Date: Mon, 2 Apr 2001 05:36:31 -0700 (PDT)
From: Jay Schneider
Subject: Jay, the Aussie Surfer
U.S. State Department Travel Warning:
Office of the Spokesman Indonesia
February 28, 2001
The Department of State urges American citizens to defer nonessential travel to Indonesia and all travel to Aceh, Maluku, Papua, West Timor, Central Kalimantan (Borneo), and Central Sulawesi…Indonesia is experiencing a major political transition, and unrest and violence can erupt with little forewarning anywhere in the country. Bombings of religious, political, and business targets have occurred throughout the country.
Phew! I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m still recovering from the craziness that is ‘March Madness’. For those of you who are not so up in the world of sports, I’m talking of course about the Spring Grand Sumo Tournament in Osaka. Sad to say this year I wasn’t able to attend, but thanks living in this age of the internet, the daily results were always just a few clicks away (after a long, bumpy, cramped bus ride to a town with an internet connection, that is). But March isn’t just about sumo, folks, and I’m proud to say my students at Himeji Technical High School were invited to play in the National Spring tournament at Koshien, which, again for those of you who are unawares, is a VERY BIG DEAL. They lost the first round (internet keeping me in touch again), but for any kid who’s ever held a bat in Japan, just going to Koshien is a dream. And finally in college hoops, my own alma mater Cal (go bears!) was invited to the Big Dance, and in accordance with tradition, eliminated immediately.
So you may be thinking I’ve just spent the past 2 months surfing the net and checking the sports pages, but I also surfed real waves (ha-ha). Anyhoo, there’s lots to tell (sorry, it’s a long one this time) and I’d be glad to tell you after I share with you a childhood memory…
On far more occasions than I can begin to count, I remember, as a wee little Jay, watching t.v., playing with the neighbors or talking on the phone, and having my mother interrupt, directing me to do some necessary chore (feed the dog, clean my room, put out the fire I’d started in the living room, etc.), and I’d try and negotiate more time, “Aw, c’mon, Mom, just one more hour, please?”
I hope you’ve enjoyed this childhood memory.
INDONESIA.
For the past 60 days (length of the visa), I’ve been falling in love with Indonesia. It’s been such an incredible 2 months, and I’ve had so many wonderful experiences, and “I’ll look back and laugh on this later, though I’m in excruciating discomfort now” adventures. There are too many instances of people being so helpful, inviting me to their homes, making sure I’m on the right bus (and off it at the right stop), eagerly wanting to tell me about their country, and ask about mine, whether we spoke a common language or not, and so many more wonderful images and beautiful places and unforgettable experiences. I know I can’t tell you everything, and I’ll try and keep it brief, but I’m warning you, this update could go on for a while (I hope none of you have work you should be doing!)
JAY THE AUSTRALIAN. Upon entering a country, one must fill out an immigration card, half of which is turned into an official, the other half which remains in the passport. The information is simple enough, name, profession, passport info, etc., but still it’s always a bit of a pain. (For me, I’m always stumped with what my occupation should be). So you can imagine my pleasant surprise when, after purchasing my ferry ticket from Singapore to Indonesia’s Batam Island, I was handed an immigration card, already filled out by computer. You could also imagine my puzzled surprise to discover that I was born in, and a citizen of…Australia. (Who knew?) Anyhoo, I said nothing (you can imagine my embarrassment at not knowing my own nationality), and the Indonesian official said nothing, so for the duration of my stay, I’d be Jay Schneider, Australian. (“Enjoy your stay in Indonesia.” “Thanks, er, mate.”)
