Kiefer Sutherland, The Rolling Stones, & Central Java

It’s the little things…

1. I have three open cuts on the crown of my head that get reopened every 2-3 days. Why? I’m 6’1’’ in a country built for 5’8’’. I’m learning, yet the curve has been painful…literally.
2. Potato chips. I love them. I eat them. I consider myself somewhat of a potato chip conosour. I do not support however Lays decision to introduce the “salmon flavored” potato chip. It’s just weird. Weird and disappointing. Especially when its 2am, you’ve had a few pints, you’re hungry and you grab what you think is a plain bag of chips from the market…open bag…insert chip into mouth…and…wtf???
3. Bus toilets. Just an open hole in the floor to the street.
4. Cost of petrol. To fill up a motorbike: $1.00usd. Range: 100miles. How can those economics work?
5. Cash registers. Frankly they don’t exist. Not in upscale clothing stores, supermarkets, petrol stations, etc. There is simply a drawer. An unlocked drawer. An unlocked drawer that houses a disheveled stack of rupiah. Does anyone steal in this country?
6. Garuda. It’s a company. Or a corporation. Or a monopoly. Or an empire. Or something. All I know is I flew Garuda Airlines from Lombok to Bali. I ate a bag of “Leo” chips produced by…Garuda. I danced at a club last night in a hotel named…Garuda. I’ll get to the bottom of this.
7. Pride. It may be premature to make generalizations about the Indonesian people as I’ve only explored a limited part of this great country thus far, but from what I’ve witnessed Indonesians are an incredibly industrious people and take great pride in the little things. They wake up every morning around 6am. Not because the commute requires it, but because the dirt street in front of their home, business, stall needs…sweeping. They sweep the dirt and make sure that what they have (which isn’t anything by western standards) is neat, clean, and meticulous. Lawns and gardens are manicured with the utmost attention to detail. Granted those lawns may be 10 square feet and surrounded by what we would consider blight on either side, but to the owner of that patch of grass appearance and upkeep are paramount in the daily routine.
8. No smile given has not been returned.
9. I haven’t once felt I’ve gotten the ‘tourist markup’ on street food.  I’m sure I have, but when you buy a meal on the street…and all eyes suddenly fix on you…and the locals begin giddily talking amongst themselves…you just know they could charge you 10x the local rate and you’re going to pay whatever they quote. Why? Cuz I’m the guy who sticks out like a sore thumb. And guys that stick out like sore thumbs don’t haggle over street food prices (you haggle over the purchase of material objects…sunglasses, paintings, children, etc). But after they take extra special care in preparing your lunch, hand it to you, and say “$3,000 rupiah” ($0.30uds)…you feel comforted that these people are truly honest and consistent and not in the business of ripping off the Yankee tourist.
10. Street nudity. Sitting shotgun and watching the world pass by on the way to Rinjani, a man in his mid-30s stands absolutely naked (no shoes) on the side of the road. He looks at me as I pass him by at 80kph and doesn’t move. Just hanging out. Because that’s normal for a 10am on a Monday morning.

Friday October 2^nd: The Day Things Really Begin.

Fitz, feeling under the weather and not too jazzed about the idea of Java and earthquake-prone Sumatra, decides to stay in Bali until meeting friends in Singapore on October 16^th. I, feeling fine and ready to see Indonesia, book the bus from Denpasar, Bali to Yogyakarta, Java. I spend the morning on the internet and packing the bag. At 2pm I get a lift, for $3usd, on a bike up to Ubung terminal. I arrive, find my bus, and set in for the long haul. Bus leaves at 3:20pm. It’s not crowded but the guy across the aisle has a puppy in a cardboard box. The bus: a Greyhound-style western bus except the seats went way the hell back. Not to mention the whole leg-rest thing in front of you. It was like flying business class…except you’re in a bus…and there is a puppy in a box across from you. But just like business class. And what does that mean? It means you can actually sleep on the third world red-eye bus.

All is well as I’ve got two seats to myself and am very content watching the Bali landscape fly by out the window when suddenly…

The TV comes alive. Feature film: “War Without End.” http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0386863/

The most obscure and worst acted war movie ever produced. And who thought that would be a good idea to pop in the box? Good news the DVD dies after 30 minutes. Bad news it goes from bad to worse. Next up in business class: Indonesian karaoke love songs. Honestly. The words to the songs appear on the screen as a random Indo couple suggestively chase one another around a pool. I tune it out.

