66 - Selamat Tinggal Indonesia!
“Still, the memories were fond, the impressions deeply imprinted. My fluid scheduling criteria gave me time to ponder, to savor, to dig deeper. I made actual friends and though there would always be a cultural chasm between us, the bond was less artificial than the standard tourist version…”
by Mr. Nos T. O’maniac
WE ALL NEED A LITTLE GREEN NOTEBOOK, NO? Proverbially, metaphorically, literally. I had one for tidbits, nuggets, morsels, and whatnot. Lists, phone numbers, e-mail addresses, and random idiosyncratic mumbo jumbo de moi. One fascinating factoid (at least for me) was the starting mileage on the Phantom. My original aim was to track the service schedule. Thank god for punctiliousness. I wouldn’t have believed it otherwise, but I clocked over 10,000 kilometers (6,000 miles). That may not seem like much to fellow North Americans, but it ain’t too shabby on six Indonesian islands. And that doesn’t include all the driving I did on motorbike rentals pre/post-Phantom. I was forced to give myself a congratulatory pat on the pooperé… Thank ya, sir.
Mr. Scribbly Scribbler. That’s me. Sometimes I scribble inane musings for no particular reason, brain flatulence if you will. In my little green notebook, I wrote a eulogy, my eulogy. In the early days of Sojourn: Indonesia, I befriended a gentleman (Cyrus Copeland) who compiled a thoughtful collection of famous eulogies (by famous folks for famous folks) in an excellent book, Farewell, Godspeed: The Greatest Eulogies of Our Time. As I read on, a long forgotten internal rant came rushing to the fore, i.e. how ridiculous eulogies can be for the elite and proletariat alike. We all magically transmogrify into an idealized version of ourselves… abracadabra! Sins? Forgiven. Transgressions? Forgotten. Blemishes? Airbrushed. I realize speaking ill of the dead is unseemly at best, but I’d rather be remembered for the asshole I was, not the daisy I wasn’t. Maybe that’s just me, eh? I mean, I’ll be dead, so what the fudge do I care? Let the truth reign free.
As I sat and pondered one fine day in between adventures, I thought it’d be a cerebral hootenanny to construct my encomium. Pretentious? Sure. Efficient? Definitely. Why force some poor bastard to revise history on your behalf when you can do it thy own self? The original draft was rough around the edges, so over the years I’ve tweaked and whittled. Here’s what I’ve come up with:
To be read on occasion of my assassination with passionate conviction and self-righteous moral authority. Please take a moment to brace yourselves… right… NOW!
Richie Poo was (pause), is, (pause) the most incredible being to saunter Mother Earth’s face. A more amazing creature you will not find (dramatic pause) EVER! Never ever will you find one like Richie. I dare you to look. Go ahead. Try.
In fact, I quadruple dog dare you to find someone like Richie Poo. Oh, Richie Poo, there’s no one like you. I can’t wait for the nights with you. I imagine the things we’ll do. I just wanna be loved by you. No one like you. (Pause to wipe away tears with intense exaggerated affect) In a word: Awesome. In two words: Super awesome. Three words? Super fucking awesome! (Pause to look skyward while silently mouthing the words, “Why god, why?”)
Richie Poo touched so many and so many touched Richie Poo right where it tickled. It was a constant touchfest. When Richie Poo talked, we listened. When Richie Poo paused, we anticipated. Where Richie Poo walked, we followed. When Richie Poo lost control of his bowels, we ignored it… mostly.
When Richie Poo stumbled (or more accurately when Richie Poo pretended to stumble to emphasize Richie Poo’s humanity) we rushed to Richie Poo’s side to provide balance. Richie Poo was the perfect amalgamation of mortal traits, the very best of (read as fast as possible) Dr. Seuss, Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, Gandhi, Socrates, Martin Luther King Jr., Abraham Lincoln, John Lennon, John Wayne, JFK, Winnie the Pooh, Susan B. Anthony, Oprah Winfrey, Nancy Grace, Confucius, Macgyver, James Bond, Adam, Eve, Abbott, Costello, Larry, Moe, Curly, and Richie Poo.
(Another dramatic pause to catch thy breath.)
Richie Poo’s physical appearance was eclipsed only by Richie Poo’s inner beauty. Although we’re certain Richie Poo, being human, possessed character flaws and faults, we’re at a loss to identify a single one. Maybe (theatrical pause to scrutinize the crowd intensely) we had an angel among us all along. (Insert glottal stop.)
It goes without saying everyone who knew Richie Poo would prefer to take their own life rather than live in a world sans Poo (pause to allow mourners a moment to nod vigorously), but this would be contrary to Richie Poo’s resolute hankering for the men, women, children, and hermaphrodites he left behind—you, me, that guy in the back row with the mustache, (insert sing-songy voice for next eleven words) ♫ to drive on, strive on, and keep the dream alive on ♫ (pause for smarmy smirk) the perfection that embodied Richie Poo’s true spirit. Farewell, you beautiful son of a bitch! We’ll miss you, Richie Poo, with every sinuous fiber of our bereft souls. Adios, arrivederci, and (French accent) c’est la vie, mon amie!”
