Livora Gracely

The tourist had come to photograph rural Java.
Ahmad was beginning to suspect rural Java had gained weight.

The passenger introduced himself as Martin.

He had a camera around his neck, another camera in his bag, three lenses, two bottles of water, and the cheerful confidence of a man who had never had to pedal himself anywhere.

Ahmad looked at Martin.

Then at the becak.

Then briefly toward heaven.

“Rice fields?” Martin asked.

Ahmad smiled.

“Beautiful.”

This was true.

It was also downhill.

The old becak rolled happily out of the village.

Morning mist still floated above the paddies. Water between the young rice plants caught the first sunlight. In the distance, palms stood like sleepy punctuation marks.

Martin lifted his camera.

Click.

A farmer’s hut.

Click.

A scarecrow.

Click.

A buffalo.

“Wonderful!”

Ahmad nodded.

The road became flat.

His smile became smaller.

Then four ducks flew across the fields.

Martin gasped as though Indonesia had arranged this personally for him.

He twisted around.

“Ducks!”

Ahmad saw them too.

He was less impressed.

The road had begun to rise.

Martin raised his enormous lens.

Ahmad rose from the saddle.

Martin focused.

Ahmad pushed.

Click-click-click-click.

The ducks crossed a golden patch of sky.

Ahmad crossed several private boundaries of human endurance.

“Magnificent!” Martin shouted.

Ahmad could not spare the oxygen required for agreement.

The becak moved forward at approximately the speed of a thoughtful snail.

Martin changed lenses.

This somehow made the becak heavier.

At the steepest part of the road, Ahmad was standing completely on the pedals, pulling the handlebars with both arms.

Sweat ran down his face.

Martin leaned farther outward.

“Just one more!”

There are sentences that mean different things depending on who hears them.

To a photographer, just one more means a photograph.

To Ahmad, it sounded like a threat.

At last they reached the top.

Martin lowered his camera.

He looked delighted.

“I got it!”

Ahmad stopped the becak.

Martin showed him the photograph.

Four ducks, perfectly caught in flight.

Behind them: morning mist, green paddies, and a thin ribbon of sunlight touching the water.

It really was beautiful.

Ahmad stared at it for several seconds.

Then he smiled.

“Good picture.”

Martin beamed.

“Worth the climb?”

Ahmad considered the question carefully.

Then he pointed ahead.

The road went downhill for nearly two kilometers.

His smile returned immediately.

“Very worth.”

The becak began to roll.

Faster.

Then faster still.

Martin grabbed his hat.

Ahmad sat comfortably for the first time all morning.

Above them, the ducks continued flying without pedaling anything.

Show-offs.