Having spent the past week and a half jumping from tiny town to tiny town, Ian and I were hoping for something a little bigger in Kupang. We didn't get it. Kupang, the largest city in West Timor (i.e. the part of the island of Timor that still belongs to Indonesia), turned out to be a slightly more sprawling version of the Flores towns with which we had become so familiar. Internet was still painfully slow, entertainment was still nonexistent, and the most common form of restaurant still involved a glass case filled with unidentified objects that had been cooked anywhere from two hours to two weeks ago. But I'm getting ahead of myself: the first couple hours in Kupang involved a hasty and desperate search to secure transportation for the next few days, and during those hours we thought nothing of internet, entertainment, or food.
Although we had researched flights to and from Timor-Leste (as East Timor is officially known) online, it was still totally unclear which flights were still running and which were suspended indefinitely. Apparently Kakoak Airlines (Timor-Leste's first commercial airline) and Merpati had both flown from Dili to Kupang at one point, but we weren't able to ascertain whether these flights were still operating; as a result, we didn't know which day to book our flight from Kupang back to Surabaya (Java)-- we'd need a later flight if we took a bus rather than a plane back from Dili.
Our schedule was complicated by the fact that Indonesian visas were available on arrival only at Kupang airport-- not at the border crossing between Timor-Leste and West Timor. As a result, if we couldn't catch a flight from Dili to Kupang, we'd have to get new Indonesian visas in Dili before we could return to Indonesia, and those visas (somehow) took four days to process. Complicated, yes, but the gist of all this is that we would be forced to stay in Dili longer if we couldn't catch a flight out, and that would subsequently delay our flight out of Kupang. But we needed to book our tickets out of Kupang while we were physically in Kupang (because there's no such thing as online booking on Indonesian airlines), and given that we were planning to leave at 6am the following morning for Dili, that meant we had to book our tickets out of Kupang the night of our arrival. And that gave us two hours from the time our plane touched down on the runway; that is, assuming these airline offices actually closed at the prescribed times.
We pushed our way off the plane and into Kupang airport and immediately began asking about flights from Dili to Kupang. Despite the fact that I was speaking Indonesian, no one seemed to be able to answer my question. In the end, I realized that this was because there were no flights from Dili to Kupang, and there hadn't been for so long that "Dili" was simply not a word in the airline employees' vocabularies.
Satisfied that we had finally established our method of transport to and from Dili (bus), we jumped in a taxi and headed for the Transnusa Airlines ticket office, where we needed to book our flight from Kupang to Surabaya. As luck would have it, the office was still open, and we booked our flight for the following Saturday, assuming that we'd arrive in Dili the following night (Sunday), submit our Indonesian visa applications on Monday morning, and pick them up on Thursday evening in time for a bus back to Kupang on Friday. It was to be a whirlwind of a few days, and we wondered if our short visit to Timor-Leste would end up being worth all this hassle, but given that we were so close to the war-torn (and, more recently, attempted assassination-torn) country, we couldn't bear not to at least survey it for a few days.
The final piece of the puzzle was our bus to Dili the following morning; I called the company that ran the minibus, Timor Travel, and, in my best Indonesian, reserved two seats. We were to wait for the minibus outside our hotel at 5am the next morning; the only problem was that we didn't yet know in which hotel we were staying. I promised to call back as soon as we had checked in somewhere.
We found a hotel, and I asked the manager to call and confirm our reservation with the bus company, just to be sure that there was no misunderstanding: we desperately needed to get to Dili by Sunday evening, or our Indonesian visas wouldn't be ready for pickup in time for us to make our flight out of Kupang on Saturday morning. But when the manager called, the bus company told him that they were very sorry but they had made a mistake-- there was only one seat available for the next morning's bus. We froze as the manager conveyed the information to us: what were we to do now? I suggested that one of us sit in the aisle, but the manager didn't understand what I meant. Now we were getting desperate. The company told us we could have two seats on Monday morning's bus, but that did us no good-- we needed to arrive on Sunday evening. We pleaded with our hotel manager, and he pleaded with the company, but to no avail; apparently, we were in serious trouble. Then, just as the manager was about to hang up the phone, the man on the other end of the line miraculously said that he now had two seats for the following morning. I had no idea what had changed in those five minutes, and I didn't care-- I told the manager to say "terima kasih" and hang up the phone immediately. Whew.
The next morning we rose at 4:30am to find our breakfast, just served, waiting for us on the porch. For a $4/night hotel, this place had fine service. We scarfed down the food and walked out to the street to wait for our bus, but at 5:15 it was still nowhere to be found. At 5:30 we began to worry, and at 6:00 we were miserable. After the previous night's drama they had forgotten to pick us up?
At 6:15 I finally got through to the bus company via phone, and to my relief they said that the bus was still coming; I didn't even consider expressing my dissatisfaction that I had woken up at 4:30 only to wait around for an hour and a half. At 6:30, the bus pulled up, and, finally able to breathe normally again, we climbed aboard.
The minibus ride was a marathon; the first section, in West Timor, took us through lush mountains along curvy, steep roads, while the next section, approaching the Timor-Leste border, took us back to the palm-fringed coast, where we caught glimpses of turquoise water and deserted beaches. We reached the border around 1pm, and the crossing was relatively painless, if a touch slow; we were on the road again just after 2:30.
Most of the passengers in the Timor Travel minibuses (there were four of them in our caravan) were Indonesian, but two were Australian, and we spoke to them briefly at one of the rest stops, and again at the border crossing. One was a 60-year old documentary film maker, and the other was an (attractive) woman of 29 who was working as his assistant. We didn't delve into the relationship further, although we were quite curious. In any case, the man was in the midst of making a documentary about Timor-Leste, and while he spoke on that subject he seemed reasonably intelligent. But then he began to discuss economics, including his view that the US dollar would drop until it was worth only one cent, and his belief that the worldwide banking system was a fraud because it relied upon banks lending money that they didn't actually have in their vaults. Confused, I questioned him on the latter point, and it turned out that he didn't exactly understand the concept of "fiat money"-- money with no intrinsic value. Somehow, he believed that the world had been fooled into using money that was worthless, while the only true money remained that which was backed by gold. Whatever, dude.
We arrived in Dili after dark, at around 8pm. After checking into a backpackers hostel, we wandered around town a bit, and the first things we noticed were the immense tent cities that occupied much of downtown. The hundreds, perhaps thousands, of tents were clearly somewhat permanent: they were all filled with the belongings of their occupants, and most had electricity; some even had satellite TV. We made a mental note to inquire about the tents in the morning, but for the time being we were too tired to do anything but collapse in our beds. Further Dili exploration would have to wait until morning.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Days 185 – 189: Flores
Photos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2064357&l=33fb2&id=1101094
The following morning we set off eastward from Labuanbajo, not in our usual bus or bemo but in... wait for it... a private car, driven by our very own private driver! We had but four days to get across Flores to the town of Maumere (where our flights, on the 12th, originated), and because buses between towns ran only every few days in some cases, we decided that a car was our best bet for getting across the island.
In hindsight, the car may have taken away more from our trip than it added. Sure, it was nice to be able to go wherever we wanted when we wanted, but the car and driver also made me feel like I was having my hand held and being taken from sight to sight, our path seemingly determined by some checklist. The car took all the spontaneity, and certainly all the hardship and drama, away from the trip, leaving us with something resembling a package tour. And the only things I hate more than package tours are package tourists, so you can see how I was less than enthused at the path our trip had taken.
Nevertheless, we did see some interesting sights on our way across Flores: have a look at the photos and see for yourself. Along the way we checked out two volcanoes, each with its own collection of strangely colored lakes; two hot springs, one of which was more like a bathtub for locals; multiple beaches, none of which was particularly beautiful; one "traditional" tribal village, complete with electricity and a hand-painted Telkomsel advertisement; one cave, along with a nice collection of bats and extremely large spiders; and many, many rice fields, one of which was arranged in the pattern of a spiderweb. We also stopped in some small-town grocery stores containing, in addition to the usual staple foods, collections of teenage girls who screamed with joy at the sight of us, thereby making us feel like celebrities. Depressingly, that was the most contact we'd had with the opposite sex in our entire time in Indonesia.
