The space elevator had always called to me. They called it “LASK”, the Indonesians. The space elevator. It was begun a generation before—my grandfather might have watched the project begin, my father spent his whole life watching them build. I remember the final connection. They had built up, as high as something could physically stand on its own; they had built down, spooling the carbon nano-tube cables as big as sky scrapers, from orbit. All that was left was to connect the two pieces.
It was a harrowing event. I remember watching it on TV. There were lots of risks. But it worked. People cheered. I cheered.
The space elevator always called to me. It was like a lamp, and I was a witless moth—all I knew was that I had to go.
My mother didn’t understand when I told her—her eyes wet with tears, as I tried to explain—this was the future. This was where I could support our family, after dad died.
And, rather unceremoniously, I went.
Flying into the airport in Cengkareng, as they wouldn’t let me fly directly into Sunda Kelapa, I watched the elevator for as long as I could. It was a straight line, jutting violently into the stars, into the abyss. Then I was brought back to earth: customs and immigration.
The next hours and days were a whirlwind. My visa had been approved before I arrived, but the scrutiny on arrival was alarming. I found myself doubting whether I really did have my documents in order. They were concerned, alarmed. Suspicious. But they let me through, eventually.
I didn’t know a lick of the Indonesian language, I had not arranged a place to live for myself. I had all my savings with me, and I booked a cheap hotel for a week while I tried to get both a job—any job—and a place to live. I learned two words, quickly:
Sakti—this is what they called the spacers, those proud, magnificent souls who got to traverse the stars. I learned this quickly—it’s all anyone would talk about. “Lu mau jadi Sakti? Gimana? Gak banyak orang jadi Sakti akhir-akhir ini.” One shop keeper scolded me, when I shared my ambition. “Lu pikir lu bisa menangani Aceh Baru? Aceh Tua aja gak bisa!” he laughed.1
This is where I learned the second word, that would come to be very important.
“You’re just a bule.”
Just a bule.
When I found myself in the Little America district of Jakarta, I learned that we all were just that. Bule.
I’d never loved and hated a word so much in my life. I loved it—because I was here, I was in it, I was learning to live here; I hated it—because it presented the first obstacle to climbing the LASK to get to the stars, and becoming a Sakti myself.
“You want to be a Sakti? How? Not many Sakti lately. You think you can handle New Aceh? Even Old Aceh you can’t!”
Glad you finally kicked this into gear. Hoping for a possible Peter Flannery and Randy Sanderson crossover, but I'm getting ahead of myself, lol.