“What sort of deal are we talking about?” Erica responded in a confrontational tone loud enough so neighboring immigration officials could hear. Mindful of an Indonesian law that prohibited entry into the country without proof of departure, and being caught empty-handed, we knew the question required no explanation. In a somewhat ironic twist, we waited while the officer weighed his options. Within moments we were escorted by security to Garuda Indonesia where we purchased our one-way tickets to Singapore.
We arrived in Bali forty-nine days after the October bombings. The Pelasa Hotel, just off Legian Street, where we stayed, had few visitors. The deserted streets meant more touts per tourist, and we struggled with the constant harassment. From traveller surveys that resulted in telephone calls pitching timeshares to massage offers while relaxing on the beach, someone made sure we rarely enjoyed a moment to ourselves. Frustrated with the locals, and tired of being polite about it, we set our sites on the less touristy island of Java.
We walked into a travel agency on Legian Street looking for bus tickets to Yogyakarta. Worn furniture and faded posters decorated the dingy office cluttered with papers. The lone employee did little more than warm a chair.
“Excuse me!” I said after clearing my throat. When he remained slumped over his desk, I repeated myself a little louder. Still nothing, not even a grunt. Is he asleep? Maybe he’s dead? No sense waiting around and explaining to corrupt authorities in Koran country how an infidel stumbled upon this scene, so we hit the road and headed for another travel agent.
No one sold tickets to Yogyakarta. So, without the required driving permit, we rented a motor scooter and navigated the chaotic streets on our way to Denpasar contented with paying the bribe, if caught. We arrived at the bus station and became unwitting victims of a platform fee – an Indonesian cover charge for entrance into Club Greyhound. While the platform attendant directed us to the ticket office located within the station, the actual ticket windows faced the parking lot outside of the station. We found that out after paying the fee and wandering hopelessly around the platform before asking someone else who sent us in the right direction. Once at the windows, I fought my way through the riotous touting and settled on a company whose colored brochure boasted the most comfortable and modern bus.
Comfortable and modern thirty years ago when the photo was first taken, I thought as I lay there staring at the roof of the bus after the back of my seat collapsed. A fellow traveler we met observed during a South American trip that used American buses get passed on to Mexico, and after Mexico ran them into the ground, they got sold to South America. I wondered how much of my ticket paid for the shipping costs from Peru. Well, at least the air conditioning worked. With our bags tucked out of sight behind the seats at the rear of the bus, we introduced ourselves to the only other Caucasian, a fellow from Germany, and the three of us passed the time away talking about our travel experiences while waiting to leave.
We arrived in Surabaya late that evening where we changed buses. The air conditioning on our previous bus, which worked so well in the parking lot, surrendered to the stifling heat that invaded the relic through unseen cracks and loose rivets once we began moving. Erica and I welcomed the change, but that lasted until they escorted us to a school bus. A fan circulating hot air replaced the air conditioning, and adding insult to injury, every bump in the road lifted me off the seat and my testicles took a beating when I landed. Ernie and Burt spent the rest of the journey cupped protectively in my hand.
Around 5:00 AM, we pulled into Yogyakarta fatigued and grimy, but fertile. The three of us haggled with several cab drivers, but all justified their $2-per-head fare insisting the hotel district was a galaxy away. Making the mistake of showing up without a good map, we sucked it up and paid $6 for, what turned out to be, a 500-yard drive down the road. Utterly spent, Erica and I settled on a room in some cheap hotel while Gerhard stayed at a worse place across the street. Erica began unpacking and noticed that her toiletries vanished. Not long afterwards, I discovered a nasty slash inside a pocket of my backpack where a broken video camera and a few pencils made their escape. The next morning, our German friend mentioned that his hiking boots walked away. Robbed on the bus while we slept!
