Monday, February 23, 1998

It is time to move on from Banda Neira. I've enjoyed my experience here and learned a lot. Peter and Charlotte walk with me to catch the early morning ferry. We wander past the ferry dock, down the lane, talking about the economic crisis and our concerns for the welfare of the local people. The boat arrives with great fanfare in Banda Neira. Its huge size dwarfs the ferry landing and town below. The town is a flurry of activity, with travelers crowding to get on or off the boat, families and friends seeing them off or welcoming them home. Becaks, bicycle rickshaws, stand ready to ferry passengers to and from their local destinations. Merchants have set up tables to sell snacks, drinks and other odd goods. Peter thanks me for the help I have been to the program. Before I know it, I've boarded the huge ship and the town is laid out below me. From the top deck I can see over the rooftops and to the Dutch fort. It's an expansive view of homes, shops, and the temporary activity from the ferry.

My ferry ticket will take me from Banda to Ujung Pandang, Sulawesi, another island in Indonesia. I'm glad to be traveling via ferry instead of airplane. The air service is unreliable and the plane on the way to Banda looked like it was missing a few parts. Some of the stories Peter told about the airline's safety record didn't improve my confidence. This nice comfortable ferry seems just the right thing. I'm not in a hurry. I'm going to Sulawesi to check out a region that is known for Ikat weavings. I've decided to stay on in Indonesia for a while. I'm already here, it's a beautiful country with lots of variety, the people are nice and the economic conditions make it very affordable.

I have great first class cabin on the huge beautiful new ferryboat. My illness has not disappeared. A rash has developed on my arms, legs, feet and hands. I itch all over. There is not much for me to do on the boat but read and rest. After the boat gets underway, I walk around, looking at the different decks, from the promenades on the top deck to the cinema in the bottom. Others, almost all Indonesian, are doing the same thing. People of all ages stroll. Young men smoke cigarettes and gaze off into the ocean. After a while, there are no islands in view, only endless water. I return to my cabin and discover I have a roommate, a pretty young Indonesian woman. She reads while I write, maybe I'll read some too.

The boat stops in Ambon for two hours in the afternoon. It is the same town I stayed in for a night before the flight to Banda. I am glad to have a small sense of familiarity with the place. There are still the same music stores with huge speakers blasting too much base and bad rock-n-roll music. The streets are busy with the bustle of commerce. I remember all the food cravings voiced during our dinner discussions on Banda and wish I could get them some of the candy or goodies they wanted. There is not much I'm desperate to have, but I stock up on bottled water, cookies and other snacks for the trip. I go back to the boat and discover the young woman got off in Ambon. I have the entire cabin to myself. Dinner is nice, the staff is attentive and the food tastes okay. We are served rice, some vegetables, fish and tea. There aren't many of us in first class. I think I'm the only Westerner on the boat, an oddity as a single female traveling alone. My cabin is very comfortable. Such luxury, there is even hot water for a shower! I use the sarong I got in Banda as an extra sheet. Sleep is good.

Tuesday, February 24, 1998

I relax, read, and wander around the boat. For a diversion, I watch a movie in the downstairs theater, Eddie Murphy in some strange film, not one of his better ones. The theater seems to be run by a young entrepreneur who has lots of bootleg videodisks and quite the electronics set up. After lunch we dock in Bau Bau, a town in eastern Sulawesi. The boat will be here for at least two hours so I get off to have a look around. As I'm coming down the pier, looking for a shop to get water, I meet a young woman. She asks to practice her English with me. We walk and talk in the hot afternoon sun. After wandering through the market, we continue down the road, ending up in her village. Her family makes their living fishing. They proudly show me the building where they keep fish after catching them. They live in a small group of houses off a side road overlooking the water. Peeking out at us is a collection of sisters, brothers, cousins, nephews, and also her Mother and Father. Everyone is here, smiling and laughing. They observe the strange tourist wandering around looking and speaking English with their relation. I take some pictures. The kids ham it up big time for the camera. We exchange addresses and then I head back to the ship.