My final days dissolved where my Indo tale began: Bali. I was happy to reunite with my “old” friends from Balimode, travel agency of choice for all things immigration. (For context, go here, here, here, here, and here.) One of my last acts as an honorary Indonesian included attendance at a pop concert. Though I had never heard of her (Anggun), and I’m pretty sure I wasn’t her target demographic, I jumped at the chance to attend with Dhemy, an employee at the aforementioned Balimode.
The meat of the memory comes from the drive to and from Ubud. Speaking of memories, the Phantom was a distant one. It was back to the ubiquitous 125cc motorbike. Something changed, some thing inside me. I’d apparently adopted the Indonesian “don’t worry, drive happy” style of driving. My skills would’ve made a drunk Balinese teenager proud. I cut through traffic with surgical precision and, frankly, amazed myself. Not sure if that was a good thing, but it was hella fun, yo. That’s not to say I wasn’t still being passed by teenage girls, but only the elite members of the class.
I was pretty full of myself until I rendezvoused with Dhemy for the show. He politely asked to drive, not so much as a result of my technique as for inadequate velocity. So, I was relegated to scooter bitch for the Kuta cruise. Doing fifty miles an hour on a scooter’s ass is unsettling, especially when you’re 6’4” (193 cm). I think I left permanent fingerprints on the rear handrail. We made it to the show. I managed to not shit my pants.
Upon arrival, I’d expected screaming teenage girls. That’s not who showed up. I’m guessing the venue (Hard Rock Hotel in Kuta) had something to do with it. Instead? Wannabe influencers and an older crowd replete with middle-aged white dudes. Cash to burn and penises to satisfy. I think most of them were “Dirty-dirty-Diiiiirrr-teeee… Diiiiir-tay” and on the prowl for the more permeable of the Balinese woman. Naughty.
Dhemy, not quite having mastered English, said something worthy of copious giggles. When summing up his impression of the scene, he remarked, “Kuta no good. Too much homo.” Now, to the untrained observer, one might believe he was uttering a homophobic epitaph. However, this wasn’t the case, as there was neither an abundance of gay men or men fitting a stereotypical description of gay (whatever the hell that may be). In reality, he was merely underscoring the relative dearth of females, a sentiment expressible only with limited vocabulary. I couldn’t resist looking at him and, with a deathly serious face, repeating at regular intervals, “Kuta no good. Too much homo.”
*Amatuer videos courtesy of Giannilucha Permana
The finale (i.e. last day) was atypically bizarre, even for Bali. There was some cultural festival going on in Ubud that week. (You may recall from earlier posts, festivals were like oxygen, ever-present and ubiquitous.) Whilst enjoying breakfast, I heard a ruckus coming from Ubud’s main soccer field. There, middle-school children were participating in a race competition… on stilts. Naturally, I was intrigued, so I ventured out to snap a few photos. One word: Riveting.
That wasn’t the weird part. During the competition, an older fella collapsed onto the grass nearby. Adrenaline overload, I presume. As he lay there, throngs of children turned their attention on him and ran over to have a look. I believe an ambulance was called and men came over to exert crowd control. After a few moments, the man sat up and appeared to be okay. What really struck me as odd was that during this five-minute distraction, the stilt races continued unabated as he lay on the ground surrounded by bystanders. I guess children competing against one another on wooden pegs is serious fucking business. Competition halts for no man.
After an eventful morning, I adjourned to a favorite lunchtime haunt only to find an older Asian woman tapping away on her laptop with a baby monkey on her shoulder. The staff behaved as if this happens every day. Ya know, just another Tuesday. Or one hell of a marketing ploy: Bring a monkey, get free coffee and Wi-Fi. I was mesmerized, staring for some time, trying to imagine the sequence of events leading to lattes and infant monkeys. (On loan from the Monkey Forest?) The woman looked like she might’ve been voted “least likely to adopt a baby monkey” in high school. Just way, way too serious for a woman with a small primate using her as a jungle gym. Then, chow time for George (a bottle feeding and a few crackers). Awww, cute… but a little out there, yes? I love monkeys as much as the next guy… but at a restaurant? Why should I have to leave my monkey at home?
Seven months in Indonesia. When I said I wasn’t in a hurry, I wasn’t kidding. There were impediments (i.e. monthly visa renewal verification validation bureaucratic horse shit shenanigans), but all in all, time well spent. If not for the immigration crucible, I might have stuck around for Sulawesi or Kalimantan. Alas, I lacked grit and stamina. Time to move on, find a different jam.
Still, the memories were fond, the impressions deeply imprinted. My fluid scheduling criteria gave me time to ponder, to savor, to dig deeper. I made actual friends and though there would always be a cultural chasm between us, the bond was less artificial than the standard tourist version. I’m forever grateful for the hospitality shown me by the crew at Balimode and all those I met along the way.
