The Wolf to the Rescue
Michael Altschul
and functions. I've used airplanes, buses, trains, rickshaws, cars,
vans, minivans, trucks, scooters, lawnmower-powered carriages,
mule-drawn carriages, mules, and my own two feet. Sometimes I've
shared buses with people crammed in tighter than beakless chickens at
Foster Farms, I've shared minivans with more chicken than people, I've
shared minibuses with folks dangling from the side like a trolley and
riding on top to make a giraffe neck. You could say I thought I'd
experienced it all...until I met The Wolf.
I purchased a "return" (round trip in American) ticket in Jogja with
the understanding that I'd enjoy an air conditioned minivan to Bromo
and back. Things started off well enough -- the minivan was air
conditioned, although I can't exactly say I enjoyed the ride. I
should have known I'd get irritated with this Dutch broad (early 30s)
the moment we discussed hotels. "I must have air conditioning," she
stated firmly, with the air of a totalitarian dictator. I shared with
her one of my gold-level Indo travel tips: ceiling fans are plenty
sufficient (dare I say better) because it's not very hot in dry season
and fans keep the mozzies off you, but she didn't want to hear it.
Wow, insisting on AC in Indo will drive up their lodging cost 3
times...her poor boyfriend. I didn't realize how poor her kind
boyfriend was until the trip progressed. She had a harsh way about
her, both physically and linguistically. But her austere face was no
match for her the intensity of her guttural Dutch language (which I
suffered through for the 12-hour journey to Bromo, as the Dutch couple
and a Belge couple exchanged stories and opinions). Now I should
point out that I've long sought the most beautiful language (which is
a toss-up between French, Italian and Arabic), but never given much
consideration to the world's ugliest language. During that bus ride,
consideration proved unnecessary: Dutch. Sorry, I really like the
Dutch and their goofy way, but my ears do not. The guttural "tch"
sound is far too frequent and the tonality non-existent...harsh Hebrew
meets rigid German. Fortunately I had my iPod and journal, so I
managed to zone them out mostly -- except for the frequent
interruptions, of course: "Could you turn that down?", "Could you turn
the AC up?", "Could you find Western music?" (I had erroneously
assumed that a little local top 40 would enhance everyone's Indo
experience), "Could you turn that up?", "Could you turn the AC up?",
"Could you not smoke?" (to the driver), "Could you pull over to
smoke?" (she was convinced he would fall asleep over a 12-hour drive
if he didn't smoke), "Could you turn the AC up?", "Could you turn that
down?"...then, after 10 hours, the single best way to open up
conversation with the American you had ignored (despite the fact that
everyone spoke English just fine): "So, what do you think of your
President?"
(slight tirade)
Wow, so there's an original one. I've traveled throughout Indonesia,
met many hundreds of people, many of whom were far more effected by my
president than the Dutch, and here it was. It's not that I mind this
topic, as everyone knows. It's not that I don't have rather intense
passion on the matter. It's a) the framing of the question, and b)
the person asking the question. I considered it. Not an open-ended
"So what's your opinion of the Middle East?"; rather a very pointed,
directed "What do you think of your President?" in the patronizing way
a scolding mother might ask her son if he knew why what he did was
wrong. I continued to consider it. Sardonic approach? Honest
approach? Swiss approach? "What do you think of your President?" I had
some evidence to support his actions, but not enough to come even
close to winning an argument with any of the millions of Europeans who
will surely throw the same tried, tired attacks my way. And, after 10
hours on the bus, I was fatigued. So I explained to her my
frustration, I explained that Bush was elected with a minority vote,
re-elected with a questionable slight majority, that now fewer than
65% of Americans approved of his presidency, and that he very clearly
is not the voice of America. She still managed to factor in the tired
arguments that European op-eds reiterate daily. I supported many of
her opinions with facts, quickly demonstrating that I knew far more
about this topic than she and had, in fact, many opinions. I reminded
her that the US deserved some slack, given the size and unique nature
of this foe. That before 9/11, things were clearly different, that
rationality will take time to be restored to people. And that the
British just 2 days ago had foiled a colossal plot to hijack planes en
route to the US. (News to her...I guess she'd been too busy sitting
in front of her AC.) Yes, it can be argued that attacks on Iraq were
misguided and hasty; diplomacy failed, emotions were too high. I was
pissed that my country had put me in this situation, but found myself
both critiquing and defending it. I guess it's kinda like when your
brother gets drunk and gets into a fight -- he may be in the wrong,
but you'll defend the one who's always been there for you rather than
side with a stranger (and give him hell later). And I reminded her
that her way of life is also threatened by the same enemy -- we're
long term allies whether you want to admit it now or in fifty years.