It is hot! My illness from last week has not totally gone away and I still feel a bit woozy. I rest, then have dinner and more sleep. This boat is so big and new and comfortable. I wish I could stay here and enjoy the timelessness of going. We arrive in Ujung Pandang early tomorrow morning. I guess I'm scared of the next chapter of this adventure, the ongoing challenge to find a place to stay, bargaining for a good room rate, and getting my bearings in a new place.

Wednesday, Feburary 25, 1998

We arrive just after dawn. I disembark amidst people and baggage and confusion. Where am I, where do I go, where will I stay, how do I get there? I've got the name of a hotel from my guidebook. It sounds okay so I go in that direction. I'm told it's not that far away, 300 meters or so. It's a nice morning. I'm cautious after feeling bombarded and attacked by all the hustlers meeting the boat, transport and others ready to "help"? I'm tired and disoriented and still not feeling 100 percent better. So I walk and walk and walk. Stubborn me just keeps going, carting along my suitcase. I must be quite a site, the pilgrim tourist who doesn't know where she's going, only hoping she'll get there soon. Finally I make it, negotiate for a room (forever my trauma) and try to unwind.

Before venturing further, I decide to find out if what ails me is serious or not. The rest on the boat helped a lot, but I want to be sure it's not dengue fever or some other tropical malaise. Before leaving on the trip, I signed up for SOS. It is a medical and travel assistance program that helps locate doctors and deals with emergency support for travelers. I call the regional center and they contact the local Indonesian office in Jakarta. I get a call back and talk to a nice Canadian doctor and others on the staff. After a few calls back and forth, the SOS folks find some local resources. In a few hours a doctor, nurse and the SOS contact who happens to be a dental forensics specialist and police officer arrive at my hotel door. The hotel must wonder if this single female American traveler will survive the stay. The doctor checks my pulse, looks at the rashes on my hands and feet, listens to my symptoms and declares that I must be suffering from some sort of allergic reaction. He prescribes some medicine and they all depart.

Later the Police officer returns with filled prescriptions and bills for services rendered. I pay and he also offers his support and help in whatever way he can. They are all very kind and helpful. I feel fortunate to get the help. Overall I feel okay. From conversations with the Canadian doctor and my own sense of how I feel, I decide not to take the medicine for now. I'll take it easy for a few days. The SOS folks call back several times to check up on me. It's nice to feel cared for.

I rest and read and watch CNN on the TV, world events in sound bites. I find internet access a few doors down from my hotel in a computer store. It's a comfortable place to settle in for a while. Their window looks across the street to the ocean. I talk with the young folks running the place. The guys are computer-jock wanna bees and the girls answer the phone and giggle. People wander in and out. I wait while my email downloads. It takes a long time on their slow connection, but I don't mind. I've finally learned to slow down and give things the time they need to happen. In the tropic heat, urgency is not so all encompassing. Moving slowly, taking things one step at a time is more in keeping with the local rhythms.

I don't want to carry around books and my lazy Susan from Banda. The hotel helps me catch a becak and off I go to find the Post Office. It's another adventure in packing, customs and all the other details involved in sending a package overseas. I'm lucky I can afford it. The financial situation makes the cost of shipping reasonable for me but prohibitive for the locals. I wander around a bit, looking at the shops. Ujung Pandang is a large port. The town has a sense of modern that is depressing in spite of its ocean front location.

