Minibus Madness (part 1)
KUTA, BALI
FEBRUARY 19-20
Kuta was not the ideal place for a holiday. Once the luxuriousness of air-conditioning and idyllic restaurant gardens wore off, I started to get annoyed by the constant Balinese refrain-- "hellotransport?" Or "whereareyoufromcomevisitmyshop." It took me a while to realize that my response of "New York City" marked me as a tourist with money. I needed to start saying "Russia" or at least "New Zealand."
Pedangbai, Bali
I spent a day and a half in commercial Kuta, which featured touts, motorbikes, Prada boutiques and Billabong surf shops. In short, it was annoying.
KUTA TO SUMBAWA BESAR
FEBRUARY 21
The day began badly. My Perama tourist minibus to Lombok left at six a.m. and I almost missed it. There had been no touts whispering "hellotransport" when I'd left my hotel, so I'd hoofed it across town to Perama. I showed up, stinking and sweating from the exertion of carrying my pack, just as the bus was closing its doors.
The minibus was rickety, small, and stuffed with backpackers and their unwieldy surfboards. It took three hours to get to the Lombok ferry, where I made a novice traveler's mistake.
A young Balinese man picked up my backpack and started walking towards the ferry.
"How much?" I asked, naively thinking that I could let him carry my bag, tip him, and contribute to the local economy.
"As you wish."
Everything is dirt cheap in Indonesia, so I said okay and off we went.
A porter would get a dollar or two for such a distance in the States, and a thousand rupiah in Indonesia. The four hour ferry ride cost only 9,500 rupiah, to put it in perspective. I checked my pockets for small change, located 5,000 rupiah and agreed.
I started to get nervous as five men carried my bag, trading it off like it was a relay. They made a big show of huffing and puffing-- they were working very hard!
We got to the ferry and they sat my bag down inside, where the videos blared at top volume. No matter, I'd move it in a minute. As I'd demonstrated this morning, I was perfectly capable of carrying my own monster pack.
I handed them the 5,000 rupiah note. They balked and feigned disgust.
"Five dollars," said one.
I laughed. "No way."
They weren't laughing back. In fact, they were suddenly hostile. I started to argue pleasantly.
"Five dollars is a fortune! I can carry my own bag," I said.
"Then why didn't you?" growled a porter.
I glared at him. They'd kidnapped my pack.
"No. Five dollars is too much," I said, stooping to lift up my bag and walk away. The biggest of them forced the bag down and looked menacingly at me.
Mistake #2, usually made by novices but occasionally inexplicably made by experienced travelers who forget where they are. I should've said, "fine, let's take this to the police." Instead, I lost my temper.
Losing your temper gets you nowhere in Asia. It usually mystifies and embarrasses Asians. But these Balinese were atypical and well-versed in temper-losing. They were just aggressive and hostile right back to me.
"Give us five dollars," said one, no evidence of good humor on his face.
"No. You said I could pay as I wish and I am NOT giving you five dollars."
It took out a 20,000 rupiah note-- WAY more than they deserved or would normally get-- and threw it down.
"That's all you're getting. Take it or leave it. I don't care."
They scarfed it up quickly-- a bit too quickly considering their claims of its worthlessness.
I carried my own pack away from the screeching videos and sat on the deck, ashamed under my sunglasses. I'd behaved like I'd just left the farm.
The ferry to Lombok took three hours, and another hour was spent turning in slow circles in Lombok harbor.
"This always happens," said the German guy sitting next to me. He had been talking to me on and off and had called my attention to porpoises that had been following the boat.
Finally, the ferry docked and us tourists waded through the touts to the Perama minibus.
We drove to Mataram, where I was left sitting by the side of the road. I planned to take the public bus across the island to the Labuhan Lombok ferry.
A taxi stopped.
"Where are you going, Missus?" asked the driver.
"Mandalika Bis terminal," I responded.
"Labuhan Lombok?" he asked. "I go-- only 70,000 rupiah."
I laughed and refused, but he came down on the price and in a minute, I was traveling in air conditioned style across the island. An hour and a half for $6.50 seemed fair enough. Except that I was starving and couldn't convey that I wanted to get some takeout.