(tirade over)
About 45 km before Bromo, we stopped in Probolinggo, the hub city for
Bromo. Another driver in another minivan was to take us the rest of
the way and relieve our driver of his duties. Seemed fair to me.
Duchess had a different idea. I calmly explained that these things
often just happen when traveling here and managed to convince her to
let our former driver return home. But before we continued to Bromo
we had a decision to make: walk up to Bromo for the sunrise the next
morning or pay 75R ($8) to hire a jeep to take us to the highest point
from which to watch the sunrise, then take us to Mt Bromo itself to
trek up the small volcano and observe its chain-smoking ways. We all
chose the latter option and made a rather uneventful hourlong
continuation to our hotel.
The hotel was nice and I immediately broke from my Dutch company to
join a large table of young folk at the hotel for dinner. They were a
motley crew, ranging from 20-35, from varying nationalities:
Portuguese, Danish, English, Irish, Aussie, and, of course, Dutch. I
asked them how they all knew each other and then it made sense: they
were doing Indo by tour. We swapped experiences from the places we'd
been up to that point, prompting the Dutch boy to regret not having
done Indo on his own while the Portuguese rightly defended his
decision because he didn't want to hassle with all the transportation
issues. Slowly, the table went off to bed. The Dutch boy and I were
the last men standing (or sitting). He looked like my old roommate
Fredirik but had the naivete of a newborn, thinking he'd gotten a
great price on a batik painting because he asked for the special price
and they knocked 20% off. I didn't break his bubble. After a half
hour, he asked me a question: "So what do you think of your
President?" No shit. 4 weeks of travel and not once had anyone
(notably any of the French, who historically have used a similar
question upon introduction) asked me about this. And here, 3 hours
apart, the identical question. I answered in a similar fashion.
Unlike the Duchess, however, bizarro Fredirik transitioned from fact
to philosophy: "So, how do we fix this?" I'm a sucker for optimism and
perked up, offering a few baby steps and general concerns with
religious fanaticism. I didn't realize that he had a very different
idea. "We need to end this socialist attitude." Wow, from a
European? Fascinating. "The problem is too many stupid people. Only
10% of the world is worth keeping. We need to get rid of the rest and
then let the 10% build a new world of technology with peace." I
didn't quite know what to say. Suddenly I longed to be at the
Duchess' table. I tackled the comments from a purely philosophical
standpoint and offered conditions that made this argument infeasible.
Beginning with the assumption that the 10% who remain can someone live
with themselves after such a grotesque atrocity, I mentioned the
economic consequences (we need these "stupid" people to do menial
labor, without them we'd have a meltdown), the challenge of segmenting
people by intelligence (how can you possibly determine the worthy
10%), the varying forms of intelligence (would a young artist with a
low IQ be eliminated? he could be the next Gaugin), and the lessons
we've learned from history about consequences of genocide (it just
doesn't sit well with people). He acknowledged my comments,
challenged but not ready to concede. "Yes, it would be difficult to
accomplish. But over time, perhaps." I subtely pounded my beer and
excused myself for the night with a, "Well, things are certainly
fucked at present, but I'm not ready to abandon everything centuries
of human genius to start from scratch." And, I added, with a hint of
friendly lightheartedness: "But if you start to assemble that 10%,
don't forget about me." He straightened up, "Oh, yes, of course."
Whoops, I had meant that as I joke...did I just fuel his fire? It
didn't matter, I was going to sleep.
The next morning, I jumped up, looked at my iPod clock (4am), got
ready and ran outside to meet my jeep...only to realize that I'd not
turned it back one hour for Java time zone. Damn. I sat in bed for
45 minutes. An hour later, our jeep was bouncily ascending the
lookout point. We waited for an hour as the sun attempted to make its
way over the rising clouds of mist. When it finally did, it revealed
a scene every bit as beautiful as it was unimaginable: a smoking
volcano that looked perched above clouds. Of course, it was smoke and
mist holding the volcano up, but the obvious imagery could not be
ignored: this was a heavenly volcano. I remained to observe for an
hour, just shaking my head in amazement, then returned to the jeep for
transport to Bromo. Once near the volcano, I refused the pony express
in favor of enduring the 1-2km trek up ("Just like walking home from
work, up Tele Hill," I reasoned) for the reward of a massive, smoking
crater. I gagged several times from the asphyxiating sulfur, but it
didn't impact my joy at this sight: turn right and see a smoking
crater, turn left and smile at the Pura (temple) at the bottom of the
crater. I was tempted to buy some edelweiss offering, but realized I
wouldn't know what to do (my friends who could lead me were in Amed,
likely still laughing at the gringo with straw hat and freckled skin)
so I passed. I also passed on a ride back in the Jeep. I had all day
and walked back 8km to my hotel, passing countless smiling, "Halo!"
