TEXT 1: Travel Tales: Indonesia's Wild Spin on Ping-Pong

ZINIO

Travel Tales: Indonesia's Wild Spin on Ping-Pong

In the Indonesian archipelago of Mentawai, ping-pong has evolved into an odd game of reflexes
and relief. Editor Eddy Patricelli takes the challenge.

It’s a blinding series of attacks. Arms and legs whip toward me. Tiny balls ricochet off my body.
Spectators laugh with each barrage. I would duck, but there’s no hiding. The sting of an assault
burns a small circle into my chest. I pretend not to feel the welt rising above my left nipple as my
attacker gathers a small orange piece of ammunition, raises it in his cupped hand for all to see,
then crouches — his wooden racket drawn taut behind his ear as if he were steadying an arched
bow. He glances my way. “Three seero.”

At home, I love pingpong. Here in the Mentawai Islands, a tiny Indonesian archipelago, the
game confuses me. I hold a weird paddle. The mahogany table before me is covered with sand. I
want to brush it off, but the local teens here won’t let me. Even weirder, they aren’t cheering for
my opponent. They aren’t cheering for me. They seem to be cheering for the ball. Every time it
bounces they make short bursts of odd noises. All of them are smoking. It’s 7:05 a.m. 

An hour ago, shouts from these teens woke me from a bad dream. In it, a tsunami was rolling
over this low-lying island, over my beach hut and my bed with me in it. My mind is a mess. An
earthquake devastated the nearby city of Padang just days ago. Tsunami warnings have been
constant. I’m told that’s not unusual here. The region is one of the most seismically active in the
world. Now these teens have given me something else to ponder: this game. 

I look at the artwork carved directly into my ping pong paddle’s open wooden face. A question
gnaws at me: How does one hit a ping pong ball with a wooden sculpture?  

Crouch. Uncoil. Slam. “Four seero.” 

The ball is dented, more cookie jar than sphere. I hold it up to the group. “It’s broken,” I tell
them. A teen examines the ball and tosses it to my attacker, who again crouches and raises his
paddle. “Four seero.”

“Wait. What?” The teens nod for me to keep playing, to ignore the dented ball. “But … but it’s
broken.” 

“Ball better this way,” one of them says. Better?

Slam. The ball buzzes past me. “Five seero.”

The teens point behind me. I scan the sand. No ball. They shout for me to find it, but even they
don’t speak a common language. Most hail from Padang, a developed city on Sumatra. A few
were born here in the Mentawai Islands, a time capsule with its own vernacular. The only shared
aspect of the two languages has neither a past nor a future tense. It’s all right here, right now. It’s
all about the ball.

I find it 10 steps from the ping pong table. Another 10 steps would put me on Tsunami Bridge,
an escape route to the island’s highest point. Fresh sand footprints cover the bridge’s wooden
floorboards. Was there another tsunami scare? Perhaps the teens went for a hike? I look back at
them; bed hair, bloodshot eyes and cigarette smoke. Would they hike? 

I spot a different ball lying in the sand in perfect condition. “This one?” I ask, holding the new
ball high. 

“No no no,” they protest. “Other ball. Other ball.” I toss the mangled ball to my attacker. He
tosses it back to me. It’s my serve. I hold the dented ball up, raise my weird wooden paddle and
look across the sandy table. None of this makes sense. Whatever. Just swing.

Contact. The ball bounces  true. My attacker returns it. We rally. The teens shout at the ball —
wishing, willing it in some fashion with each bounce. My attacker slams a winner. The teens
sigh, clearly disappointed. 

Yesterday, a local elder told me that only a few of these teens returned to Padang to see their
families after the earthquake. “Earthquakes are part of life,” he shrugged. “They’re devastating,
but ever-present.” 

“Six seero.” My attacker wants me to serve. We rally. The teens shout at the ball, louder as the
rally builds steam.  

My attacker mis-hits. The ball rises high in the air, a lob — an easy slam for me. I turn my
shoulders, crouch and uncoil — arms and body unleashing at …

The ball bounces off its dent and darts sideways off the table. My swing parts yards of empty air.
Roars of laughter fill it. Teens fall to their knees, wipe their eyes, lean on one another for
support. Even my attacker, now lying in the sand, looks like a baby on his back, cooing at the
world above. 

Eventually, one of the teens holds the dented ball before me. “Ball better, yes?” he asks beaming.
I nod, take the dented ball and smile. To the teens, to me, nothing at this moment could be better
than an unexpected bounce that brings joy.

 Kandui Resort; 714-369-8121

info@kanduiresort.com

Adapted from the online magazine ISLANDS www.islands.com (7 February 2012)

Text Two: A Game of Polo with a Headless Goat
Emma Levine travelled throughout Asia researching and filming unusual sports. In
this passage she writes about a donkey race in Karachi.

We drove off to find the best viewing spot, which turned out to be the crest of
the hill so we could see the approaching race. I asked the lads if we could join in the
‘Wacky Races’ and follow the donkeys, and they loved the idea. ‘We'll open the car
boot, you climb inside and point your camera towards the race. As the donkeys
overtake us, we'll join the cars.’ ‘But will you try and get to the front?’ ‘Oh yes,
that’s no problem.’

