(eighth in a series of ten)
Any hotel in Sumatra that intends to survive must make a friend in the police force. “We’re lucky here,” the proprietress said. “Our policeman is first-rate. Anytime we have a problem, we just call him, and the problem disappears.”
I resolved to never be a problem.
Certainly he was an impressive man: the largest Indonesian I had ever seen. Tall and broad-shouldered, his muscles stretched his uniform and his black boots gleamed.
This is not (just) a fantasy. This is an actual policeman.
Most afternoons he stood, diligent and alert, on the edge of the street directly in front of the hotel.
He was a stickler for safety, our policeman. He pulled over anyone riding a motorbike without a helmet, or riding more than two to a bike. (There were often as many as four people on a bike. People had seen as many six. He could fine them all.)
When he’d collected sufficient fines he came into the bar and drank. The girls arrived soon after. They drank with him and laughed and excuse themselves, now and then, to go and puke.
What extraordinary boots he had, our policeman. They nearly reached his knees. He must have loved them as much as I did. Any time I saw him they were gleaming black, immaculate.
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