One interesting fact about Flores is that the population is overwhelmingly Christian, as opposed to Bali, where most people are Hindu, and the rest of Indonesia, where most everyone is Muslim. My Lonely Planet explains the phenomenon by noting the Portuguese influence in Flores; but what about the Dutch influence in the rest of Indonesia? Weren't the Dutch Christians as well?
In any case, we spotted a smattering of churches on our way across the island, and they proved a nice break from the ever-present Indonesian mosque. Also, where there's no mosque, there's no 5am call to prayer blasted over the town loudspeakers-- a welcome development for our sleeping patterns.
We arrived in Maumere on the evening of April 11th, in time to confirm our flights and check out the town a bit. Locals elections, it seems, were upcoming, and the town's streets were plastered with campaign signs and political party flags. As Jay insightfully noted, politicians look like douchebags even in Indonesia.
Jay caught his flight to Bali early on the 12th, while Ian and I spent the morning venturing to a beach outside of town on a rented motorbike; that afternoon we arrived at the airport for our short-hop flight to Kupang, West Timor. Was Flores a bit of a disappointment? Perhaps. Was that our own doing? Most likely.
The following morning we set off eastward from Labuanbajo, not in our usual bus or bemo but in... wait for it... a private car, driven by our very own private driver! We had but four days to get across Flores to the town of Maumere (where our flights, on the 12th, originated), and because buses between towns ran only every few days in some cases, we decided that a car was our best bet for getting across the island.
In hindsight, the car may have taken away more from our trip than it added. Sure, it was nice to be able to go wherever we wanted when we wanted, but the car and driver also made me feel like I was having my hand held and being taken from sight to sight, our path seemingly determined by some checklist. The car took all the spontaneity, and certainly all the hardship and drama, away from the trip, leaving us with something resembling a package tour. And the only things I hate more than package tours are package tourists, so you can see how I was less than enthused at the path our trip had taken.
Nevertheless, we did see some interesting sights on our way across Flores: have a look at the photos and see for yourself. Along the way we checked out two volcanoes, each with its own collection of strangely colored lakes; two hot springs, one of which was more like a bathtub for locals; multiple beaches, none of which was particularly beautiful; one "traditional" tribal village, complete with electricity and a hand-painted Telkomsel advertisement; one cave, along with a nice collection of bats and extremely large spiders; and many, many rice fields, one of which was arranged in the pattern of a spiderweb. We also stopped in some small-town grocery stores containing, in addition to the usual staple foods, collections of teenage girls who screamed with joy at the sight of us, thereby making us feel like celebrities. Depressingly, that was the most contact we'd had with the opposite sex in our entire time in Indonesia.
One interesting fact about Flores is that the population is overwhelmingly Christian, as opposed to Bali, where most people are Hindu, and the rest of Indonesia, where most everyone is Muslim. My Lonely Planet explains the phenomenon by noting the Portuguese influence in Flores; but what about the Dutch influence in the rest of Indonesia? Weren't the Dutch Christians as well?
In any case, we spotted a smattering of churches on our way across the island, and they proved a nice break from the ever-present Indonesian mosque. Also, where there's no mosque, there's no 5am call to prayer blasted over the town loudspeakers-- a welcome development for our sleeping patterns.
We arrived in Maumere on the evening of April 11th, in time to confirm our flights and check out the town a bit. Locals elections, it seems, were upcoming, and the town's streets were plastered with campaign signs and political party flags. As Jay insightfully noted, politicians look like douchebags even in Indonesia.
Jay caught his flight to Bali early on the 12th, while Ian and I spent the morning venturing to a beach outside of town on a rented motorbike; that afternoon we arrived at the airport for our short-hop flight to Kupang, West Timor. Was Flores a bit of a disappointment? Perhaps. Was that our own doing? Most likely.
Days 183 – 184: Komodo & Rinca
Photos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2064355&l=dde5b&id=1101094
The following morning we ate breakfast at our guesthouse (an ordeal in itself-- just getting the attention of a waitress was practically impossible, and the tea and nasi goreng took an inexplicable hour to emerge from the kitchen) and, at 8am, caught a bemo back to the Merpati office. Once again, the office was closed, despite a sign on the door that said "Buka (Open) 8pm-5pm." Frustrated, we began to wonder if we'd ever be able to buy our plane tickets.
We headed back to town, bought some snacks for the boat, and proceeded to the pier to board our vessel. Our accommodations and method of transport for the next two days was simple, but seemed seaworthy enough: the bow of the boat was a large, open area (where we'd sleep) bordered by two wooden benches; behind that was the boat driver's room, which contained the steering wheel and all the boat's instruments; in the stern was the kitchen, where our cook whipped up surprisingly tasty meals. The boat was made entirely of wood and, though old, seemed plenty sturdy. Indeed, over the course of the next two days it proved ideal for our purposes.
We set off for Rinca Island around 9am and arrived just after noon. Just before our arrival, our cook prepared a lunch of fish, noodles, and rice that was to be repeated at dinner and again at the following day's lunch; we didn't much mind the repetition, though, as the food was fresh and filling. Besides, everything tastes better aboard a boat.
Once at Rinca, we were assigned a local guide who would take us on a hike around the island in search of the infamous Komodo dragon. For those of you who don't watch the Discovery Channel, Komodo dragons are the largest lizards in the world; measuring up to 10 feet and weighing up to 360 pounds, they eat everything from carrion to live birds and mammals. Their giant mouths are filled with 60 inch-long teeth, their tongues are yellow and forked, and their saliva is highly venomous. In short, you don't want to encounter one of these guys walking down the road. Our guide carried around a big stick for self-defense-- as if that would have done any good.
We didn't have to wait long before encountering our first dragon-- we spotted her walking from the boat to the main village on the island. Lumbering along the ground, the animal looked docile enough, but we were assured that in a split second the seemingly-harmless creature could transform into a killing machine. Fortunately or unfortunately, we never saw that occur. All of our dragons just laid there, basking in the sunlight.
We saw a few more dragons in the village (the locals say they don't feed them, but I'm not sure why else the dragons would hang around people), and then we spotted two more on our hike around the island. We also came across several water buffaloes and wild pigs. Overall, the trek was a success; apparently, many groups didn't spot a dragon outside the village, and we had managed two. Plus, all of the members of our group were still alive at the end of the hike. High fives all around.
Back aboard the boat, we set off for Komodo Island, where we did some fantastic late afternoon snorkeling. The coral around Komodo is alive and colorful, and reef fish abound; I spotted all my usual aquatic suspects, as well as a few species that I hadn't seen (or, noticed) before.
Just before dark, we headed to a small island that was inhabited by flying foxes. When our guide told us what we were going to see, we pictured, well, flying foxes. In reality, flying foxes are the bats-- albeit the largest bats in the world. Do they look like foxes when they're flying through the air? Not really. But it's an interesting name.
That night we slept aboard the boat, on mats that our crew laid out over the wooden boards in the bow. The gentle waves and the hum of the boat's generator proved soporific: we were asleep before 9.
The following morning we disembarked on Komodo for some more dragon sighting, but this installment was less exciting than the previous day's: we spotted only three dragons, and all of them in the village. We did, however, catch a glimpse of Komodo's fancy new entryway and visitor center; clearly, the island is gearing up for a major influx of tourists over the next few years. Whether that hoped-for rise in visitors will materialize is less clear.
For our last stop before our return to Labuanbajo, we journeyed to Manta Point, a relatively shallow spot off the coast of Flores at which manta ray spottings are common. Our luck with nature continued, and we spotted nearly twenty manta rays, the largest of which measured three or four feet across. I even managed to dive down to the bottom and touch one on the back; smooth and slimy, it flapped its "wings" and swam off into the blue.
We arrived back in Labuanbajo around 3pm, just in time for-- you guessed it-- another trip to the Merpati office. This time, however, the office door stood open, and a single employee sat behind the desk that was within. Shocked, we proceeded to buy our tickets without a hitch. Who knew it could be so easy (if you just arrive multiple hours before closing)?
