The announcement knocked the wind right out of me. Erica and I understood nothing from the voice crackling over the speakers, but the collective moans from those who spoke the language told us the train, already hours behind schedule, remained several more hours, if not days, away. With the insufferable bus ride from Bali to Yogyakarta still fresh in our minds, and now this frustrating delay to Jakarta, I concluded that constipation moved bowels more efficiently than Indonesian public transit moved people.
The train finally inched its way into the station amongst the cheers of impatience. With Business Class tickets in hand, we squeezed through the doors and grabbed a spot on the floor against the wall. Only a handful of passengers enjoyed the relative luxury of the sixteen bench seats due to the acceptable practice of overcrowding. The vast majority of us sat on the floor or stood. My sarcastic hopes for culinary delights or hot towels usually associated with Business Class quickly vanished, but at least we were inside the train unlike those in economy clinging to its exterior.
We labored for hours along the track rocking from side to side past the ubiquitous rice fields and dilapidated houses. I occupied most of my time people watching. Some passengers slept while others indulged in rice smothered with sauce and served on a banana leaf by a woman ignorant of the guidelines for safe food handling. Nearby, another lady read the newspaper. “6 MORT!” proclaimed the headline next to a photo of a derailed train. I did not know if Indonesia used the same word, but I knew that mort, translated from the French, meant dead. Within moments, we neared the town of Kebumen, and our train crawled by the wreckage. I stared out the window at the buckled rails and overturned carriages littering the rice field amazed that only six people perished.
We arrived in Jakarta well past midnight after another arduous journey through the countryside. Having battled almost every mode of transport Indonesia offered, from busses to tuk-tuks, an experience best described as a bumpy ride on the back of a motorized tricycle, choking on exhaust fumes, all the while being serenaded by a chainsaw, we stopped short of clashing swords with their airline. Instead, we toyed with the idea of taking a freighter across the Strait of Malacca until one day, while walking past a travel agent, we noticed an unassuming sign in the window advertising $79 flights to Singapore on Bahrainian-owned Gulf Air. Yes, I would love a hot towel after my steak. Thank you.
The train finally inched its way into the station amongst the cheers of impatience. With Business Class tickets in hand, we squeezed through the doors and grabbed a spot on the floor against the wall. Only a handful of passengers enjoyed the relative luxury of the sixteen bench seats due to the acceptable practice of overcrowding. The vast majority of us sat on the floor or stood. My sarcastic hopes for culinary delights or hot towels usually associated with Business Class quickly vanished, but at least we were inside the train unlike those in economy clinging to its exterior.
We labored for hours along the track rocking from side to side past the ubiquitous rice fields and dilapidated houses. I occupied most of my time people watching. Some passengers slept while others indulged in rice smothered with sauce and served on a banana leaf by a woman ignorant of the guidelines for safe food handling. Nearby, another lady read the newspaper. “6 MORT!” proclaimed the headline next to a photo of a derailed train. I did not know if Indonesia used the same word, but I knew that mort, translated from the French, meant dead. Within moments, we neared the town of Kebumen, and our train crawled by the wreckage. I stared out the window at the buckled rails and overturned carriages littering the rice field amazed that only six people perished.
We arrived in Jakarta well past midnight after another arduous journey through the countryside. Having battled almost every mode of transport Indonesia offered, from busses to tuk-tuks, an experience best described as a bumpy ride on the back of a motorized tricycle, choking on exhaust fumes, all the while being serenaded by a chainsaw, we stopped short of clashing swords with their airline. Instead, we toyed with the idea of taking a freighter across the Strait of Malacca until one day, while walking past a travel agent, we noticed an unassuming sign in the window advertising $79 flights to Singapore on Bahrainian-owned Gulf Air. Yes, I would love a hot towel after my steak. Thank you.
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