I was the only guest that night.
But my broken Indonesian was paying dividends—I'd befriended the teenage homestay employee.
"Wanna watch a soccer game?", he grinned.
Well, I never say no on vacation.
I hopped on the back of his rickety motorbike and we zipped down dirt roads towards the field.
It was packed. No bleachers. No tickets. Just locals sitting in the dirt, hanging out, chain-smoking. And I was the only tourist.
It was the shittiest soccer match I'd ever seen. These men were out of shape, sluggish, and a little clumsy.
But I didn't care.
They played with heart. The crowd was rowdy—shouting, booing, cheering, laughing.
Sitting there beside my new teenage friend, in the jungle, my ass in the dirt—I somehow felt like I belonged.