In my search for an ATM for cash and a clean Western toilet, I wander into a upscale luxury business hotel. It's cool with air conditioning and marble modernisms. While in the bathroom I meet a woman and ask her advice about the area. She invites me to join her group of friends in the lounge area The four women, my guess is they are in between 40 and 50, are married to expatriate executives who are working in Indonesia on various projects. Work regulations do not allow the wives to work at all, so they get together to talk, exchange books or plan excursions. They don't have much advice for me as a single person traveling. They think a young Australian woman who is a teacher at the local international school will have some suggestions. She does a lot of solo travel during her school breaks. We talk a bit more about how the problems in Indonesia are affecting them. They have mixed feelings about living here. All expect that soon they'll be required to leave. The financial problems are eating away at all international development and business projects. While their lives are restricted, they also have a number of luxuries including large houses, servants and drivers. They offer me a ride to the Australians home and then my hotel. I get my ATM cash and off we go. The Australian woman is not home, but we leave a message and I write down her phone number. I appreciate the ride back to my hotel and I'm thankful for their advice and company.

In the evening vendors set up their food carts on the street in front of my hotel running along the water. The street that runs along the ocean turns into a mile-long open-air restaurant. Groups of young folk sit along the waterfront after work and have a fruit drink or a plate of rice or noodles. I wander down and back then choose a food cart that looks good. My request is for a meal similar to what someone else is eating. I've been sticking to more veggies and rice or noodles. My dinner is tasty. I eat and then go back to the hotel before it gets too dark. I'm not comfortable wandering around on my own at night. I've seen no Westerners in town and only a few Japanese tourists buying souvenirs. I get the sense that here, in the bigger city, the economic crisis is having a greater effect. Being an industrial port, it's less likely to be a prime tourist destination.

Thursday, February 26, 1998

I've decided to continue my travels to Rantepao in Tantoraja. It's in the mountains so it should be a bit cooler. I understand there is beautiful countryside, hiking and textiles too. I'll see what I can see there and then move on to Jogya. I'm not a collector of remote places. I want some creature comforts, not the cheapest place. I guess the heat and humidity are getting to me, along with the hardness of an industrial city, or maybe it is time to move on. I feel like I am wandering from place to place, not sure of the wheres or whys, just the going. It's tiring not being able to understand the language or what's going on. I observe, but there is no one giving me insight into what I'm seeing or experiencing. I'm shy and not aggressive about connecting with locals or others for company. I feel so outside of everything. Hopefully in the mountains beyond the city, it will get better. We shall see.

For today, I wander around, shopping, looking. I called the Australian, Elle. We are meeting her at her school during the noon break. I've brought an English paperback to offer, maybe trade. The school is sweet, kids of all ages and nationalities learning and playing. Elle is an interesting woman. She uses her abilities as a teacher to live, work, and visit many far off places. The pay is enough and the school schedule gives her freedom to do a fair amount of travel. She has visited many places, going on treks with local guides. She gives me some good advice. We have a nice conversation while the school kids eat their lunch. Before she returns to her classroom, she leaves me in the library and invites me to trade my book for another. It's those little things that help the day go.

My search for travel information leads me to several "travel agencies" that offer various services, including cars, drivers, tour guides and hotels. When I walk in the office, the snoozing desk person scrambles to locate the owner or someone who speaks some English. Brochures and itineraries are procured, options presented. Most of the packages seem makeshift, like opportunists seeing a rich tourist. None of them are recommended. I'm sure many are alright, but I'm uncomfortable getting into a car and driving off with someone I don't know, going who knows where. The fees seem a bit excessive as well. So, I decide to go the public route and trust that somehow it will work out when I get there, wherever there is. Between Elle's advice and the tour book information, I think I've got it figured out.

After my travel agency visits, I get a becak to the Radison hotel and treat myself to the comforts of an air conditioned lunch in more familiar westernized surroundings. The hamburger is uninspired but I enjoy it. I wander back toward my hotel, looking at shop windows and ocean front activities. The hotel has HBO so I turn into a couch potato and watch dumb movies. I have dinner again on the nighttime restaurant street. Street kids come up and ask for my leftovers before I've finished. Street vendors, more kids really, are selling cigarettes. I feel sad about it. I'm still a bit sick and not so hungry anyway. Back to the room to sleep before getting up early tomorrow for my bus ride.