The following morning we ate breakfast at our guesthouse (an ordeal in itself-- just getting the attention of a waitress was practically impossible, and the tea and nasi goreng took an inexplicable hour to emerge from the kitchen) and, at 8am, caught a bemo back to the Merpati office. Once again, the office was closed, despite a sign on the door that said "Buka (Open) 8pm-5pm." Frustrated, we began to wonder if we'd ever be able to buy our plane tickets.
We headed back to town, bought some snacks for the boat, and proceeded to the pier to board our vessel. Our accommodations and method of transport for the next two days was simple, but seemed seaworthy enough: the bow of the boat was a large, open area (where we'd sleep) bordered by two wooden benches; behind that was the boat driver's room, which contained the steering wheel and all the boat's instruments; in the stern was the kitchen, where our cook whipped up surprisingly tasty meals. The boat was made entirely of wood and, though old, seemed plenty sturdy. Indeed, over the course of the next two days it proved ideal for our purposes.
We set off for Rinca Island around 9am and arrived just after noon. Just before our arrival, our cook prepared a lunch of fish, noodles, and rice that was to be repeated at dinner and again at the following day's lunch; we didn't much mind the repetition, though, as the food was fresh and filling. Besides, everything tastes better aboard a boat.
Once at Rinca, we were assigned a local guide who would take us on a hike around the island in search of the infamous Komodo dragon. For those of you who don't watch the Discovery Channel, Komodo dragons are the largest lizards in the world; measuring up to 10 feet and weighing up to 360 pounds, they eat everything from carrion to live birds and mammals. Their giant mouths are filled with 60 inch-long teeth, their tongues are yellow and forked, and their saliva is highly venomous. In short, you don't want to encounter one of these guys walking down the road. Our guide carried around a big stick for self-defense-- as if that would have done any good.
We didn't have to wait long before encountering our first dragon-- we spotted her walking from the boat to the main village on the island. Lumbering along the ground, the animal looked docile enough, but we were assured that in a split second the seemingly-harmless creature could transform into a killing machine. Fortunately or unfortunately, we never saw that occur. All of our dragons just laid there, basking in the sunlight.
We saw a few more dragons in the village (the locals say they don't feed them, but I'm not sure why else the dragons would hang around people), and then we spotted two more on our hike around the island. We also came across several water buffaloes and wild pigs. Overall, the trek was a success; apparently, many groups didn't spot a dragon outside the village, and we had managed two. Plus, all of the members of our group were still alive at the end of the hike. High fives all around.
Back aboard the boat, we set off for Komodo Island, where we did some fantastic late afternoon snorkeling. The coral around Komodo is alive and colorful, and reef fish abound; I spotted all my usual aquatic suspects, as well as a few species that I hadn't seen (or, noticed) before.
Just before dark, we headed to a small island that was inhabited by flying foxes. When our guide told us what we were going to see, we pictured, well, flying foxes. In reality, flying foxes are the bats-- albeit the largest bats in the world. Do they look like foxes when they're flying through the air? Not really. But it's an interesting name.
That night we slept aboard the boat, on mats that our crew laid out over the wooden boards in the bow. The gentle waves and the hum of the boat's generator proved soporific: we were asleep before 9.
The following morning we disembarked on Komodo for some more dragon sighting, but this installment was less exciting than the previous day's: we spotted only three dragons, and all of them in the village. We did, however, catch a glimpse of Komodo's fancy new entryway and visitor center; clearly, the island is gearing up for a major influx of tourists over the next few years. Whether that hoped-for rise in visitors will materialize is less clear.
For our last stop before our return to Labuanbajo, we journeyed to Manta Point, a relatively shallow spot off the coast of Flores at which manta ray spottings are common. Our luck with nature continued, and we spotted nearly twenty manta rays, the largest of which measured three or four feet across. I even managed to dive down to the bottom and touch one on the back; smooth and slimy, it flapped its "wings" and swam off into the blue.
We arrived back in Labuanbajo around 3pm, just in time for-- you guessed it-- another trip to the Merpati office. This time, however, the office door stood open, and a single employee sat behind the desk that was within. Shocked, we proceeded to buy our tickets without a hitch. Who knew it could be so easy (if you just arrive multiple hours before closing)?
Days 181 – 182: Lombok to Flores
We rose early the following morning, and after a quick breakfast of backpacker-staple banana pancakes, we caught a bemo from Senaru to Lombok's main coastal road; from there we waited for a couple hours and then caught another bemo to Labuhan Lombok, the eastern port town that had ferries to Sumbawa.
The ferry from Lombok to Sumbawa was painless; a boat left every 45 minutes, and the journey took only two hours. We arrived in the town of Tano, on Sumbawa's western coast, around 1:30pm. Unfortunately, we were still nowhere close to our next destination: Sumbawa is virtually devoid of points of interest, so we still had to bus all the way across the (long) island and then ferry from Sumbawa to Flores before the painful journey would come to an end.
At Tano harbor we found a bus headed east to Sumbawa Besar, but before getting on we were subjected to the uniquely-Indonesian ritual of bargaining for our bus tickets. Elsewhere in Southeast Asia, and even in other parts of Indonesia, a bus costs what it costs-- you get on and pay what everyone else is paying. But not here. Here, and for the rest of our time in Indonesia, we constantly had to bargain for buses, and the most frustrating thing was that when I asked (in Indonesian, mind you) locals on the bus how much the ticket was supposed to cost, they wouldn't tell me. Apparently everyone is in on the rip-off-the-Westerners scam.
We finally boarded the bus after paying a fare that was almost assuredly too high, and a few hours later we were in Sumbawa Besar, the main town in central Sumbawa. At this point we had a decision to make: we could either stay in Sumbawa Besar for the night and continue on to east Sumbawa the following morning, or we could take a night bus to Bima and hope to catch a bemo from Bima to Sape, on Sumbawa's east coast, that would get us to the port town in time for the 8am ferry from Sape to Labuanbajo, Flores. Making the ferry was a long shot, it seemed, but the thought of wasting another day in Sumbawa was enough to convince us to give it a shot. We bought tickets for the night bus from Sumbawa Besar to Bima and headed into town on the backs of motorbikes to get cash and food before the long journey.
Surprisingly enough, the ATM in Sumbawa Besar was in working order, and we refilled our money belts without a problem. We attempted to eat dinner at a Chinese place that was listed in our Lonely Planet, but it was nowhere to be found, and was most likely closed years ago. I'd love to know the last time that a Lonely Planet writer actually visited Sumbawa.
We hunted around for another restaurant and ended up in what was possibly the nicest restaurant in the entire city: chicken hotplate, our entree of choice, cost a whopping three dollars, but it was worth every penny. Our bellies satisfied, we hopped on motorbikes and headed back to the bus station.
When the bus arrived, we were pleasantly surprised to find that it was a luxury coach with comfortable seats and air conditioning. Perfect, we thought; we'll actually be able to get a decent night's sleep. Think again: the bus driver stuck us in the very back of the bus, which was miles from any air conditioning vent (but very close to the smelly toilet), and then three Indonesian men lay down in the floor space just in front of us, cutting off all possibility of leg room. By the time we reached Bima the following morning at 4am, we were dripping with sweat, our knees were locked from being unable to extend our legs, and we had clocked only a few hours of sleep among the three of us. I guess it's ironic that the bus that had the potential to be the most comfortable mode of transportation we'd seen in days turned out to be totally uncomfortable; somehow, we failed to see the humor.
We alighted in the Bima bus station, which was more like a big parking lot, and were relieved to find a bemo labelled "Sape" only a few meters away. We climbed aboard, thinking that we'd now make our 8am ferry without problem: the journey to Sape was a mere two hours, and at present it was 4am.
But nothing is quite as easy as it seems in eastern Indonesia: two hours later, at 6am, we were still sitting in the Bima parking lot, waiting for more passengers. At this point all three of us should have been checking our watches and wondering if we were going to make our ferry, but instead we were nearly unconscious catching up on all the sleep we didn't get on the overnight bus.
