Bali-
Tujuan - Bali
There is palpable excitement in the plane cabin as passengers settle variably into their assigned positions. Mothers in colorful jilbabs pass food to their children, who already secured in seat belts, wiggle their legs up and down as if preparing for their own kind of take off. Fathers hold their smart phones at arms length, furrowing their brows as if realizing myopia for the first time. Petite flight attendants teeter on red high-heeled shoes in a sincere attempt to force down the angles and lumps of baggage protruding from the overhead bins. Out comes a hat; in comes a pink roll-away suitcase. Across goes a box of crabs; up goes a black backpack stuffed perfectly round. Lion Air may be Indonesia’s cheapest airline, but I haven’t seen a United or Delta “steward” do anything like this in decades. American flight attendants have simply become mean, old and ugly. It is late and I confess thinking this.
If one could draw an SAT-type analogy about Indonesians, it would go something like Indonesians are to farmers as other Asians are to city folk. After 15 months in Indonesia, I have yet to meet an Indonesian who does not greet you as if sincerely happy about the interaction, laugh heartily and out loud at a good joke, or willingly lend a hand to someone in need, all the while trying to manage some kind of foodstuff proceeding along some path from finger to mouth. Indonesians who have occasion to pump their fists will inevitably raise snake fruit to the sky. A minister deep in thought might ruminate over some oblong candied peanuts. During the wait during Saturday morning b-ball at Senayan, half of the players puff cigarettes while slurping Bakso soup. My assessment in these moments is that defense suffers. Right now, my assessment is that this plane cabin smells more like a cafeteria than any solid means of transport. This doesn’t bother me. I like food and am excited to leave Jakarta for the long weekend even if the destination is Bali.
Typical Indonesia assault scene
Ah Bali. A place of meditation, Buddhist-Hinduism and Julia Roberts? A place of vast coral reefs, amazing coastal breaks and Australians? By going to Bali with Hasaan and Rachel, Seongeun and I reason our chances of escaping the tendrils of tourist “musts” are good while increasing our chance at local food. Our motives are thoroughly misguided. We are after shade, wood, rice fields and pork. We want to hide from anyone or anything that reflects our foreignness. It’s the equivalent of coveting a deserted stretch of beach not acknowledging one’s own role in besmirching it. We are hypocrites on a three-day weekend with little extracorporeal insight to spare
It doesn’t take long to arrive. By the time I open my eyes, laughter among the passengers has begun again and luggage is coming down from above at a startling pace. I am afraid my petite Indonesian comrades will be crushed. The buzz in my pocket signals that already Hasaan is texting me to meet him at the terminal’s exit. I pull out my phone. “Keren,” I write, “cool.”
Hasaan writes “See you in a sec”.
“Iya!” I write.
The airport is not exactly how I remember it but obviously new. The last time I was here was only once before with my parents which made me amnesiac and stressed out in reverse order. The white marble of the terminal is decadent but saw dust from contemporary construction smudges the floors and gives off the smell of western pine. Steep escalators deliver passengers downward around an open circular space.
“Dude,” I say, “Where are you.” I am now talking to Hasaan on the phone.
“Hey, where I said I would be, “ says Hasaan, “you?”
“At the exit door,” I say, “what color car you driving?”
“I’m not. I’m waiting of you while the driver circles. How about just meet me at the Starbucks.”
“Baik,” I say,” see you soon.
The security guard to the right of the exit is amused at how bad my Indonesian is but helps me get back up to the third floor where there’s a Starbucks, but it is really a Kiosk with familiar logo on its awning. It is 10:30 and the terminal is beginning to close. The Kiosk was vacated long ago. A young man pushes a polishing device across the floor without interest. If he is not careful, he might spin. A few flight agents are putting away last pieces of paper or minor cash as if they have forgotten they are at the end of their shift and use of their thumbs.
You can ask Indonesia Airport Security for anything
“Hey, the Starbucks is closed,” I call Hasaan again.
“No it ain’t. I’m standing in it”
“Do you think there is another Starbucks?
“There must be.”
We decide to meet at the second set of elevators on the left above Roti-O but that doesn’t work. We then go the bus lane but I can’t find any buses. “How about this,” says Hasaan, “go to the old terminal and meet me at the burger king. You can’t miss it.”
“I’m already there,” I say.
As I walk in the direction of the old terminal I confess feeling lucky. Sure I don’t know where the hell I am but I also am comfortable finding my way. Maybe if I were a petite woman in baggy pants things would be different. Maybe if I had more than my duffle bag it would produce complaints. Certainly, if I didn’t have cash flow that would suck. It is the end of the workday and employees are walking in the same direction as me. It is dark with the sky lit up by dim flickers of the airport’s towering lights. I can smell the ocean but can’t see it. I listen for the crush of waves but can’t hear them. It will be nice to swim.