children (who I occasionally rewarded with a photo -- I've never met
people so excited about having their shots taken), friendly locals
(many Hindu still, some Muslim), and a minibus of newspaper salesmen
(and women) from Probolinggo intent on improving their English with
conversations of my marital status, my girlfriend, why my girlfriend
isn't here, where my girlfriend is, when I will return to Indonesia
with my girlfriend, and, of course, my hobbies. They gave me one of
their newspapers (chosen because of its many photos of
motorcycles...and a couple motorcycle pin-up girls), a phone number to
call next time I'm in town, and pointed me in the direction of my
hotel. Along the way I stopped to write. I questioned my travel
approach. Had I done enough of the local thing? Why hadn't I spent a
few days in a small town, getting adopted by the lovely people? Had I
sacrificed getting to know locals for ease of transport (airplanes and
semi-direct tour buses vs. multi-stop public buses)? Sure I'd saved
time and seen more, but was it worth it? No answer to that, only
questions. The only thing I knew was that my next visit to Indo I'd
pencil in three days for Bromo. With a calm, open, friendly vibe,
Bromo was easily the most tranquil spot I'd been all vacation.
I returned to my hotel, chatted with a worker about his shitty work
environment (12-14 hour days, 7 days a week, no vacation, tough on his
family) and his entrepreneurial ventures (renting the use of a PS2
video game system in his house by the hour), and then hopped on a
public bus with the destination of Probolinggo. I shared the front
seat with 3 other adults, watched the bus transform into something
more suitable for a circus act than transportation (5 people on the
roof, 3 off the side, and not an inch of space anywhere inside), and
after an hour arrived at the travel agent where we'd transferred
minivans the previous day. And I waited. And waited. Pangs of
hunger dictated that I do the unimaginable: order street food. I
treated myself to a 5R (50 cents) bowl of bakso, kinda like pho with
meatballs, but with loads of sauteed garlic and onion. What bliss!
This was the best thing I'd eaten on my entire trip. It was worth the
diarrhea that would surely follow. I was tempted to order another
when the travel agent showed up and had a driver drop me off at
another travel agent. The driver explained that I'd take the public
bus back to Jogja. I explained that this was not "bagus" (the single
best word to know in Indo...it means good and I've successfully
managed to incorporate it into just about every sentence I exchange
with locals), that I paid for a minivan return that would be empty so
I could stretch out and sleep. He responded that the bus left at 8.
Wonderful.
A few other travellers were also at the travel agent, two of whom were
going to the same place as I and two of whom were en route to Bali and
had been stranded in Problinggo all day awaiting transport. We
exchanged stories about the most anal travelers we'd encountered (the
Duchess tales appalled everyone) and agreed that the only way to enjoy
your time here is to just relinquish control and let things unfold in
time. I'd read about people getting screwed on tickets purchased from
travel agents, but I never had and always marveled at the agents'
abilities to get people where they needed to go through incredible
resourcefulness.