SUMATRA. Four hour boat ride. Four hour bus. Hop on another bus, I was assured would arrive at my destination around midnight. Bus stops at midnight, everyone gets out and waits at a coffee shop until 6 am, we continue trip, at some point cross the equator for the first time in my life, by 8 am, I’m in Bukittinggi, West Sumatra, reunited with my travel-mate Julie. Though I’d wanted to come to Indonesia for some time, it wasn’t on my current itinerary, so I really had no plan, just happy to be somewhere new. Julie had a plan. Many, in fact. And new ones kept popping up, or old ones constantly changing. I knew I needed to come up with my own plan. The “10 days in a muddy jungle wearing a self-made loincloth, killing a pig and drinking it’s blood” – trek (originally suggested by Julie) was nixed when she realized she wasn’t they type of person to go traipsing around, half-naked, in the muddy jungle for 10 days. I, on the other hand, put myself in that category, but conceded it’d be much more fun with a good friend, er mate, to do it with. (Where’s Ava when I needed her?) Instead, we spent our Sumatra days in the hills, on the lake, and on the coast. At one point I composed a poem about Chicken Fried Rice. On another occasion, while wandering around the streets of Padang, I was invited in to the police station, fed lunch, and offered a female officer’s hand in marriage. I declined (the woman, not the food), but it still was a great afternoon. Mostly, Sumatra was my introduction to Indonesia, and I was constantly surprised by how friendly and helpful the people were, freely giving advice and direction without trying to sell me something (still a bit jaded from India, I guess). And while we did our best to get off the ‘tourist trail,’ even when we were on it, we hardly saw any other foreign faces. It was rainy/low season anyway, but mostly, people are scared to come to Indonesia given what they’ve been reading in the papers and watching on CNN (see Travel Warning above). It’s a shame for the people who are missing out on such a wonderful country, and also for the locals who depend on tourist dollars, but I guess it works out great for those who do ‘brave’ to come here. After 2 weeks, we hopped on a Java-bound bus, and about 40 hours later, we were in…
JAKARTA (Java). Throughout my stay in Jakarta, people always made a point of showing me the American Embassy (fools! don’t they know I’m Australian?). It also happened to be rather close to where I was staying, and this was comforting, given the current instability of the country.
I had a scene in my mind of a helicopter evacuation from the roof of the Embassy, surrounded by a war-torn city. The Embassy’s American flag folded under my arm, I pause, looking around at the flames and the chaos, tears welling in my eyes, and then board helicopter, the last passenger on the last craft out of the country. Then, I’d put my arm around the Ambassador, comforting him, and say, “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll be back.” And he’d look back at me and reply, “Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing here? Give me back my flag!”
But of course, this didn’t happen. In fact, even though demonstrations and protests were a daily occurrence in Jakarta, the really GOOD stuff (of the blood, tear-gas and flames variety) always happened just before of just after I was there. No luck, I guess… (Real briefly, the issue: Indonesia is in a bad way. Economy in the dumps, ethnic violence, separatist groups causing civil unrest, corruption as usual, yada-yada… Most people feel the current President, Gus Dur, has got to go, and demand his resignation. My entire two months in Indonesia, I spoke with no one who liked or supported the current President to any degree. He does have a minority of supporters, however, and they have declared they are prepared to shed blood to defend him. Makes for a rather dicey situation, eh?)
In spite of the lack of civil unrest in the city, I really enjoyed Jakarta. It wasn’t nearly the “armpit of Asia” it’s been made out to be (I think Manilla still holds that title). Most of the time was spent visiting Julie’s family friends, and at one point we ended up at a 2 year-old’s birthday party. We also sample a bit of the nightlife, and I left Jakarta with a good impression of it, and, truth be known, a desire to return. Not a bad spot at all.
YOGYAKARTA. Java’s number one tourist destination, and cultural capital was a bit strange due to the lack of visitors (domestic and foreign). All the places which guidebooks guaranteed would be swarming with tourist buses, were empty. And again, joss was not on our side. The steaming volcano of Mt. Merapi, just outside the city, had a major eruption, dumping ash on the nearby city of Solo, 2 days BEFORE we arrived. (I miss all the good stuff). But to make the best of it, we did all the cultural things there are to do, and saw the biggest Buddhist temple in (insert some geographic zone here). Of course, we annoyed the guards at closing time, refusing to leave before we exercised our God-given right to a sunset photo. A British bloke led the stand, and wouldn’t give an inch, his tripod firmly in place, waiting for the sun to dip behind the mountains. Andreas (German), Julie and I held fast as well. (The Japanese girl and her Aussie boyfriend couldn’t take the heat and broke ranks). We only needed a few more minutes, and these guards didn’t scare us. We’d all been to countries where guards carried large weapons. We got our shots, and because of our tardiness, had to climb a fence to get out of the locked temple grounds (it was that or spend the night and be first inside for the ubiquitous ‘sunrise shot’). And by the time we got to the bus station, all the busses had gone for the night. As we saw it, this was not a problem, but an opportunity. With all the cars on the road, somebody had to be headed back to Yogya. It took only 10 minutes for a tiny truck to stop, and while Andreas and Julie were figuring out who should ride in front, I was already halfway in the back, atop a comfortable load, looking at the clear star-filled skies above. We discovered half-way through the journey that the driver was not, in fact, headed to Yogya. But he drove us to a main road where buses were still running, pulled up alongside a bus and flagged it down for us. Again, I can’t forget how helpful the Indonesian people could be.