I decide to check in with two wayward pedestrians about the presence of a Burger King in the old terminal. They seem really confused at my question so I confuse them more by translating Burger King literally, “Apakah ada Berger Raja di sini?”
“Burger Raja?” The two young men tell me that there is no Burger Raja. In fact, the old terminal has no more restaurants and only a few remaining stores since the opening of the new terminal.
Strange I say, “Aneh.”
Old airport terminal
Indeed, when I get to the old terminal, it is mostly abandoned save for a tiny convenience market whose owner is of Chinese origin, Fukian province. I know this because he excitedly speaks Mandarin to me then Fukianese at which point I ask him why is he working so late, “to make money of course!” he says.
“But there are no customers here anymore” I say, “how do you survive?”
“The rent in the new terminal is too expensive,” the shop owner says, “so I stay late. I will buy my children’s future one product at a time.” The man’s predicament and this uncertain logic prompt me to purchase more than I normally would. I pack up on famous shrimp sticks, instant noodles, water, soy-milk, a candy bar and an apple. I give a $2 tip.
There is a hotel adjacent to the dying store and dusty old terminal called Hakaya Plaza and it is here where I call Hasaan again. “Okay I am in a Hotel called Hakaya Plaza next to the entrance of the airport,” I say, “you can’t miss it.”
“Hotel? Okay, that’s a good landmark. Just go to the hotel parking lot and wait there. We’re coming.”
In the parking lot I make conversation with the attendant who asks where I am from in a predictable ageless oral-dance that has been performed in my life over and over again. In this scene, the parking lot attendant has replaced a Mormon missionary who spent two years proselytizing in East Asia. I am an older child waiting for my friend at the airport who I have jokingly called my Daddy once before. I am waiting for the gifts that he is bringing back from his trip but mostly just his person. I am still basically kind and patient but with a elaborated nasty streak.
“Where are you from?” says the man.
“Salt Lake City.”
“Oh, but you look kind ‘er…kind of like you might be Chinese.”
“My parents are Taiwanese. I was born in the states. I usually say I am Taiwanese American.”
“Oh Thailand. What a lovely place.”
“Not Thailand, Taiwan the island. You know where that is?”
“Yes, Taiwan, the island that doesn’t want to be with China.”
“Yes, the island that is getting taken over by China.”
“But that still makes you Chinese, right.”
“Not right. Taiwanese.”
“Oh”
“Yes”
The conversation typically ends here.
Hasaan’s name appears across my phone buzzing me out of revelry. This time Hasaan’s fiancé Rachel is on the line. She has taken control. Later we will joke how only men would search for one another for an hour and a half and a) be cool with it and b) make no progress while women would c) not be that patient and d) therefore smarter.
“Hi Wilson. It’s me Rachel,” says Rachel, “listen, go into the Hotel and give the phone to the receptionist. I’ll get our driver to talk Balinese with him so we can figure out where you are and how to get you.”
“Will do,” I say.
Inside I watch more than listen to the hotel guy as he takes the phone I thrust out at him. His face at first expresses understanding, then confusion, then strategy, then resolve. Initially, he says to the driver that he doesn’t understand Balinese. He then furrows his brow and spits out a flurry of words. He then spins around 180 degrees one way and then back the other direction. He then stops to purse his lips looking out the window onto infinity. He then slowly turns towards me and in a Scooby Doo like manner which I can catch, “Ini tidak Bali. Ini Balikpapan.”
“This isn’t Bali. This is Balikpapan.”
“Wilson!” says Rachel when the phone is returned to me, “you aren’t in Bali you are in Balikpapan.”
“I heard,” I say, “where the hell is Balikpapan?”
“Kalimantan. 1000 kilometers away! How in the world did you get there?”
“I don’t know. I say, “I guess I got on the wrong plane? Let me call you right back, okay? Let me get my bearings.”
“Ok, but call back soon,” Rachel says.
I Google map my position and am stunned at the location of the pulsating blue dot. I have started to sweat profusely scaring the hotel receptionist and causing him both to stare and to look away. A guarding Angel psychologist would say that I am trying to flush away confusion and embarrassment. How in the world does one end up arriving not even close to where s/he wants to go while being so unaware? It’s a humbling feeling. I am found, lucky, and with options, but also lost and uneven too. It’s like I just had electro-shock therapy concentrated at my forebrain. I thought I knew my bearings but I can’t access enough specifics against an incomplete screen.
I will spend the night in Balikpapan. The next morning having slept little, I will take the 6 a.m. flight to Surabaya on a small Wings commuter plane. Because it is the long weekend with all flights having sold-out weeks ago, it is the airport security who will ultimately buy my ticket from Surabaya to Bali. I don’t even question how this could happen. The head officer in charge of this scheme tells me that my double-the-price-fare will be slightly cheaper if I am willing to travel under a different name.
“Terima kasih banyak, tetapi tidak,” I say, “I really appreciate it. But this time I want to go as me.”
Reunited
Friends at last