Another bus arrived from Sumbawa Besar just after 6am, and we finally had enough passengers to depart. Just over two hours later we arrived at Sape harbor; it was now nearly 8:15, but we learned aboard the bemo that the Flores ferry rarely left precisely at 8am. Indeed, we were in luck: we bought our ferry tickets and boarded the boat without problem, and at 9am we pulled away from the pier, Flores bound.
This ferry ride was not quite as painless as the ones between Bali and Lombok and Lombok and Sumbawa: the journey took a full seven hours, and the boat itself provided little shelter from the equatorial sun; or, rather, it did provide shelter from the sun, but only if you were willing to sit on the part of the deck that received no breeze. So it was either death by flaming sun or by sweltering, stagnant air: take your pick.
We opted for the sun and took seats on the top deck. A few minutes later, Jay discovered an air-conditioned sleeping room on the deck just below ours; we immediately planted ourselves in it, eternally grateful for a respite from the mid-morning heat. But, predictably, only a few minutes later we were expelled from the room by ferry officials; I'm not sure who the room was for, but it certainly wasn't for us. We returned to our places on the top deck, and sunburn commenced.
The upside of the long journey was that the scenery was decent; we passed a few schools of dolphin and watched them swim along the bow of the boat for nearly a minute, and later we passed the islands of Komodo and Rinca, views of which provided us with a preview of the next two days of our trip.
We arrived in Labuanbajo at 4pm, and after dropping our bags at a guesthouse we immediately proceeded to the local Merpati Airlines ticket office. Jay still needed a ticket from Flores back to Bali, and Ian and I wanted to purchase tickets from Flores to Kupang, in West Timor. We assumed that the ticket office would be open until 5pm, but just to be safe I had called and confirmed the closing time before we left Sumbawa: 5pm it was.
True to form, the office was closed when we arrived just after 4pm. Clearly, Merpati is not too concerned with selling tickets for its flights. Annoyed, we returned to our guesthouse, took much-needed showers, and checked into trips to Komodo and Rinca. We elected to book a two day trip to the islands, convinced that the four hour boat ride from Flores to Komodo made a one day trip a waste of time.
That evening we checked out a bar that was located on the outskirts of town; apparently, it was the place in Labuanbajo for cold beer and live music. We had a bit of trouble finding the place-- getting there involved walking nearly a kilometer down a dirt road in complete darkness-- but upon arriving we found a surprisingly tidy bar filled with a strange combination of locals and Westerners (probably ex-pats), all of whom seemed to know each other. Feeling a bit out of place, we stayed long enough to drink a couple beers, listen to a couple horrible covers courtesy of a local band, and watch a cake fight that erupted between some of the locals and ex-pats. The whole thing was a surreal experience, far different than any bar scene I'd experienced elsewhere in Indonesia. Satisfied that we'd gotten a taste of local nightlife and not wanting to overstay our welcome, we stumbled through the darkness back to our guesthouse for some much needed sleep.
The ferry from Lombok to Sumbawa was painless; a boat left every 45 minutes, and the journey took only two hours. We arrived in the town of Tano, on Sumbawa's western coast, around 1:30pm. Unfortunately, we were still nowhere close to our next destination: Sumbawa is virtually devoid of points of interest, so we still had to bus all the way across the (long) island and then ferry from Sumbawa to Flores before the painful journey would come to an end.
At Tano harbor we found a bus headed east to Sumbawa Besar, but before getting on we were subjected to the uniquely-Indonesian ritual of bargaining for our bus tickets. Elsewhere in Southeast Asia, and even in other parts of Indonesia, a bus costs what it costs-- you get on and pay what everyone else is paying. But not here. Here, and for the rest of our time in Indonesia, we constantly had to bargain for buses, and the most frustrating thing was that when I asked (in Indonesian, mind you) locals on the bus how much the ticket was supposed to cost, they wouldn't tell me. Apparently everyone is in on the rip-off-the-Westerners scam.
We finally boarded the bus after paying a fare that was almost assuredly too high, and a few hours later we were in Sumbawa Besar, the main town in central Sumbawa. At this point we had a decision to make: we could either stay in Sumbawa Besar for the night and continue on to east Sumbawa the following morning, or we could take a night bus to Bima and hope to catch a bemo from Bima to Sape, on Sumbawa's east coast, that would get us to the port town in time for the 8am ferry from Sape to Labuanbajo, Flores. Making the ferry was a long shot, it seemed, but the thought of wasting another day in Sumbawa was enough to convince us to give it a shot. We bought tickets for the night bus from Sumbawa Besar to Bima and headed into town on the backs of motorbikes to get cash and food before the long journey.
Surprisingly enough, the ATM in Sumbawa Besar was in working order, and we refilled our money belts without a problem. We attempted to eat dinner at a Chinese place that was listed in our Lonely Planet, but it was nowhere to be found, and was most likely closed years ago. I'd love to know the last time that a Lonely Planet writer actually visited Sumbawa.
We hunted around for another restaurant and ended up in what was possibly the nicest restaurant in the entire city: chicken hotplate, our entree of choice, cost a whopping three dollars, but it was worth every penny. Our bellies satisfied, we hopped on motorbikes and headed back to the bus station.
When the bus arrived, we were pleasantly surprised to find that it was a luxury coach with comfortable seats and air conditioning. Perfect, we thought; we'll actually be able to get a decent night's sleep. Think again: the bus driver stuck us in the very back of the bus, which was miles from any air conditioning vent (but very close to the smelly toilet), and then three Indonesian men lay down in the floor space just in front of us, cutting off all possibility of leg room. By the time we reached Bima the following morning at 4am, we were dripping with sweat, our knees were locked from being unable to extend our legs, and we had clocked only a few hours of sleep among the three of us. I guess it's ironic that the bus that had the potential to be the most comfortable mode of transportation we'd seen in days turned out to be totally uncomfortable; somehow, we failed to see the humor.
We alighted in the Bima bus station, which was more like a big parking lot, and were relieved to find a bemo labelled "Sape" only a few meters away. We climbed aboard, thinking that we'd now make our 8am ferry without problem: the journey to Sape was a mere two hours, and at present it was 4am.
But nothing is quite as easy as it seems in eastern Indonesia: two hours later, at 6am, we were still sitting in the Bima parking lot, waiting for more passengers. At this point all three of us should have been checking our watches and wondering if we were going to make our ferry, but instead we were nearly unconscious catching up on all the sleep we didn't get on the overnight bus.
Another bus arrived from Sumbawa Besar just after 6am, and we finally had enough passengers to depart. Just over two hours later we arrived at Sape harbor; it was now nearly 8:15, but we learned aboard the bemo that the Flores ferry rarely left precisely at 8am. Indeed, we were in luck: we bought our ferry tickets and boarded the boat without problem, and at 9am we pulled away from the pier, Flores bound.
This ferry ride was not quite as painless as the ones between Bali and Lombok and Lombok and Sumbawa: the journey took a full seven hours, and the boat itself provided little shelter from the equatorial sun; or, rather, it did provide shelter from the sun, but only if you were willing to sit on the part of the deck that received no breeze. So it was either death by flaming sun or by sweltering, stagnant air: take your pick.
We opted for the sun and took seats on the top deck. A few minutes later, Jay discovered an air-conditioned sleeping room on the deck just below ours; we immediately planted ourselves in it, eternally grateful for a respite from the mid-morning heat. But, predictably, only a few minutes later we were expelled from the room by ferry officials; I'm not sure who the room was for, but it certainly wasn't for us. We returned to our places on the top deck, and sunburn commenced.
The upside of the long journey was that the scenery was decent; we passed a few schools of dolphin and watched them swim along the bow of the boat for nearly a minute, and later we passed the islands of Komodo and Rinca, views of which provided us with a preview of the next two days of our trip.