After a great week in Yogya, it was time to move on, and with an overnight stop for the obligatory ‘pre-dawn hike up a volcano to see the sunrise’ we arrived in…
BALI. I was a little disappointed with Bali. There weren’t nearly as many young, beautiful native women walking around topless, as I had been led to believe. In fact, the only Balinese woman I witnessed shedding her top in the heat of the midday sun was the grandmother of the family who ran the guesthouse at which I stayed in Ubud, Bali’s cultural heart. You can imagine my disappointment. Apart from this letdown, however, Bali was incredible, tempting me at every turn to spend the rest of my time there. Bali is very developed and heavily touristed, but it’s still possible to get out of the chaos, and back to the paradise (minus the scantily-clad maidens) it’s reputed to be.
Bali is where Julie and I, as planned, went our separate ways. Originally, our farewell adventure was going to be a motorcycle tour with a friend of hers from Holland. I had been excited about ‘easy-riding’ around the island, but Julie was on a tight schedule and only had only 5 days to do it, whereas I had no need to be in a rush. I felt it was best to get back on my own, do my own thing, in my own time.
Kuta Beach is the developed, resort center of the island, with Polo, Gucci and Ralph Lauren stores all in attendance, and the Golden Arches can be seen from any point on the beach. Families can feel at home in luxury hotels, and the not-so-family-oriented, can drink and dance the night away at any number of Kuta’s notorious (and naughty?) clubs. Not exactly an island paradise, but I had to at least check it out. Kuta’s also overrun with Japanese and Australians. But seeing’s how I’ve been missing Japan so much, and for this journey I am an Aussie, I found their presence comforting. There were also hordes of Javanese teenagers on vacation from school, snapping away pictures of the funny foreign tourists. (I should say now, that I think I was photographed more in 2 months in Indonesia, than I was in my entire 3 years in Japan.) So I decided to stay a couple days, but nearly stayed a month after meeting Antonio (Italian), Glenn (Washington, D.C.) and surfing (not a person, a water sport). Antonio, Glenn and I were all solo travelers who met up one day while touring some temples and what not around the island. We had a good day of it together, surviving the scorching sun, the hard-sells of the markets, and a monkey forest (those beasts are evil, I say, EVIL!). That night we hit the ‘scene,’ sending Antonio off to talk to Japanese girls, me feeding him what to say. It was a good laugh. We also came to an important decision: We would surf! Glenn had tried surfing before in Santa Cruz and Costa Rica, and Antonio had given it a go the day before, so I was the only true first-timer, but Papa Schneider’d taught me how to boogie board and body surf in Hawaii (17 years ago!) and I’d seen the cinema classic “North Shore” about a dozen times, so I had confidence. Good times were had, and not without some degree of success, enough to make me understand why the two Swedish guys in the room next to mine had been there a month. (“We surf a couple times a day, eat, read some books, go out at night, and do it all over again the next day.”) But a second day of surfing with Glenn (Antonio was on a plane back home), consisted mostly of floating/sleeping on our rented boards, in awe that and ocean could be so flat. This reminded me that the waves can be fickle, and made me think perhaps I’d better continue my adventures. If it’s my future to be a surf-bum, I can do that back in the States. For now, I’d leave it as a fun holiday diversion. Glenn also had to be on his way, his flight to Bangkok the next day, so I headed up to the black-sand beaches of Lovina for some snorkeling, and more low-key beach action. Lovina is smaller and quieter than Kuta, and far more beautiful, the rice fields and mountains undisturbed by “HARD ROCK CAFE – BALI” and the rest. Here, I met a family who invited me to stay with them (for several weeks!), the grandmother talking to me non-stop, unphased by the fact I couldn’t speak her language. I knew accepting their offer would result in my fluency of the language, but I think it would also have meant marrying the granddaughter, who, as beautiful as she was, at 14 years, just made me feel really old.
I’ve traveled enough to know when it comes to transportation and schedules “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Just get on the bus, and sooner or later (usually the latter) you’ll get there. So when I boarded my Java-bound bus at 3 PM, and then de-boarded again 2 hours later will all my stuff, sat around for another hour, only to board another bus, I wasn’t worried or concerned at all. It always works out. “No worry, no hurry, no chicken curry,” as my trekking guide in Nepal used to love to say. And so 15 minutes after boarding the second bus, when we didn’t move for the next 12 hours, again my feathers weren’t ruffled in the least. I just slept. When we did begin moving again, it took 3 hours to inch our way to the ferry, and the 30 minute ferry crossing took 2 hours, ending in a 1:30 a.m. arrival the next morning, as opposed to the “scheduled” 7:30 a.m. the second day. (16 hour bus ride —> 34 hours) What is time anyway? Besides, I got to know the other passengers really well, and one Balinese mother invited me back to Bali for a festival the following week. Again, a very tempting opportunity, but I think the fix was in here as well, her hinting that I could “remedy” my non-married status. (Her hints weren’t so subtle, along the lines of: “If you don’t like my daughters, I’m sure I can find you a very nice Balinese wife in my village. Balinese women are very hard workers and make very good wives.) Actually, her daughters were very nice young girls, but I’ve got my personal hang-ups about marrying a teenager.