We passed a McDonald's.
"Look, McDonald's!" I said. "Eat?"
He nodded cheerfully. Yes, there was a McDonald's on Lombok.
We were clearly having language problems. I tried a new tact, rubbing my stomach and smacking my lips.
"Gado-gado. Nasi goreng. Mie goreng," I reeled off the names of Indonesian foods I knew.
He smiled some more. How cute, the little foreigner is practicing her Indonesian.
I tore through my Lonely Planet glossary looking for the food section.
"Saya mau makan!" I read triumphantly. "I want to eat."
"Ahhh," said the driver. He took me to a friend's roadside stand, which I christened the "Cholera Express" in my head. I didn't want to be rude, so I ate the rice, chiles, peanut sauce, veggies, and beef (I think) concoction that had been placed in front of me.
The food was tasty. I ate quickly and we headed off to Labuhan Lombok.
The landscape was still green like on Bali, but Lombok was drier. There were fewer tourists, and consequently fewer touts and trinkets. Horse-drawn carriages competed for fares with the local bemos, motorbikes, and taxis. I fell asleep and woke up on the other side of the island.
The ferry to Sumbawa was decrepit, and I was one of two westerners on board. The other was a businessman from Jakarta, off to a mining site. He warned me to get to the city of Sumbawa Besar ASAP. There had been "incidents" recently. Fresh off the Dili trail, I was exasperated. I'd had enough incidents.
Two hours later, it was dark and the ferry was running behind schedule. There were no lights ahead at the Sumbawa ferry terminal. The young Indonesian next to me had been friendly, so I asked him a question.
"Are there buses to Sumbawa Besar?"
He looked doubtful. "At night, no. You must go to the police for information."
I'd really stuffed it up this time, hadn't I? According to Lonely Planet, there wasn't even a hotel in the port. And I had a line on a fantastic guesthouse back in Lombok near the ferry, in the village of Aik Manis. I had bypassed it in my enthusiasm to make time. Perhaps I could take the ferry back.
The ferry docked and I followed the masses off. There were no waiting buses or lights. Then some lights came on behind me. There were buses! But they had been ON the ferry with me, and were disembarking.
I was considering throwing myself in front of a bus to stop it, when one pulled up next to me.
"Where, Missus?" asked the driver.
"Sumbawa Besar," I responded.
He motioned me on. There was a grand to-do as four teenage boys marched me to the door. I confirmed my destination again with the conductor, and was installed on the back sear, next to a man and his "ayam," or chicken.
The bus was luxurious by Indonesian standards, and looked just like a Greyhound at home. The video layer was thankfully off. I seemed to be the only female passenger in addition to being the sole westerner.
The conductor relieved me of $2.10 and tried to convince me to continue on to Bima. They'd be there at six a.m. But I'd had a long day, and wanted to sleep in a bed, not in a seat.
When we stopped at a rest stop for another cholera feast, two hip young women approached me. There were women on the bus-- but they all rode in the front.
"Hello," said one, sticking out her hand. "Nice to meet you."
The two looked almost exactly like college students in the States. They wore low-cut baggy trousers, babydoll t-shirts, and floppy hats, but they had no piercings, tattoos, or exposed tummies. They asked me to sit with them for dinner, where I had more spicy food. I was playing with fire-- my system can't handle all those chilis, and reminded me of this much later in the hotel room.
Finally, we stopped in a small city. Everyone turned around and looked at me. One young man who had tormented me by practicing English with me while I wanted to sleep, hissed "Mar-ee, your stop." I got off the bus at 11:30, in the town of Sumbawa Besar. It was raining.
Motorcycle taxis awaited me. Useless, with my backpack. I'd also spent the last of my small change and only had 50,000 rupiah notes-- only $5.32 but it's the Indonesian equivalent of carrying around a fifty dollar bill.
"Hotel Tambora?" asked a motorcycle driver.
"Yes," I said. The guidebook recommended Hotel Tambora. "But I have no small money."
The drivers all laughed. One of them pointed up, into the rain, at a dark sign. The bus driver had dropped me off in front of the hotel.
NEXT: Minibus Madness (pt. 2)