The two lads who had never been interested in this Karachi sport were suddenly
fired up with enthusiasm. We waited for eternity on the brow of the hill, me perched
in the boot with a zoom lens pointing out. Nearly one hour later I was beginning to
10 feel rather silly when the only action was a villager on a wobbly bicycle, who nearly
fell off as he cycled past and gazed around at us.

Several vehicles went past, and some donkey-carts carrying spectators. ‘Are they
coming?’ we called out to them. ‘Coming, coming,’ came the reply. I was beginning
to lose faith in its happening, but the lads remained confident.

Just as I was assuming that the race had been cancelled, we spotted two
approaching donkey-carts in front of a cloud of fumes and dust created by some fifty
vehicles roaring up in their wake. As they drew nearer, Yaqoob revved up the engine
and began to inch the car out of the lay-by. The two donkeys were almost dwarfed
by their entourage; but there was no denying their speed — the Kibla donkey is said
20 to achieve speeds of up to 40 kph, and this looked close. The two were neck-and neck,
their jockeys perched on top of the tiny carts using their whips energetically,
although not cruelly.

The noise of the approaching vehicles grew; horns tooting, bells ringing, and the
special rattles used just for this purpose (like maracas, a metal container filled with
dried beans). Men standing on top of their cars and vans, hanging out of taxis and
perched on lorries, all cheered and shouted, while the vehicles jostled to get to the
front of the convoy.

Yaqoob chose exactly the right moment to edge out of the road and swerve in
front of the nearest car, finding the perfect place to see the two donkeys and at the
30 front of the vehicles. This was Formula One without rules, or a city-centre rush hour
gone anarchic; a complete flouting of every type of traffic rule and common sense.
Our young driver relished this unusual test of driving skills. It was survival of the
fittest, and depended upon the ability to cut in front of a vehicle with a sharp flick
of the steering wheel (no lane discipline here); quick reflexes to spot a gap in the
traffic for a couple of seconds; nerves of steel, and an effective horn. There were
two races — the motorized spectators at the back; in front, the two donkeys, still
running close and amazingly not put off by the uproar just behind them. Ahead of the
donkeys, oncoming traffic — for it was a main road — had to dive into the ditch and
wait there until we had passed. Yaqoob loved it. We stayed near to the front, his
40 hand permanently on the horn and his language growing more colourful with every
vehicle that tried to cut in front. …

The road straightened and levelled, and everyone picked up speed as we neared
the end of the race. But just as they were reaching the finishing line, the hospital
gate, there was a near pile-up as the leading donkey swerved, lost his footing and he
and the cart tumbled over. The race was over.

And then the trouble began. I assumed the winner was the one who completed
the race but it was not seen that way by everyone. Apart from the two jockeys and
'officials' (who, it turned out, were actually monitoring the race) there were over a
hundred punters who had all staked money on the race, and therefore had strong
50 opinions. Some were claiming that the donkey had fallen because the other one had
been ridden too close to him. Voices were raised, fists were out and tempers rising.
Everyone gathered around one jockey and official, while the bookmakers were trying
to insist that the race should be re-run.

Yaqoob and Iqbal were nervous of hanging around a volatile situation. They
agreed to find out for me what was happening ordering me to stay inside the car as
they were swallowed up by the crowd. They emerged sometime later. ‘It’s still not
resolved,’ said Iqbal, ‘but it's starting to get nasty. I think we should leave.’ As we
drove away, Yaqoob reflected on his driving skills. ‘I really enjoyed that,’ he said as
we drove off at a more sedate pace. ‘But I don't even have my licence yet because
60 I'm underage!’

They both found this hilarious, but I was glad he hadn’t told me before; an
inexperienced, underage driver causing a massive pile-up in the middle of the high stakes
donkey race could have caused problems.
Emma Levine
Text One
3 Analyse how the writer uses language and structure to interest and engage the reader.

Support your views with detailed reference to the text. (15)

Text Two

6 In this extract, the writer tries to show the excitement but also danger of the race. Evaluate
how successfully this is achieved.

Support your views with detailed reference to the text. (15)

Question 7 is about Text 1 and Text 2. Answer both parts of the question. Refer to both texts in
your answers.

Write your answer in the space provided.

7 (a) The two texts show experiences in a foreign culture.

What similarities do both writers share in these extracts?

Use evidence from both texts to support your answer. (6)

(b) Compare how the writers of Text 1 and Text 2 present their ideas and perspectives on being
in a different culture.

Support your answer with detailed references to the texts. (14)

SECTION B: Transactional Writing

Answer ONE question in this section.

You should spend 45 minutes on your chosen question.

EITHER

8 ‘Embracing other cultures and their differences is the only way you can enjoy your holiday or
time abroad.’

Write an article for a travel magazine giving your views on this statement.

Your article may include:

• how one may embrace other cultures and their differences

• the benefits of travelling or living abroad

• your own experiences in other cultures

as well as any other ideas you might have.

Your response will be marked for the accurate and appropriate use of vocabulary, spelling,
punctuation and grammar.

(Total for Question 8 = 40 marks)

OR

9 ‘Sports should not involve animals as it promotes animal cruelty.’

You have been asked to give a persuasive speech in which you express your views on this
statement.

Your speech may include:

• examples of sports that involve animals

• the issue of animal cruelty

• reasons why people involve animals in sporting events

as well as any other ideas you might have.

Your response will be marked for the accurate and appropriate use of vocabulary, spelling,
punctuation and grammar.
(Total for Question 9 = 40 marks)