Three hours later we pull into the port town of Gilimanuk on the western tip of Bali. Across the water is Java. The bus stops. The driver says something I don’t understand. No one speaks English. About two-thirds of the passengers get off. Having no clue what’s going on other than a belief that this bus is in fact going to Yogyakarta, I decide not to disembark. What proceeds next is not good. The bus turns around and they back the bus down a ramp and onto the ferry. All is well. The ferry is wide enough to handle three buses of this size across its width (3, 2, 1 across). Our bus is the first one on and gets ‘parked’ in slot 1. All is well. Then another bus gets parked next to us (in slot 2). I’m sitting in my seat glued to the window marveling at this parking job. The bus stops and it dawns on me that it’s so close (literally 12” away…no exaggeration) that our two exits are now completely blocked…and useless. All is not well. At this same time another bus backs in front of us. We’re now completely walled in. Ocean to the right. Ocean to the rear. Bus to the left. Bus to the front. It’s now dark outside. It’s dark inside. The drivers are smoking cigarettes and talking quickly. Suddenly a chemical reaction starts to take place inside my body the likes of which I’d never experienced before. The likes of which I can’t control. It’s a reaction I hope I never feel again. I realize for the first time in my life I’m having a claustrophobia-induced panic. My heart starts racing. My fingers start to tingle. My legs are going numb. What is happening? It’s the realization that suddenly I can’t get off this bus even if I want to. Even if I started yelling at the drivers there is no way for them to move the bus in front of us. I start to freak out. Quietly freak out. I start looking for blunt objects to use to break the glass incase this ferry sinks. I’m caged. My mind is racing. Pulse is quickening. Things are getting worse. I’m really starting to panic.

It’s a very strange thing. I’ve never had an issue being stuffed in the window seat for 5 hours crossing America from 30,000 feet. But now, for the first time, I can understand how people have trouble with airplanes.

I stand up and walk to the bathroom. I look in the mirror and tell myself that getting worked up will only worsen the problem. Control your body. Control your heart rate. This is a mind over matter problem, and the solution is upstairs. At the same time this is a physical problem that can only be resolved with the passage of time. One hour to be exact… when they ‘unlock’ me in Java. I go back to my seat and immediately open Blind Side. I COMPLETELY immerse myself in Michael Lewis’ description of an interview the NCAA conducts with Michael Oher. Word for word. Line for line. I’m focused. Anything to get my mind off my situation. The ferry departs. I cool down. The ferry arrives. I’m cool. The bus disembarks. I can breathe again. Lesson learned? You bet. I fall asleep.

At 11pm I’m awakened by the driver handing me a red ticket. Everyone else is getting off. The bus is stopped. I think we’re meant to feed. I step from the bus and into the night. This is Java. I follow the crowd. First to the bathroom. Then to a large hall. I’m groggy from the 2 hour sleep, but this is not the time for reinvention. I follow the pack. I exchange the red ticket, pick up a plate, and spoon rice and something else onto my plate. I grab a tea and find a seat. Few things are setting in now.

A). Having been asleep since we landed on Java I have NO idea where we are. None.

B). I’m at least 6” and 30 pounds larger than everyone else in the room. 5 rows by 5 columns of tables,  4 people to a table– I’m the only white person in a packed bus stop dining hall at 11pm in no-where Java on a Monday night. Bus stops are sketchy in America. Bus stops are sketchy in Indonesia. Amen to consistency. Not the time to break out a camera, but totally the time to break out a camera…but not this time will I break out the camera.

We re-board and business class takes off into the night. We roll into Yogyakarta at 8am. Long distance transit while backpacking is a curious and great thing. There are two consistent emotions I’ve found: excitement & apprehension. When you take off, or pull out, or sail away…you’re excited for all you’ll see during the ride. Excited to read. Excited to write. Excited to reflect. When you land, or pull in, or sail in…you’re apprehensive about a million things. How will I get from the station to the city? What if there are no taxis? How far would it be to walk? What if the people are hostile? What if the hostels are booked full? How long will it rain? The arrival produces a lot of ‘what if’s’. I’ve got a few of those rolling into Yogi…

After five minutes the ‘what if’s’ find me on the back of a motorbike heading across town to the Sosrowijayan district. The lift costs me $3usd. I find a great room (on the ground floor of a one story building, mind you) for ten bucks.