Friday, February 27, 1998

The early morning is a hustle of packing and checking out and getting a taxi and going to the bus station and sorting out tickets and busses and all. I had hoped to get a deluxe, air-conditioned bus but it leaves much later. The choice is to go now in a "regular" bus or wait almost 2 hours in the dusty bus station filled with busses and office shacks. I'm not one to wait around so I get on the bus, sitting up front to have a better view and feel safer. It's a long, long drive, over eight hours of hot bumpy road. It's an interesting ride, made cooler by the wind from the open door. The bus starts with a few passengers. We pick up many more as we travel north. I'm the only white person. They must think me quite and oddity. No one speaks English. I look out the window. Sometimes I snooze. I enjoy the going, nothing to do but sit here and watch the world go by.

I'm a bit anxious because I don't know where we're going, when we're stopping or anything. Inevitably, we stop at a road-stop for busses. There are places along the road, geared for transit stops, with bathroom facilities (not toilets, but partitioned off holes in cement floors with some sort of running water), a stand with cigarettes, candy, water and sodas, and some type of restaurant. I follow the lead of other passengers, a pair of women traveling together. They notice me and help out as much as our limited communication will allow. The drive is long and we make several of these "comfort" stops. I loose track of time. At one point along the road, we pass a series of open-sided huts up on platforms. They line the road, each with one or more people and piles of produce. The driver stops at one, I imagine they are friends of his. Everyone piles out of the bus and buys a bag of the fruit. They enjoy them immensely. I don't understand so I don't get myself any. After the bus leaves, the driver lets me have a few of his. I taste them, after watching how they are eaten. The skin is sort of cracked open and pealed. The fruit inside is white and delicate and sweet. It's almost like eating a fragrance. They are good. I enjoy my stash of fruit as the bus travels along the road. Later, from the guidebook, I figure out that they are mangosteens. I like tropical fruits, from pineapples to papayas, bananas and these mangosteens. I feel so much better being in the country, away from Ujung Pandang.

The day goes on and toward the late afternoon, we pull into a larger town. From the map I am following, I think we are near our final destination of Rantepao. I say a little prayer hoping that somehow I'll be able to find a nice place to stay and everything will work out okay. After an entire ride with the seat next to me empty, a fellow gets on for the final leg of our journey. I'll never know if it was fate or some sort of set up, but whatever, it was a good thing. It turns out that he is a tour guide, certified by the government. He speaks fairly good English. We talk during the last leg of my journey. He is returning from visiting a friend on his birthday. We discuss places to stay and he tells me he knows of a good one. The bus lets us off in town and we go to a nearby inn. It's fairly new, a small group of individual cottages built around a center garden courtyard in the local style, Torajan bungalows. Mine is very comfortable with it's own porch that looks out on the garden, and has a bathroom including hot water. The price is very affordable.

 

Strong patterns decorate the rice barns and other buildings in Toraja.

After I settle in, Yako and I discuss itineraries for visiting the local sites. He writes out a series of destinations and must see sights in the area, including local Ikat

weavings and if we are lucky, a real funeral ceremony. Negotiations and driver details taken care of, we reach an agreement for two days of viewing the sites. I'm looking forward to starting tomorrow. I have a simple dinner at a place where Yako hangs out at with other tour buddies. I'm bushed, it was a long, long day on the bus and it's time to get some rest.

Saturday, February 28, 1998

It's raining out, that's okay. I'm in my snug little Toraja hut with a bamboo thatch roof that towers over the room. My breakfast of tea, hard-boiled egg and sweet bread is left on the porch table. I sit and look at the garden, watching the rain while I eat. The gardener is taking a break from trimming the plants. A big fern spreads out in front of me, a cocoa tree with red pods stands in front of another bungalow. The rooster clucks and crows, the birds chirp and fly in and out of the bamboo roofs. There are seven of these cottages connected by paths through the gardens. The air is soft, warm, wet but not hot. It is cooler because we are in the mountains. I feel comfortable in a T-shirt, shorts and no shoes.