Then, two by two, the other travellers disappeared. I found myself
eating my words, cursing that damned travel agent. Screw losing
control, I was tired and wanted to go to Jogja. 7:45, no one. 8, no
one. I was pissed at myself for having been so gullible -- things had
just worked themselves out so well the entire trip that I thought I
had the hang of it, that I didn't need to hold onto the infinite
receipts you receive at every stop. The irony of it all was just too
great. No bus, no receipt proving I was entitled to a ride home, and
I had only one hour before extolled the virtues of letting the agents
to their jobs. And now I was fucked. By the time 8:15 rolled around,
I began considering ways to make my way back to the agent's office and
raise holy hell. I'd shout obscenities that he never knew possible in
English, I'd touch his holy head, I'd tell anyone who'd listen what a
terrible man he was, I'd shame him into getting me back to Jogja
safely. But what if he's not there? Shit. Oh wait, even better. I'd
break Swiss neutrality by using my knife to carve the word "Asshole"
into his windows, I'd take a leak all over his front door, I'd tell
everyone who's listen what a terrible man he was. Oooooh, and if he
left the door open, as he'd done in the past? I'd piss all over his
office, I'd crack the glass frames that he used to demonstrate to
tourists the strategies to see Bromo, I'd tell everyone who'd listen
what a terrible man he was. Oh but wait...the diarrhea will hit me
hard by then. I'd take a shit on a piece of paper and smear it all
over his chair and desk, I'd ... <beep, beep> "You go Jogja?" asked
the moto driver. I nodded, irritated at the disruption to my glorious
train of fecal thought. Just then a minivan pulled up. The moto
driver explained that I was to go in the minivan to pickup my driver
and that he would take me to Jogja solo...and that I could sleep the
whole way in the back seat. My eyes widened, a glimmer of hope...no,
this was a veritable chunk of hope...hell, it was a cornucopia of
hope! I darted into the minivan, glowing. I just might to get to see
the sights of Jogja that had alluded me the entire vacation! We
arrived at a home, the minivan honked a couple times, a couple girls
came out. They shouted some words, the girls seemed disappointed,
money was exchanged and he appeared: The Wolf.
I felt guilty pulling this guy away from his family, but I knew that
once set in motion the course was irreversible so I just went with it.
I wondered how I'd gone from a seat on the public bus to a minivan to
myself. And I retraced the evening's events. I had arrived in
Probolinggo via public bus without squawking, I had bonded with
everyone who went to eat bakso by telling them how bagus the soup was,
the bakso saleslady had shorted me money for lack of change and I
didn't bitch (she and I both knew it and just shrugged), I had smoked
two cigarettes with a driver from the agent's office over a bowl of
bakso, I had calmly informed the agent that he owed me 15R for the
public bus I took from Bromo, I had been about the chillest tourist
cat, dare I say the closest a tourist could come to Indonesian without
speaking the language. I had been the opposite of the Duchess. I
considered a possible conversation at the agent's office.
Driver: "You know, the American wasn't so happy about taking a public bus."
Agent: "He's traveling alone, he's gotta be used to it."
Driver: "Yeah, but he wanted to sleep during the drive so he could see
Jogja tomorrow."
Agent: "Well, too bad...I need you to drive from here tomorrow."
Bakso lady: "Oh, give the American a break. He was very nice."
Bakso lady's kid: "Ya. Gaagaaagoooo..." (I'd given her a cookie)
Agent: "What the hell do you want me to do. All our drivers are beat."
Driver: "Well, we do have this car available."
Agent: "And who would drive?"
(silence, knowing looks exchanged)
Agent: "Take him to The Serigala."
I took back to all the nastiness I'd wished upon the agent in my head
and thought, "All you had to do was tell me The Wolf was on his way."
[credit Pulp Fiction] The Wolf and I had an instant bond. He lit a
cigarette, I lit one to show that it was fine and thew in a bagus for
good measure. We struggled through 5 minutes of conversation, then
arrived at an understanding that we'd spend the rest of the ride in
silence. I'd let him drive and he'd let me sleep. At first it was
tough to just sleep and let The Wolf drive. I spent the first hour in
awe of his skill. He'd weave in and out of traffic, dodge oncoming
buses by the thinnest of margins, bully scooters over to the side
without being offensive. I've been in countless vehicles and have
never ridden with a driver more skilled. I realized quickly that The
Wolf enjoyed driving. Sure he'd miss his family, but a chance to
drive at night and spend more time in the oncoming traffic lane than
his own was an opportunity he'd make the most of. He was an animal
out there and this was his jungle. Sure there were others in the
wild, but he was the quickest, most cunning in the jungle. I finally
drifted off to sleep. I'd awaken on occasion for a few minutes, then
zoom back to dreams of racing down a speedway, jetskiing through an
obstacle course, and flying an A16 to the moon. All my dreams
involved intense motion and I loved it. As we approached Jogja, I
realized two things: 1. The Wolf had stamina -- the moment we stopped
talking the road was his race course until the finish line, and 2. the
route to Jogja took 12 hours, the race home took a hair under 8.
In Indonesia, you have countless options for transportation that can
waste countless precious travel hours...unless The Wolf howls into
your neighborhood.