The eighteen-hour bus ride from Denpasar to Yogyakarta exhausted us beyond imagination. In addition, we developed an even greater distrust for the locals, which is rarely a bad thing. But with that challenge behind us, we vowed never again. Fortunately, only one major journey lay ahead of us: getting from Yogyakarta to Jakarta. And that, we agreed, would happen over the rails.
We arrived in Bali forty-nine days after the October bombings. The Pelasa Hotel, just off Legian Street, where we stayed, had few visitors. The deserted streets meant more touts per tourist, and we struggled with the constant harassment. From traveller surveys that resulted in telephone calls pitching timeshares to massage offers while relaxing on the beach, someone made sure we rarely enjoyed a moment to ourselves. Frustrated with the locals, and tired of being polite about it, we set our sites on the less touristy island of Java.
We walked into a travel agency on Legian Street looking for bus tickets to Yogyakarta. Worn furniture and faded posters decorated the dingy office cluttered with papers. The lone employee did little more than warm a chair.
“Excuse me!” I said after clearing my throat. When he remained slumped over his desk, I repeated myself a little louder. Still nothing, not even a grunt. Is he asleep? Maybe he’s dead? No sense waiting around and explaining to corrupt authorities in Koran country how an infidel stumbled upon this scene, so we hit the road and headed for another travel agent.
No one sold tickets to Yogyakarta. So, without the required driving permit, we rented a motor scooter and navigated the chaotic streets on our way to Denpasar contented with paying the bribe, if caught. We arrived at the bus station and became unwitting victims of a platform fee – an Indonesian cover charge for entrance into Club Greyhound. While the platform attendant directed us to the ticket office located within the station, the actual ticket windows faced the parking lot outside of the station. We found that out after paying the fee and wandering hopelessly around the platform before asking someone else who sent us in the right direction. Once at the windows, I fought my way through the riotous touting and settled on a company whose colored brochure boasted the most comfortable and modern bus.
Comfortable and modern thirty years ago when the photo was first taken, I thought as I lay there staring at the roof of the bus after the back of my seat collapsed. A fellow traveler we met observed during a South American trip that used American buses get passed on to Mexico, and after Mexico ran them into the ground, they got sold to South America. I wondered how much of my ticket paid for the shipping costs from Peru. Well, at least the air conditioning worked. With our bags tucked out of sight behind the seats at the rear of the bus, we introduced ourselves to the only other Caucasian, a fellow from Germany, and the three of us passed the time away talking about our travel experiences while waiting to leave.
We arrived in Surabaya late that evening where we changed buses. The air conditioning on our previous bus, which worked so well in the parking lot, surrendered to the stifling heat that invaded the relic through unseen cracks and loose rivets once we began moving. Erica and I welcomed the change, but that lasted until they escorted us to a school bus. A fan circulating hot air replaced the air conditioning, and adding insult to injury, every bump in the road lifted me off the seat and my testicles took a beating when I landed. Ernie and Burt spent the rest of the journey cupped protectively in my hand.
Around 5:00 AM, we pulled into Yogyakarta fatigued and grimy, but fertile. The three of us haggled with several cab drivers, but all justified their $2-per-head fare insisting the hotel district was a galaxy away. Making the mistake of showing up without a good map, we sucked it up and paid $6 for, what turned out to be, a 500-yard drive down the road. Utterly spent, Erica and I settled on a room in some cheap hotel while Gerhard stayed at a worse place across the street. Erica began unpacking and noticed that her toiletries vanished. Not long afterwards, I discovered a nasty slash inside a pocket of my backpack where a broken video camera and a few pencils made their escape. The next morning, our German friend mentioned that his hiking boots walked away. Robbed on the bus while we slept!
The eighteen-hour bus ride from Denpasar to Yogyakarta exhausted us beyond imagination. In addition, we developed an even greater distrust for the locals, which is rarely a bad thing. But with that challenge behind us, we vowed never again. Fortunately, only one major journey lay ahead of us: getting from Yogyakarta to Jakarta. And that, we agreed, would happen over the rails.