Yako with driver collects me at my bungalow. Our sightseeing begins as we drive through beautiful countryside on flower lined roads. The floral plantings are the results of a regional beautification project. It's very successful as far as I'm concerned. Our first destination is a "festival" or first day of a funeral for a man about 35 _ 40. It's not clear what he died of, but he's been dead for months, if not a year. The family saved up and waited for the proper time to hold the three-day funeral. Funerals in this region are quite an event. We walk up a rough road. The rain, mud and rocks make it better to walk than risk our vehicle getting stuck. On our way, we pass various homes and family compounds. It is early but we are not the first to arrive. We are shown to one of the guest sitting areas. Bamboo mats are laid out on a dirt floor in the viewing area under one of the compound buildings. It is one of several buildings, some permanent, others erected for the event, clustered around a muddy central area approximately 20 feet by 50 feet. Guests go to specific sitting areas depending on their relation to the family. In addition to family, there are friends, officials, a representative from the church, facilitators for the event and even a few snack vendors. There are all age ranges, from kids to grandparents.

A family member receives our gift of a carton of cigarettes. We sit and observe the activities. A few other groups of observers (tourists) arrive to sit with us and watch. We are offered tea or coffee. Some of the kids loiter nearby looking at the foreigners. Guests arrive with a gift. Important, valued guests bring one or more water buffalo. Additional gifts include big fat black pigs and palm wine brought in five-gallon plastic containers. The buffalo stand tied up in the courtyard. The pigs are trussed up, their legs tied to a pole, ready to hang over the fire. They squeal loudly and wiggle fiercely to get away. Officials walk around with white sashes. There is one family member recording each gift, its contents and size. A voice on the loudspeaker asks, "who gives this buffalo?" Another man sprays red paint markings on the animals' sides. An official makes his records so that the correct taxes can be collected. One of the event facilitators looks over the water buffalo, analyzing each one. He determines the appropriate number and individual animals to be sacrificed on each day of the funeral. The more important the deceased, the more buffalo must be sacrificed to ensure proper entry into heaven.

 

Watching the activities at a traditional funeral.

The ceremonies commence with an announcement on the loudspeaker. A procession consisting of a collection of male relations totter across the muddy courtyard carrying the coffin up steep steps to the dais in the funeral pavilion. The coffin and pavilion are decorated with ornaments and multi colored sashes. Guests continue to arrive, sloshing their way through the mud, bearing pigs, palm wine or leading buffalo. Each gift is properly recorded. Eventually there are at least twelve buffalo. Kids and people are milling about everywhere, tourists are recording their Kodak moments for the folks back home. It is a casual structured chaos.

Eventually it is time to sacrifice some of the buffalo. The professional buffalo selector chooses the appropriate beasts, ties their hooves together and then slits the buffaloes' throat. The animals thrash and turn and bleed and bleed and fall over and bleed and three to five minutes later, finally bleed to death. For me, it is not a pretty site. For other tourists, the cameras are clicking away. Highlights for the trip review? The pigs are killed in the back area somewhere. The next step is to skin the animals in preparation for cooking and the feast to be served later. Women in the cooking area of the compound prepare the pigs. The party lasts for three days. There are lots of people to be served, food to be eaten, and palm wine to be consumed. The deceased must be properly honored and escorted to heaven. The buffalo are not sacrificed for only heavenly purposes, meat that is not eaten during the funeral is sold. One of the buffalo is auctioned and the money given to the local church. Everyone is accommodated.

Having experienced the highlights of the morning, we venture on to our next stop. I understand the rest of the day at the funeral is spent hanging around, talking, eating and drinking palm wine. Palm wine is distilled from sap bled from the fruit of certain palm trees. Left sitting in containers in distills into some very potent alcohol.

