivalent of 50 cents a day for greens fees. The guys willingly pay, the money trickling in from all sorts of places – one man is selling fish from the rejuvenated local fleet, another is cooking at a noodle shop, Jumarlin occasionally supplies construction materials to local rebuilding projects. Mr. Effendi turns some of the collected money over to the unemployed caddies, who slash weeds and pick up trash.
Every time I return something new is added – fresh white flags on the pins, painted tee markers, a chart announcing holes-in-one. A few members come back to play and take lessons from Jamil. "It's no good," he says of the living, which he's trying to stretch to support his wife and kids, all of whom survived the tsunami.
The other guys, working casually or not, return faithfully for the daily 4 p.m. money rounds. But I begin to wonder if, in placing their 50,000 rupiah bets, they are raising the stakes too high. What if the course doesn't work out? They worry, as well. "I stay awake at night thinking about this place, hoping somebody can help us," says Jajak, a 48-year-old caddy.
In most imaginations, somebody always does. Again and again, it's Tiger Woods. "Aaamerika!" Jumarlin likes to say, to accentuate the thought.
One afternoon, I play with Jumarlin, Jamil, and seven others into lengthening shadows, towards a newly cut fourth green. Behind the hole, 50 cattle take cover in the cool of a few pines. All of us find our balls under twigs or wildflowers, or, in my case, against half of a coconut shell.
Samsul Rizal, an aid agency security guard, is farthest from the hole and hunches down to play. That's when a small, wrinkled man comes riding through on a black bicycle, looking for livestock fodder. Mr. Rizal steps back from his ball and waves. Everyone pauses to watch the man strain on his pedals as he skirts the green. The sunlight streams between the tree trunks, the ocean washes lightly. I get a sense they are willing to wait here, as long as it takes.
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