Indonesia became my friendliness baseline, my initial reference point for cultural warmth and hospitality. The people are most definitely one of the highlights. It wasn’t all peaches and sunshine. There were, as everywhere, bad apples. I fondly remember the gentleman who knew I was walking in the dark by myself toward Mt. Bromo down the wrong path but refused to help because I had no interest in paying for a horsey ride. A-hole. Such encounters were the exception, not the rule, and in no way tarnished my overall experience. If anything, such experiences were a gift. I can’t help but chortle at the memories.
Disappointments? I had a few. I’ve mentioned the immigration cluster-fuckage many times. Beyond that? Well, the surprising level of development and tourism infrastructure throughout the archipelago (especially in Sumatra) threw me a tad. I guess I was expecting, in fact hoping, for a bit more adventure factor. Bali is a mess and has succumbed to the allure of tourism. It is by no means a secluded island getaway. Traffic, clubs, bars, restaurants, souvenir shops, and a zillion guesthouses are pervasive. Unfortunately, there’s no escaping. And, in the aftermath of the big screen adaptation of Eat, Pray, Love, shit only got worse. Much worse.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed the hell out of my time in Bali. The thing I criticize is the very reason I was able to do much of what I did. It was the level of development that afforded a motorcycle neophyte the opportunity to live edgewise, buy a hog, and gallivant across six islands clueless and ignorant. Were it otherwise, it’s quite possible my journey wouldn’t have been so “smooth.” And although Bali is not the island retreat I’d hoped for, it was probably the one I needed.
You have to take the good with the bad, and the good far outweighs the bad. The more I traveled, the more difficult it became to capture that signature child-like awe endemic to new experiences. By the time I arrived, I had a fair amount of travel chops under my belt. On some level, it’s impossible to avoid being jaded to some extent. Had I visited Indonesia twenty or thirty years ago, I’m certain my socks would’ve been blown off. I sometimes long for the ability to time travel and see the world as it was before the age of mass tourism, before cell phones, internet, and low-cost airlines. The grass is always greener. My ass is always cleaner… on the other side.
Indonesia’s Moderate Islam is Slowly Crumbling
Liberal Muslims are fretting as fundamentalists seize the popular moment.
BY KRITHIKA VARAGUR | FEBRUARY 14, 2017, 11:33 AM
JAKARTA, Indonesia — In the struggle against Islamic extremism, few groups have been fighting for longer than Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), the Sunni organization that has become the global face of Indonesia’s pluralistic Islam. Founded in 1926 to prevent Saudi Arabia’s bitterly intolerant Wahhabism from taking root in Indonesia, it’s a cultural touchstone for Indonesians proud of their heritage of religious tolerance — and a symbol of moderate Islam worldwide…READ MORE
Faith Politics on the Rise as Indonesian Islam Takes a Hard-Line Path
By Hannah Beech and Muktita Suhartono - April 15, 2019
JAKARTA, Indonesia — Joko Widodo, the Muslim president of Indonesia, is into heavy metal and saving Christians.
Earlier in his political career, he helped shelter ethnic Chinese Christians during deadly rioting. And upon winning the presidency in 2014, Mr. Joko filled his cabinet with women and banned a radical Islamic group that calls for Islamic law to replace Indonesia’s democracy…READ MORE
One hears “most populous Muslim country in the world” and conjures certain preconceptions. Indonesia is not the Middle East. Not by a long shot. It is, after all, the world’s third-largest democracy… for now. Though the majority are Muslim, there are pockets of Hindus, Buddhists, Confucians, Christians, and other obscure local religions. (No atheists. That’s illegal.) Layers upon layers. That’s the reality. Islam or other may be the top layer, but beneath are centuries of animistic beliefs, ancient cultural traditions, and archaic social norms rounding out the foundation. Layers upon layers. At the risk of oversimplification, tolerance formed much of the glue holding this democracy together. But the sands are shifting and not for the better. Religious fundamentalism (a la Islam) has started to permeate the island nation’s political sphere to a disturbing degree.
How would my experience differ today? When I was there, it was “Selamat datang!” and “GO-BAMA!” What do they make of our post-Obama Trumpian dystopia? Outside of tourist haunts, how would a lanky goofball on a Honda Phantom be received presently? I wonder. I truly do. I wonder if that uneasy feeling I had in parts of North Sumatra (see here) would apply elsewhere these days. I don’t know, but I hope the trend toward a religious state dies a quick death posthaste. It would be a shame for western tourists to wear out their welcome based solely on religion. Indonesia has so much to offer.
Before bidding Indonesia adieu, I had one more task to complete—wrap my package. To the post office! They were renovating and a sign out front read, “We Apologized In Order Our Office Renovation Your Comfortable Will Disturbed.” Disturb my comfortable and I turn into a grizzly bear’s asshole. Still, I persevered, adapted, and overcame. It felt a little like casino odds against me seeing that box again. But I did. I did see my box again and caressed my travel-worn package upon return.
So, with little fanfare, I said goodbye.
And then I was gone…