For lunch, we have an "authentic" local meal. The locals go there to get home cooking just like Grandma used to make. We are served several pots of meat that has been steamed or stewed or baked in leaves or bamboo tubes. It's spicy stuff served with a bowl of rice. The traditional way to eat is with your hands so I scoop with the rest of them. It's good. I watch as locals come and get large portions to take home. Sitting in the small restaurant, I realize that Indonesia is a collection of different island countries, each with their own language, culture, religion and customs. In the cities, much of this has a modern veneer, but here in the country, as in Banda and Bali, there is and underlying history that is different from the modern Indonesia. To underscore this, Yako has fun trying to teach me words in the local Torajan Dialect.

 

Weavers sit in open huts ready to sell to tourists.

Our tour continues with a visit to a local weaving village. It's something of a set up. Along the path are a series of open rooms with a collection of different weavings for sale. Elderly women are in each of the rooms and occasionally one is doing Ikat weaving or spinning yarn. Many of the things are interesting. The women are heavy bargainers. They certainly have their customers pegged for rich tourists and they make the best of it. I don't know a lot about judging Ikat weavings so I pick a few that appeal to me and try to make a good bargain. While we are there, a mini van with a group of tourists from the NY area arrives.

We drive past villages of traditional Toraja homes, covered in rich, pattern carvings and painted black, red, and ochre. They look like square space ships on stilts. Usually several are grouped together in a compound. Some are homes, some ceremonial buildings and many are rice barns, built to protect the families' rice from flooding, rats and other pests.

 

Rice barns fly like space ships across the Torajan landscape

I am dropped off at my bungalow at the end of the days touring. Later, Yako goes with me to the local Meripati office. I try to arrange a flight to Ujung Pandang and on to Java. I think I'll learn about batik. No one is available to help me so we leave word about my requests. I'll go back another day to arrange things. On the walk back through town, we pass a local seminary, the police station, a military garrison, shops, homes and all sorts of activities. People go about their daily lives like anywhere.

Sunday, March 1, 1999

It is March already. I've been two months on the road. I'm enjoying the travel, finally getting used to the rhythms and being on my own. Things continue to work out pretty well. It looks like my sickness, rash and fever have gone away. I'll live. I do feel lonely. It would be fun to be sharing this wonderful adventure with someone, but I am more aware of my own experiences when I'm not involved in the interactions of dealing with another person. I go where I want and do what I want, when I want.

Today the tour continues. I am shown expansive panoramas of rice terraces and more traditional Toraja homes. It is beautiful countryside. The locals have some very interesting customs. Many focus on dying, funerals, burial places, carvings of the buried and bones. After the elaborate funerals, the body of the deceased is placed in a tomb. Some of the tombs have been carved out of rock cliffs or created in caves. Wooden effigies of the dead are sitting outside the tombs. They are carved and dressed to look like the deceased buried within. We visit tombs carved in a rock face. More ancestral figure carvings, or tau tau, are perched on the cliffs. These look like they are in a viewing stand looking down on the valley, and living, below. We also visit caves where sculls and bones have been arranged like so much furniture, some piled here, others lined up over there. I reach my burial limit when we go to a grove of trees where infants are buried. Babies who die before their first birthday are buried in a hole carved into a living tree. The belief is that the babies' spirit will grow up to the heavens. I can feel the grief of families at the death of loved ones. It seems to me that the local culture spends a lot of time and money dealing with death and getting to heaven. There are a few entrepreneurs along the pathways to these local burial sites selling carved panels like on the rice barns, and small tau taus. One woman has an extensive array of spices, from basket pods filled with cloves to fragrant vanilla beans.

 

Tau-taus are carved to represent departed loved ones. These are copies for tourist souvenirs.

Monday, March 2, 1999

Today is a day to relax. There are postcards to send home and my tacky book to read. I try to get my air ticket and make some phone calls. I manage to sort out travel arrangements and a ride to the airport but the phones for the entire region are out. I walk past a phone junction box that is open with a technician standing and staring at all the wires. I think he is wondering what to do with the mess. It's hard to relax, to just sit and look and enjoy. A series of "shoulds" run through my head with all the things I should be doing, drawing, reading, observing, going, staying, visiting, things seen, things missed. My hyper 90's self follows me wherever I roam. I find myself remembering past selves that have been hidden for a long time, the teenager on the beach in Greece, the ROTC cadet at Fort Bragg. Those and other selves have been hidden behind the Silicon Valley computer worker bee.