Other bits on Bali: – It turns out the reason for my 13 hour bus delay was that demonstrations had stopped the ferries from running (for a day or two, I heard) so there was a huge backlog of buses and cars waiting to cross the channel. – Bali is one hour ahead of Java/Sumatra time. Funny that Julie and I didn’t realize this for 2 days. Funnier that it made absolutely no difference whatsoever. (Fortunately, she discovered on the day she had to meet her friend at the airport!) – During a festival period, I stumble across and honest-to-garsh, real McCoy, bona-fide cockfight! THAT was wild! (And I thought Mah Jong gambling was intense…)
JAVA. (again)
I had a mission in Java, and yes, it involved erotic temple carvings. As luck would have it, I ran into Andreas and the guesthouse, also on his way back from Bali and points further east, and he was a willing and eager partner-in-crime. The temple and carvings themselves were rather disappointing, being over-hyped to attract the tourists, I s’pose, but the several bus transfers and local transport adventures to get there and back (window seats on one bus–FRONT Window seats on the dashboard of a packed inter-city bus) made for a great day, and a reminder that often it’s the journey, not the destination, which make life great.
MY FOOT. During our adventure, Andreas had noticed my slight limp and makeshift bandage on my right foot and I confessed to him, what I haven’t yet told you, I had a slight ‘owie’ on my foot. I suppose I didn’t mention it because I’m still working out the details of the ‘shark attack’ story, which would sound infinitely better than the ‘attacked by an evil flip-flop with a grudge’ story that’s closer to the truth. The point is, I had a slight wound, of the open sore, pus-oozing out variety. Andreas offered some iodine so I could properly clean the cut, and this seemed like a good idea. “But I want to be here when you put it on,” he said with an evil grin. “I want to see you cry and hear you scream like a little girl!” I took off the sock I had protecting the cut, and showed it to Andreas. He screamed like a little girl, and ran out of the room, crying. When he returned (after he’d composed himself and I promised not to show it to him again), he demanded I go to a doctor. “You have to go to the doctor!” Andreas demanded. “You think so?” Jay ‘just walk it off’ Schneider questioned, “Maybe if I can…” “No! You are going to a doctor!” “Yeah, I guess tomorrow I’ll…” “No! Tonight! Now!”
Actually, we went out for dinner first, and met Christine, a Canadian graduate student who had been doing research in Kalimantan during the recent massacres and beheadings (over 400!), but didn’t hear anything about it until returning to Java. “After dinner, we’re going to a hospital, wanna come?” “er…” “c’mon, it’ll be fun!” “Can I bring popcorn?” And so the three of us piled into 2 cycle rickshaws and headed out in search of a hospital. We found one, with the staff seemingly content to be absorbed in the football match on t.v., and the party began. As the doctor and his attendant cleaned my wound, I directed Andreas, official photographer, to make sure all angles were covered, and though I thought she was joking, I could’ve sworn I saw Christine munching away on some popcorn. The doctor and staff said little, understandably upset at having the soccer match interrupted, and just shrugged off the happening of those strange and mysterious foreigners. They also didn’t give much in the way of explanation of the bag of drugs they gave me (again, I’ve been in Asia long enough to know the Doctors’ ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. Us westerners are sure strange wanting to know what medicines we’re taking and why), nor advice about dressing and re-dressing the wound, but at our post-party gathering at the hotel, we three examined all my goodies, and being the reasonably intelligent people we are, came up with a healing strategy. And the whole bit cost me a whopping $9. I’m uninsured again, so that came out of my pocket.
JAKARTA. (again)
Andreas and I rode in style to Jakarta, taking the ‘Business Class’ train, because the cheap one was full. We were rewarded with super comfortable seats, meals and snacks, and movies and music videos (Roxette’s Greatest Hits and Guns’n’Roses being my favorite!). Once more hoping to find the city in turmoil, and a country on the verge of revolution, we were disappointed, but had a pleasant time of it anyway. Again, I had a great time in this city, and left with a good impression.