We arrived in Labuanbajo at 4pm, and after dropping our bags at a guesthouse we immediately proceeded to the local Merpati Airlines ticket office. Jay still needed a ticket from Flores back to Bali, and Ian and I wanted to purchase tickets from Flores to Kupang, in West Timor. We assumed that the ticket office would be open until 5pm, but just to be safe I had called and confirmed the closing time before we left Sumbawa: 5pm it was.
True to form, the office was closed when we arrived just after 4pm. Clearly, Merpati is not too concerned with selling tickets for its flights. Annoyed, we returned to our guesthouse, took much-needed showers, and checked into trips to Komodo and Rinca. We elected to book a two day trip to the islands, convinced that the four hour boat ride from Flores to Komodo made a one day trip a waste of time.
That evening we checked out a bar that was located on the outskirts of town; apparently, it was the place in Labuanbajo for cold beer and live music. We had a bit of trouble finding the place-- getting there involved walking nearly a kilometer down a dirt road in complete darkness-- but upon arriving we found a surprisingly tidy bar filled with a strange combination of locals and Westerners (probably ex-pats), all of whom seemed to know each other. Feeling a bit out of place, we stayed long enough to drink a couple beers, listen to a couple horrible covers courtesy of a local band, and watch a cake fight that erupted between some of the locals and ex-pats. The whole thing was a surreal experience, far different than any bar scene I'd experienced elsewhere in Indonesia. Satisfied that we'd gotten a taste of local nightlife and not wanting to overstay our welcome, we stumbled through the darkness back to our guesthouse for some much needed sleep.
Days 179 – 180: Gunung Rinjani
Photos: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2064354&l=f3b5e&id=1101094
The next morning we packed up and set off for mainland Lombok; the only hitch was that our laundry, which was supposed to be ready that morning, was anything but done: Jay's had just been in the washing machine and was soaking wet, and mine hadn't even come out of the dirty plastic bag yet. I guess it's good I don't mind walking around in smelly clothes.
We caught the public boat back to the "mainland" (everything's an island in Indonesia) town of Bangsal, and from there we caught two bemos east to the town of Senaru, which lies at the base of Gunung Rinjani, Lombok's tallest and most holy volcano. The journey to Senaru was beautiful, if bumpy; we passed from palm-fringed rice fields into rolling green hills and finally into cool, foggy mountains. The dip in temperature was a welcome change.
We arrived in Senaru around 1pm, and after a quick lunch our main mission was to sleep until midnight, at which point we'd wake up and climb Rinjani in the dark to make it to the crater rim in time for sunrise. Officially, a guide was required to hike the volcano, but supposedly the trail was easy to follow so we didn't see the need in forking out extra cash. Besides, the park fee, which we'd each have to pay to climb the volcano, had only two days before jumped from Rp 50,000 to Rp 150,000 ($5 to $15), so our guide money was going to increased admission. Or so we reasoned.
We started our hike just after midnight, and the trail, though a bit wet and slippery, was indeed easy to follow, even in the dark. We climbed fast through the first few kilometers, but then the trail steepened, forcing us to slow our pace a bit. Finally we passed the tree line and made the steep ascent to the crater rim aided by a bit of moonlight; we arrived at the rim around 5am, well before the sun rose.
Sitting on the exposed crater rim waiting for the sun to rise, I was cold for the first time in months. We huddled in a partially-protected spot just inside the rim, but still the frigid wind whipped past our faces. Luckily, we had only about an hour to wait for the sun to rise, and when it did the view was spectacular: we could see the whole of northern Lombok, including the Gili Islands, and in the distance we could even see Gunung Agung, the highest peak on Bali. And looking down into the crater we got a spectacular view of the cobalt-blue crater lake and Gunung Baru, the new volcano-within-a-volcano that formed in the last few hundred years and erupted as recently as 2004.
After admiring the view for about a half hour we began the descent into the crater rim. This part of the climb involved the fastest altitude change; in the climb to the crater rim, we had gained 2000m of altitude over about 8km of trail, but in the 1.5km from the crater rim down to the crater lake we lost 600m of altitude. The change in altitude, coupled with the newfound shelter from the wind, was enough to notice a distinct change in temperature; by the time we reached the crater lake, I was sweating profusely.
We hiked along the crater lake for a bit, passing some fisherman and another group of hikers who had spent the night on the volcano. Eventually we reached the point where the crater lake emptied into a stream; the water poured out of the lake and flowed through a series of waterfalls on its way down the mountain. We were amazed at the volume of water that was flowing out of the lake; the volcano must get a huge quantity of rain to keep the lake as full as it is.
After a short hike along the stream, we reached the highlight of our hike: the Rinjani hot springs. Fed by boiling water that shot out of the rocks, the hot springs consisted of three small pools that felt something like a hot tub. And the best part was that the icy-cold stream was only a few feet removed from the hottest pool, so we could jump back and forth from the hot to the cold water as we pleased. We could have stayed there all day, but after an hour or so of enjoyment we started the ascent back to the crater rim, and by 3pm we were back in Senaru eating a well-deserved lunch. We spent the rest of the day relaxing in Senaru; the following morning we'd set off on the long journey to Flores.
The next morning we packed up and set off for mainland Lombok; the only hitch was that our laundry, which was supposed to be ready that morning, was anything but done: Jay's had just been in the washing machine and was soaking wet, and mine hadn't even come out of the dirty plastic bag yet. I guess it's good I don't mind walking around in smelly clothes.
We caught the public boat back to the "mainland" (everything's an island in Indonesia) town of Bangsal, and from there we caught two bemos east to the town of Senaru, which lies at the base of Gunung Rinjani, Lombok's tallest and most holy volcano. The journey to Senaru was beautiful, if bumpy; we passed from palm-fringed rice fields into rolling green hills and finally into cool, foggy mountains. The dip in temperature was a welcome change.
We arrived in Senaru around 1pm, and after a quick lunch our main mission was to sleep until midnight, at which point we'd wake up and climb Rinjani in the dark to make it to the crater rim in time for sunrise. Officially, a guide was required to hike the volcano, but supposedly the trail was easy to follow so we didn't see the need in forking out extra cash. Besides, the park fee, which we'd each have to pay to climb the volcano, had only two days before jumped from Rp 50,000 to Rp 150,000 ($5 to $15), so our guide money was going to increased admission. Or so we reasoned.
We started our hike just after midnight, and the trail, though a bit wet and slippery, was indeed easy to follow, even in the dark. We climbed fast through the first few kilometers, but then the trail steepened, forcing us to slow our pace a bit. Finally we passed the tree line and made the steep ascent to the crater rim aided by a bit of moonlight; we arrived at the rim around 5am, well before the sun rose.
Sitting on the exposed crater rim waiting for the sun to rise, I was cold for the first time in months. We huddled in a partially-protected spot just inside the rim, but still the frigid wind whipped past our faces. Luckily, we had only about an hour to wait for the sun to rise, and when it did the view was spectacular: we could see the whole of northern Lombok, including the Gili Islands, and in the distance we could even see Gunung Agung, the highest peak on Bali. And looking down into the crater we got a spectacular view of the cobalt-blue crater lake and Gunung Baru, the new volcano-within-a-volcano that formed in the last few hundred years and erupted as recently as 2004.
After admiring the view for about a half hour we began the descent into the crater rim. This part of the climb involved the fastest altitude change; in the climb to the crater rim, we had gained 2000m of altitude over about 8km of trail, but in the 1.5km from the crater rim down to the crater lake we lost 600m of altitude. The change in altitude, coupled with the newfound shelter from the wind, was enough to notice a distinct change in temperature; by the time we reached the crater lake, I was sweating profusely.
We hiked along the crater lake for a bit, passing some fisherman and another group of hikers who had spent the night on the volcano. Eventually we reached the point where the crater lake emptied into a stream; the water poured out of the lake and flowed through a series of waterfalls on its way down the mountain. We were amazed at the volume of water that was flowing out of the lake; the volcano must get a huge quantity of rain to keep the lake as full as it is.