Now I'm a traveler, none of that and all of that. I spend my day puttering, reading, wandering and looking. A Swedish couple has moved into the bungalow next door. By the end of the day, I feel it's time for me to move on. I like it here, it's peaceful and beautiful, a good place to return with a friend.

Tuesday, March 3,1998

I have an interesting day. I get up early, shower, have breakfast on the porch and listen to birds sing while I wait for my ride to the airport. At the airport I get a boarding pass and wait for the plane. The flight is canceled. I'm not quite clear about the reason or why they waited so late to let us know. The other passenger on the flight is an Austrian. He and I decide to share a car ride to out destination, Ujung Pandang. What a ride it turns out to be. For some reason, the driver and his friend the alternate driver decide that we have to go very fast. Maybe it is an effort to meet the connecting flight, but there is no way a one-hour flight could match a 6 to 8 hour car ride. The race is on!

Eventually my stomach calms down. I enjoy talking with the Austrian who is a contractor working on a electric plant project in Java. He's been in Indonesia for ten months and is traveling during a short break. We drive through some heavy rain and I wonder if I should have stayed in Toraja. When the suitcase is packed it's hard for me to go back, I'd rather keep going on.

We make it to the airport in over six hours, a long time in a speeding car over uneven roads. It is a challenge to sort out flights and refunds. Fortunately, I only need a refund for the fight to Ujung Pandang and that is easily done. The Austrian does not have as much luck. Selective ignorance or refund rule structures keep him going from one counter to the next, with no refund to be found. He is justifiably frustrated. I think I've figured out my next stop. Tonight I'll go back into town and then return tomorrow for a flight to Java. I share a ride with the Austrians to a hotel in town. We agree to meet for breakfast and share a ride back to the airport.

I take another walk around town, buy a few pieces of fabric and other souvenirs. After room service for dinner, I relax in the bath then get to sleep.

Wednesday, March 3, 1999

I'm glad to be at the airport early. It's a collection of confusion. I've figured things out, where to go and the correct tickets to get there. So much is a mystery to me. I feel better than before but it's strange to watch my actions, and my choices. With this constant going, part of me wants to stay in Indonesia because it's reasonable, the other part wants to move on to the more familiar Europe. In spite of the uncertainties of solo travel, I prefer figuring the details out myself instead of relying on prepackaged tours. There are pros and cons for each method of travel. For me this trip is trusting that things work out, and they do.

While waiting in the airport, I make phone calls to the folks back home. Business details are taken care of, assurances of health and happiness traded. I spend the waiting time reading, munching on cookies and watching people come and go. It's a strange limbo place, I'm not sure of anything. I take clues from around me and try to be nice to others. I want people to like me, to be a good American ambassador. Two days of travel and uncertainty can make for a very unsettled feeling. Then finally, after waiting for hours, the plane actually boards for the first leg of my journey. I change planes at Surabaya to get to Yogyakarta. More waiting, I'm tired of waiting. At least I have my book and some journal writing to keep me occupied. The TV blares in the corner. Members of the new Indonesian parliament are reading their carefully prepared speech of support for the government. The parliament elections have kept the government, especially Suharto, preoccupied. They have avoided dealing with the demands of the World Monetary Fund and the Indonesian economic crisis. The tension is building along with the uncertainty. I sense the people can only wait and hope that everything will sort itself out.

Finally, I make it to Yogya and go the hotel recommended by the Austrian. It is dark and raining and I am very tired. The taxi driver tries a few detours to places I'm sure he gets a commission. I stick to my first idea. It seems to be conveniently located and a nice place. After the traumas of late night rate negotiations, I get into a room. I'm so glad to be here. It's time for a rest.