Yogyakarta (pronounced JOE-JA-karta) is the central of political and intellectual thought in Java. It’s a university town of about half a million. It’s clean and organized and young. The main drag is bursting with street activity on this Saturday morning. Showered and clean I take the alley from my place out into the morning sun. People everywhere. Bikes everywhere. Commerce everywhere. As it’s a university town I now feel like I’ve now got 10” and 45lbs on the tiny youth teeming everywhere.

I buy a pair of new shades for $2usd and park it. Within minutes a group of six 14-year olds timidly approach me. The shy female leader of the pack laughs and asks very slowly “May I ask you questions?” To which I reply by standing up, putting my hands over my head like a bear, growl, and yell “BEAT IT!” ~OK they didn’t happen.~ All they want to do is practice their English and so we do for the next 10 minutes while one of them holds a camera phone up and tapes everything I say. 60% of the Indonesian population is under the age of 35 (or so I was told by Kiefer Sutherland). The youth is learning English everywhere. It’s like the group of four boys who swam up to me in the water off Gili Trawangan and asked to practice their English. They’re just curious and want to learn, so I speak slowly and incorporate a great deal of hand gesturing. But you can’t help but laugh when they ask something like “How is your life?” How do you answer that? Um, good. “Why is life good?” Um, well…

I’ve often said while traveling in this nature that ‘you can’t make a wrong turn.’ Figuratively speaking of course. What I mean is that whatever ‘turn’ you inevitably make will lead you to something or someone new, something or someone intriguing, and something or someone you’ve never seen or met before. When it’s ALL new to you it really doesn’t matter which exit you take, cuz all exits lead to the same discovery. That said some turns are better than others. I made a good turn last night about 8pm. Having wandered the street life after dark for long enough I was in need of a tall, cold Bintang. A sign for a billiards hall caught my eye on a passing street…so I make a turn. The hall is closed but the bar next store is open. I walk towards the window and come across a Dutch guy having a beer at a table by himself. If he wasn’t a spitting image of Kiefer Sutherland, my name isn’t Tony Almeida. I sit down and we shoot the breeze. Two tall Bintangs later we decide to change venue. Kiefer Sutherland and I head back to the backpacker ‘hood and into a bar called…Bintang…where we proceed to order…Bintang. We saddle up to two Dutch girls I’d met earlier that day. We’re seated right next to a small outdoor stage where a few people are setting up a drum set. Little do we know at the time that we’d just taken front row seats to the Rolling Stones.

About 4 tall Bintangs later, Bintang is packed. Standing room only, yet I’m seated with two attractive Dutch nurses and Kiefer Sutherland. And out walks a tight-leather-pants-wearing, long-hair-waving, Indonesian knock-off of Mick Jagger. Lead guitarist (Keith Richards) looks like a dead ringer for strong safety Troy Polamalu. Ronny Woods is EXTREMELY talented on backup guitar, and Charlie Watts is (predictably) shy in the back. No exaggeration: these guys rocked. The playlist:

• Only Rock ‘n Roll
• Angie
• Start Me Up
• (some Chuck Berry song)
• Like a Rolling Stone
• Beast of Burden
• Sympathy for the Devil (at my request to Mick during a break)
• Foxy Lady (splash in a little Hendrix)
• Let It Roll (The Doors)
• Get Your Kicks on Route 66
• Sweet Child of Mine (the place was rocking)
• Satisfaction

The place closes at midnight and the owner, who’d taken a liking to us, takes us to the club at the Garuda Hotel. Cover charge is waved and we hit the dance floor. And I’m faintly confident it was the first time (in the history of Indonesia) that someone has put a beer bottle on the floor, made a circle around it, and hopped around it for 20 seconds (i.e. every wedding dance floor I’ve ever been on). I bore and go home.

Java: It’s more than just coffee.