After a short hike along the stream, we reached the highlight of our hike: the Rinjani hot springs. Fed by boiling water that shot out of the rocks, the hot springs consisted of three small pools that felt something like a hot tub. And the best part was that the icy-cold stream was only a few feet removed from the hottest pool, so we could jump back and forth from the hot to the cold water as we pleased. We could have stayed there all day, but after an hour or so of enjoyment we started the ascent back to the crater rim, and by 3pm we were back in Senaru eating a well-deserved lunch. We spent the rest of the day relaxing in Senaru; the following morning we'd set off on the long journey to Flores.
Days 177 – 178: Gili Islands
Our minds still in a haze, we awoke just before 6am and had to run to make our bus, which was pulling off as we were walking to the bus stop. Needless to say, a morning sprint with my backpack on was the last thing my body was asking for that morning.
But we caught the bus, and a couple hours later we were in the port town of Padangbai, Bali, where we'd catch our ferry to Lombok. The ferry didn't leave until 10am, but our bus company made sure to get us there plenty early so that we'd have time to buy an overpriced breakfast from their restaurant of choice.
The ferry itself was relatively painless; Jay, Ian and I realized that we knew very few card games between us, so we ended up playing BS and then a very loud game of Egyptian Ratscrew to pass the time. Perhaps our antics annoyed the other ultra-cool backpackers who were on the ferry, but their constant cigarette smoking annoyed me, so we'll call it even.
We had been led to believe that the ferry would arrive in Senggigi, which was only about an hour's drive from the port from which we could catch a boat to our destination, the Gili Islands, but in fact we arrived in the southern Lombok town of Lembar and had to catch a bus north to Senggigi. But by the time we reached Senggigi, we were running low on time (the last boat to the Gilis departed at 5pm), and there was no public transport to be found to Bangsal, the port town which had boats to the Gilis. There were, however, plenty of taxi drivers willing to take us to Bangsal at rip-your-face-off rates. We bargained for a while in hopes of getting the drivers down to realistic prices, and in the end the cheapest option involved hiring a converted pickup truck to take us north to Bangsal.
By the time we arrived in Bangsal, we had missed the last public boat; the only other option was a tourist shuttle, which is exactly the same as a public boat except for the fact that it costs three times as much. Our only other option being a night in the depressing, tout-filled town of Bangsal, we paid the pricey fare and hopped aboard the boat.
The boat was filled with most of the backpackers who had been on the ferry earlier that day, but our reception was anything but friendly. In fact, as would become a pattern in the Gili Islands, all we got from any of the other passengers were icy stares. I'm still not clear on why we were so hated. Perhaps it was our lack of tattoos and cigarettes which was so off-putting.
We arrived at Gili Trawangan, the busiest of the three Gili Islands, about an hour later, and we managed to find a guesthouse before dark. After a quick shower (we were disgusting after a full day of travel) we ate dinner at an overpriced restaurant on the beach. Such is life in the Gili Islands.
A quick word about the Gilis: they are three tiny islands off the northwestern coast of Lombok that have become a destination for vacationers wanting to escape the crowds of Bali. The islands are flat, sandy, and surrounded by coral reefs-- seemingly, a tropical paradise. There are no police, and if you have any problems you're supposed to contact the village head. The three islands are called Gili Air, Gili Meno, and Gili Trawangan; Air is family-oriented (read: boring), Meno is deserted, and Trawangan is supposedly the place to go if you want to party. We didn't necessarily want to party, but Trawangan still seemed our best bet.
As it turned out, Trawangan wasn't as much of a party scene as we'd expected, but maybe that was because we had just come from Kuta. Either way, we had expected beach raves, and what we got instead was chill bars and people watching movies in little huts. Still recovering from three nights in Kuta, I was more than happy to take a break from the Bintangs for an evening, and so the three of us spent our first night on Trawangan smoking an overpriced hookah and talking about our coming travels. Or, rather, Jay and I smoked hookah and talked while Ian fell asleep. It's fitting that I'm friends with the one person I know who is more narcoleptic than I am.
The following morning we set out to do some snorkeling on the reefs surrounding Trawangan. We hoped to do our own thing and avoid the many snorkel trips that were on offer, but we soon realized that the reef wasn't consistent enough to see much on our own, so we headed back to town (in the pouring rain, by the way) and signed up for a trip aboard a glass-bottomed boat.
The trip ended up being well worth it. We snorkeled at four different sites around the three Gilis, and we spotted sea turtles, giant clams, and thousands of reef fish. The coral itself was underwhelming, mostly due to dynamite fishing, but the aquatic life was still plentiful enough to make for a pleasant underwater experience. But perhaps the highlight of the day was watching our guide skin dive down to where the sea turtles were swimming: the guy could dive to over 30 feet and stay for minutes at a time. Amazing.
That night we ate dinner at a restaurant that played movies, and over a mediocre dinner of mie goreng I watched the mediocre performances of Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts in Charlie Wilson's War. Afterwards, we got a taste of true Gili Trawangan nightlife, which was far more entertaining (and far less hangover-inducing) than the Bali nightlife we had experienced the previous few nights. I guess they're not called "magic" for nothing.
But we caught the bus, and a couple hours later we were in the port town of Padangbai, Bali, where we'd catch our ferry to Lombok. The ferry didn't leave until 10am, but our bus company made sure to get us there plenty early so that we'd have time to buy an overpriced breakfast from their restaurant of choice.
The ferry itself was relatively painless; Jay, Ian and I realized that we knew very few card games between us, so we ended up playing BS and then a very loud game of Egyptian Ratscrew to pass the time. Perhaps our antics annoyed the other ultra-cool backpackers who were on the ferry, but their constant cigarette smoking annoyed me, so we'll call it even.
We had been led to believe that the ferry would arrive in Senggigi, which was only about an hour's drive from the port from which we could catch a boat to our destination, the Gili Islands, but in fact we arrived in the southern Lombok town of Lembar and had to catch a bus north to Senggigi. But by the time we reached Senggigi, we were running low on time (the last boat to the Gilis departed at 5pm), and there was no public transport to be found to Bangsal, the port town which had boats to the Gilis. There were, however, plenty of taxi drivers willing to take us to Bangsal at rip-your-face-off rates. We bargained for a while in hopes of getting the drivers down to realistic prices, and in the end the cheapest option involved hiring a converted pickup truck to take us north to Bangsal.
By the time we arrived in Bangsal, we had missed the last public boat; the only other option was a tourist shuttle, which is exactly the same as a public boat except for the fact that it costs three times as much. Our only other option being a night in the depressing, tout-filled town of Bangsal, we paid the pricey fare and hopped aboard the boat.
The boat was filled with most of the backpackers who had been on the ferry earlier that day, but our reception was anything but friendly. In fact, as would become a pattern in the Gili Islands, all we got from any of the other passengers were icy stares. I'm still not clear on why we were so hated. Perhaps it was our lack of tattoos and cigarettes which was so off-putting.
We arrived at Gili Trawangan, the busiest of the three Gili Islands, about an hour later, and we managed to find a guesthouse before dark. After a quick shower (we were disgusting after a full day of travel) we ate dinner at an overpriced restaurant on the beach. Such is life in the Gili Islands.
A quick word about the Gilis: they are three tiny islands off the northwestern coast of Lombok that have become a destination for vacationers wanting to escape the crowds of Bali. The islands are flat, sandy, and surrounded by coral reefs-- seemingly, a tropical paradise. There are no police, and if you have any problems you're supposed to contact the village head. The three islands are called Gili Air, Gili Meno, and Gili Trawangan; Air is family-oriented (read: boring), Meno is deserted, and Trawangan is supposedly the place to go if you want to party. We didn't necessarily want to party, but Trawangan still seemed our best bet.
As it turned out, Trawangan wasn't as much of a party scene as we'd expected, but maybe that was because we had just come from Kuta. Either way, we had expected beach raves, and what we got instead was chill bars and people watching movies in little huts. Still recovering from three nights in Kuta, I was more than happy to take a break from the Bintangs for an evening, and so the three of us spent our first night on Trawangan smoking an overpriced hookah and talking about our coming travels. Or, rather, Jay and I smoked hookah and talked while Ian fell asleep. It's fitting that I'm friends with the one person I know who is more narcoleptic than I am.