THE 60-HOUR BUS RIDE TO SUMATRA.
I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I wasn’t trying to be cheap. I wasn’t trying to do anything extraordinary by taking the ‘ekonomi’ bus for 60 hours. You see, there’s this whole “A/C (air conditioned)” scam running in tropical countries, where it’s advertised as a luxury item. But 9 times out of 10, you end up freezing your ass off under the full-blast, non-adjustable AC, wondering how it’s possible to be so cold in such a naturally warm environment. Also, with the AC buses, they like pack on other ‘luxuries’ such as videos playing at full blast to help you through the wee hours of the morning when it’s too cold to sleep. Rather an unpleasant experience. Actually, prior to our non-AC bus ride to Jakarta, I told Julie I was a bit apprehensive about it, but the ride was quite comfortable, windows opened and closed to regulate heat, we slept well and when we got off the bus nearly 40 hours later, I felt good. In fact, I could have gone on longer if necessary. With this attitude, I wisely purchased a ticket for the ‘ekonomi’ bus, laughing at all the suckers boarding the AC bus next door.
Not all ‘ekonomi’ buses are created equal.
This bus had very uncomfortable bench seats, with non-reclining seats (actually, some reclined, though not by design, nor under anyone’s control). I had an aisle seat, and the man next to me, being a ‘sturdy’ fellow, naturally overflowed over into ‘my side.’ I didn’t think this would be such a big deal until they loaded on the passengers who would sit on stools in the aisle, thus restricting the ‘aisle-overflow’ prerogative to which those in my situation are entitled. During the night, on those few moments I did find sleep(by the 3rd night, you’re bound to be tired enough to get some sleep, regardless of the conditions), I would awake to find one aisle-dweller’s head on my shoulder, and another who had decided she’d sleep more comfortably with her rear on the corner of my seat. And so it went. For 60 hours. Think about that. 60 hours. Think about all that you have done for the past 2 1/2 days. In that amount of time, I was bussing my way to Northern Sumatra.
BUKIT LAWANG, LAKE TOBA, MEDAN (SUMATRA)
I spent the next week in Northern Sumatra (though, not so far north as Aceh, where the separatists and Indonesian army are fighting away), recovering from my bus ride, reflecting on my past 2 months in this wonderful country, and just plain relaxing. Thinking a jungle trek was not the best thing for my foot (much better now, by the way), my time in Bukit Lawang was spent hanging out on the river. I rented an inner-tube and tubed my way down the rapids. It was very unregulated, and certainly not the safest thing one could have done, but since everyone else was doing it, why not? Sure my butt banged over a number of rocks, but at least those rocks had been smoothed by thousands of butts before mine, making for a jolly-good ride. I certainly wasn’t alone, as hundreds of Sumatrans were up for the day, to ride the rapids, eat food, and play music till late. Mid-rapid, I met Metty, who reached out and grabbed my hand and asked “Hello, Mister, may we join you?” her brother and her sharing a tube. At the end of our ride, she invited me to join her family (BIG!) where I was well fed, before several more tubing runs, with as many as 8 or 9 of her family members linked together down the rapids. When we tired of this, we sat back and enjoyed the guitar-playing of her cousins (I think 1 in 4 Indonesians can play the guitar…) and thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon. At one point, I started to wonder if I should excuse myself and go see the afternoon orangutan feeding in the rehabilitation center (one of the things you’re ‘supposed’ to do when you come to Bukit Lawang’). Then, as if on cue, one of the funny creatures came down on the other side of the river, perhaps to check out all the commotion. It was a treat, not only for me, but for all the locals, as wild sightings are rare, without trekking deep into the jungle. It was a great day.
At lake Toba, I woke up, swam, ate, read, swam, ate, wrote, swam, slept, etc. most every day, save for a 6 hour stretch where I rented a motorcycle and cruised to a hot spring (and I mean HOT!).
And back to Medan, to arrange my ferry ticket out of the country (visa expires in 2 days), have Metty show me around town, and, since I’ve got some extra rupiah, and it’s only 40 cents/hour, catch up on my e-correspondence.
What’s next? Tomorrow, I regain my US citizenship, and head back towards Thailand, en route to Laos. And after that? Well, to know the future, it’s best to look at the past.
“Jay, don’t you think it’s about time you came home?” “aw, c’mon, Mom, just one..no..two more months, please?”
Smart money says I’m on US soil in June… Jay “G’day, mates” Schneider