The following morning we set out to do some snorkeling on the reefs surrounding Trawangan. We hoped to do our own thing and avoid the many snorkel trips that were on offer, but we soon realized that the reef wasn't consistent enough to see much on our own, so we headed back to town (in the pouring rain, by the way) and signed up for a trip aboard a glass-bottomed boat.
The trip ended up being well worth it. We snorkeled at four different sites around the three Gilis, and we spotted sea turtles, giant clams, and thousands of reef fish. The coral itself was underwhelming, mostly due to dynamite fishing, but the aquatic life was still plentiful enough to make for a pleasant underwater experience. But perhaps the highlight of the day was watching our guide skin dive down to where the sea turtles were swimming: the guy could dive to over 30 feet and stay for minutes at a time. Amazing.
That night we ate dinner at a restaurant that played movies, and over a mediocre dinner of mie goreng I watched the mediocre performances of Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts in Charlie Wilson's War. Afterwards, we got a taste of true Gili Trawangan nightlife, which was far more entertaining (and far less hangover-inducing) than the Bali nightlife we had experienced the previous few nights. I guess they're not called "magic" for nothing.
Days 174 – 176: Bali
Ian was to arrive at around 10 that evening, so I killed time by lounging in the pool and catching up on emails until 9:30, at which point I set off on my motorbike for the airport.
As I pulled into the airport parking lot, a police officer motioned for me to pull over. Confused, I obeyed, though I knew I hadn't been speeding or breaking any other traffic law. The man asked if this was my motorbike-- a silly question, considering just about every white guy on a motorbike in Kuta is renting. When I told him it was a rented bike, he asked for the bike's registration, probably figuring that I didn't have it and would be willing to pay a bribe to get out of the situation. But I quickly popped the seat and pulled out the registration, to the officer's seeming disappointment.
And then he asked me for my drivers license. Uh oh. My international drivers license, the only one that is any good in Indonesia, is huge-- at least twice the size of my passport. There was no way I could carry it around all the time; indeed, it was safely stuffed in a plastic bag in the bottom of my backpack, which was back at my guesthouse. I tried to explain to the officer, in a mix of English and Bahasa Indonesia, that I had a license, but that it was back at my hotel. He explained to me, in the same awkward mix of languages, that I would have to leave the motorbike with him until I could produce the license.
How convenient. Ian was due to arrive in 15 minutes, and I would now be picking him up on foot. I pondered catching a cab back to the hotel, grabbing my license, and coming back, but I knew I'd be late to pick up Ian, and I didn't want to leave him stranded at the airport wondering where I was.
So I left my bike with the officer and headed to the arrival gate. A few minutes later, Ian appeared, and I explained to him that we had a slight problem. We walked back to where I had left my bike to try to negotiate its release.
But the bike and the officer were nowhere to be found. Had the obviously-corrupt cop made off with my bike? Not likely: I was still holding the key (although he had requested that I leave it with him-- yeah right, dude). But I hadn't a clue where he might have taken it, so Ian and I wandered around the parking lot for a few minutes looking in vain. Finally, I asked someone to point me in the direction of the police station, and when I got there I found my bike locked outside. Inside was the police officer, watching TV with all his other hardworking police officer friends.
Ian and I did our best to suck up the to guy and get him to give me back my motorbike: I told the sob story of how Ian had just arrived and how we really wanted to get into Kuta as soon as possible; Ian opted to talk in a high-pitched, submissive voice and bob his head a lot. Neither strategy worked, but then I suggested that I leave my passport as collateral while I went to get my license, and this proposal seemed to get a little more traction. The man pulled out a small pad of paper and began writing on it-- we assumed he was writing us a receipt for my passport. Then, he said something about "bringing justice," and since justice is a good word, Ian and I both nodded our heads and encouraged him to finish the receipt and give us our justice.
But then I took a closer look at the "receipt," and realized that it was not so much a "receipt" as a "ticket." And that talk about "bringing justice" was not so much the policeman ensuring us that he would give us a just solution to our problems as a suggestion that we appear in court. Ian and I realized our error at the same time and pleaded with the officer to reconsider: we'd leave right away, go get the license, and leave the passport as collateral. Somehow, he agreed, and we quickly walked out of the office and over to the bike. As we waited for the bike to be unlocked by one of the other idle policemen, the original officer mumbled something like "You have some money, you no leave passport," clearly paving the way for a bribe. We asked him how much money he had in mind; he said it was for us to decide. Ordinarily, I would have been more than happy to pay the bribe and avoid driving back to the airport, but the police officer had annoyed me by making us sit around for nearly an hour, and I was determined to
get the license, retrieve the passport, and give the officer no satisfaction. If he wanted a bribe, he should have said that upfront, before he wasted an hour of our time sitting in his office.
I dropped Ian back at the guesthouse, grabbed my license, and sped back to the airport to retrieve my passport. Back at the police station, the officer seemed surprised that I had returned with my license; clearly, he thought I was lying about having one. Grumpily, he inspected the license (which expressly did not give me permission to drive motorcycles, but luckily he didn't read enough English to notice) and returned my passport. With a "terima kasih banyak," I was off.
Back in Kuta, Ian and I checked out the famous Bali nightlife, and I must say it was much more fun with a friend along. There's something about going to a club by yourself and trying to talk to people over ear-splitting music that's just depressing. With Ian along, we also tried to talk to people over ear-splitting music, but when no one wanted to talk to us at least we could go get a cheeseburger and bitch about how much we hated clubs.
The next morning we dragged ourselves out of bed and headed down to the beach to do some surfing. The usual surfboard bargaining commenced: "You want surfboard? Forty thousand rupiah for one hour." "I'll pay you 30,000 rupiah for four hours." "What? No, no, 60,000 for four hours." "Do you see how many surfboards there are on this beach?" "Ok, fine, 30,000 for four hours."
Over the course of the next four hours, Ian and I did some of the best surfing of our lives. Ian also got a killer sunburn on his back.
That afternoon we jumped on the motorbike and headed south to the beautiful cliffs of the Bukit Peninsula. I took Ian by my beloved Dreamlands, which was now destroyed by construction; afterward we stopped by Padang-Padang and did some bouldering on the limestone cliffs. We finished off the afternoon at Pura Luhur Ulu Watu, the monkey-filled temple situated high on a cliff on the southern coast of the peninsula, before buzzing back to Kuta in time for a concert on the beach. The good news about the concert was that the attendees were all locals, which gave the event an air of legitimacy; the bad news was that the music sounded something like the slow murder of a housecat.
I picked Jay up at the airport that evening around 9, and this time I had my drivers license along-- but of course there were no police officers in sight. We headed back to town, and within an hour we were Kuta club-hopping. Jumping from club to club in Kuta is amazingly painless, if you're a Westerner-- there's no cover anywhere. Locals, on the other hand, do pay a cover-- that policy is aimed at prostitutes, who monopolize most of the tables, don't buy drinks, and mostly sit there and stare. But despite the cover, all the clubs are still crawling in prostitutes; I guess the cover charge needs to be a little higher.
Jay, Ian, and I did our best to mold to the club scene, though all of us would have felt far more comfortable in a bar; we danced pathetically, tried to talk to girls (most of whom were 18 year old Australians), and, when rejected, headed straight for the restroom. Our main accomplishment of the evening was breaking up a fight; unfortunately, in dragging the instigator to the floor, I also managed to snap my sandal strap, and Jay stained his shorts. Clearly, no good deed goes unpunished.
The next day we woke up at noon and spent most the afternoon lazing about in the pool. We chatted a bit with an Indonesian girl who was staying at our guesthouse; she was from Jakarta, and she made her living as a go-go dancer. Not a stripper, mind you-- a go-go dancer. After she showed us some pictures from one of her shows, that distinction became even murkier.
Our Indonesian friend also, as Jay was quick to point out, looked something like a mummy. From then on she was affectionately known as "Hatshepsut." Behind her back, of course.
That afternoon Jay and I drove to the Merpati ticket office, located at the airport, to buy Jay a ticket from Maumere, Flores back to Bali; despite the fact that we arrived at the office nearly half an hour before it was supposed to close, no Merpati employees were anywhere to be found. As we later found out, you have to arrive at Merpati offices at least two hours before closing to have any hope of finding anyone. How foolish we were to think that "Hours of Operation" actually meant something.
We went out again that night, and once again we had limited success in talking to anyone other than ourselves. It's clear to me that clubs are just not my scene; so why do I continue to go? We did, however, succeed in getting rip-roaring drunk, which was especially convenient when our alarms rang at 6am to tell us that it was time to catch our bus to the ferry terminal. "I'm in a lot of pain!"
As I pulled into the airport parking lot, a police officer motioned for me to pull over. Confused, I obeyed, though I knew I hadn't been speeding or breaking any other traffic law. The man asked if this was my motorbike-- a silly question, considering just about every white guy on a motorbike in Kuta is renting. When I told him it was a rented bike, he asked for the bike's registration, probably figuring that I didn't have it and would be willing to pay a bribe to get out of the situation. But I quickly popped the seat and pulled out the registration, to the officer's seeming disappointment.
And then he asked me for my drivers license. Uh oh. My international drivers license, the only one that is any good in Indonesia, is huge-- at least twice the size of my passport. There was no way I could carry it around all the time; indeed, it was safely stuffed in a plastic bag in the bottom of my backpack, which was back at my guesthouse. I tried to explain to the officer, in a mix of English and Bahasa Indonesia, that I had a license, but that it was back at my hotel. He explained to me, in the same awkward mix of languages, that I would have to leave the motorbike with him until I could produce the license.
How convenient. Ian was due to arrive in 15 minutes, and I would now be picking him up on foot. I pondered catching a cab back to the hotel, grabbing my license, and coming back, but I knew I'd be late to pick up Ian, and I didn't want to leave him stranded at the airport wondering where I was.
So I left my bike with the officer and headed to the arrival gate. A few minutes later, Ian appeared, and I explained to him that we had a slight problem. We walked back to where I had left my bike to try to negotiate its release.
But the bike and the officer were nowhere to be found. Had the obviously-corrupt cop made off with my bike? Not likely: I was still holding the key (although he had requested that I leave it with him-- yeah right, dude). But I hadn't a clue where he might have taken it, so Ian and I wandered around the parking lot for a few minutes looking in vain. Finally, I asked someone to point me in the direction of the police station, and when I got there I found my bike locked outside. Inside was the police officer, watching TV with all his other hardworking police officer friends.
Ian and I did our best to suck up the to guy and get him to give me back my motorbike: I told the sob story of how Ian had just arrived and how we really wanted to get into Kuta as soon as possible; Ian opted to talk in a high-pitched, submissive voice and bob his head a lot. Neither strategy worked, but then I suggested that I leave my passport as collateral while I went to get my license, and this proposal seemed to get a little more traction. The man pulled out a small pad of paper and began writing on it-- we assumed he was writing us a receipt for my passport. Then, he said something about "bringing justice," and since justice is a good word, Ian and I both nodded our heads and encouraged him to finish the receipt and give us our justice.
But then I took a closer look at the "receipt," and realized that it was not so much a "receipt" as a "ticket." And that talk about "bringing justice" was not so much the policeman ensuring us that he would give us a just solution to our problems as a suggestion that we appear in court. Ian and I realized our error at the same time and pleaded with the officer to reconsider: we'd leave right away, go get the license, and leave the passport as collateral. Somehow, he agreed, and we quickly walked out of the office and over to the bike. As we waited for the bike to be unlocked by one of the other idle policemen, the original officer mumbled something like "You have some money, you no leave passport," clearly paving the way for a bribe. We asked him how much money he had in mind; he said it was for us to decide. Ordinarily, I would have been more than happy to pay the bribe and avoid driving back to the airport, but the police officer had annoyed me by making us sit around for nearly an hour, and I was determined to
get the license, retrieve the passport, and give the officer no satisfaction. If he wanted a bribe, he should have said that upfront, before he wasted an hour of our time sitting in his office.
I dropped Ian back at the guesthouse, grabbed my license, and sped back to the airport to retrieve my passport. Back at the police station, the officer seemed surprised that I had returned with my license; clearly, he thought I was lying about having one. Grumpily, he inspected the license (which expressly did not give me permission to drive motorcycles, but luckily he didn't read enough English to notice) and returned my passport. With a "terima kasih banyak," I was off.
Back in Kuta, Ian and I checked out the famous Bali nightlife, and I must say it was much more fun with a friend along. There's something about going to a club by yourself and trying to talk to people over ear-splitting music that's just depressing. With Ian along, we also tried to talk to people over ear-splitting music, but when no one wanted to talk to us at least we could go get a cheeseburger and bitch about how much we hated clubs.
The next morning we dragged ourselves out of bed and headed down to the beach to do some surfing. The usual surfboard bargaining commenced: "You want surfboard? Forty thousand rupiah for one hour." "I'll pay you 30,000 rupiah for four hours." "What? No, no, 60,000 for four hours." "Do you see how many surfboards there are on this beach?" "Ok, fine, 30,000 for four hours."
Over the course of the next four hours, Ian and I did some of the best surfing of our lives. Ian also got a killer sunburn on his back.
That afternoon we jumped on the motorbike and headed south to the beautiful cliffs of the Bukit Peninsula. I took Ian by my beloved Dreamlands, which was now destroyed by construction; afterward we stopped by Padang-Padang and did some bouldering on the limestone cliffs. We finished off the afternoon at Pura Luhur Ulu Watu, the monkey-filled temple situated high on a cliff on the southern coast of the peninsula, before buzzing back to Kuta in time for a concert on the beach. The good news about the concert was that the attendees were all locals, which gave the event an air of legitimacy; the bad news was that the music sounded something like the slow murder of a housecat.
I picked Jay up at the airport that evening around 9, and this time I had my drivers license along-- but of course there were no police officers in sight. We headed back to town, and within an hour we were Kuta club-hopping. Jumping from club to club in Kuta is amazingly painless, if you're a Westerner-- there's no cover anywhere. Locals, on the other hand, do pay a cover-- that policy is aimed at prostitutes, who monopolize most of the tables, don't buy drinks, and mostly sit there and stare. But despite the cover, all the clubs are still crawling in prostitutes; I guess the cover charge needs to be a little higher.
Jay, Ian, and I did our best to mold to the club scene, though all of us would have felt far more comfortable in a bar; we danced pathetically, tried to talk to girls (most of whom were 18 year old Australians), and, when rejected, headed straight for the restroom. Our main accomplishment of the evening was breaking up a fight; unfortunately, in dragging the instigator to the floor, I also managed to snap my sandal strap, and Jay stained his shorts. Clearly, no good deed goes unpunished.
The next day we woke up at noon and spent most the afternoon lazing about in the pool. We chatted a bit with an Indonesian girl who was staying at our guesthouse; she was from Jakarta, and she made her living as a go-go dancer. Not a stripper, mind you-- a go-go dancer. After she showed us some pictures from one of her shows, that distinction became even murkier.
Our Indonesian friend also, as Jay was quick to point out, looked something like a mummy. From then on she was affectionately known as "Hatshepsut." Behind her back, of course.
That afternoon Jay and I drove to the Merpati ticket office, located at the airport, to buy Jay a ticket from Maumere, Flores back to Bali; despite the fact that we arrived at the office nearly half an hour before it was supposed to close, no Merpati employees were anywhere to be found. As we later found out, you have to arrive at Merpati offices at least two hours before closing to have any hope of finding anyone. How foolish we were to think that "Hours of Operation" actually meant something.
We went out again that night, and once again we had limited success in talking to anyone other than ourselves. It's clear to me that clubs are just not my scene; so why do I continue to go? We did, however, succeed in getting rip-roaring drunk, which was especially convenient when our alarms rang at 6am to tell us that it was time to catch our bus to the ferry terminal. "I'm in a lot of pain!"
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