Mr Beem's Asian Journal
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Jayapura to Ujung Pandang |
Ujung Pandang, also known as Makassar, is a typical hustling, bustling Asian port city. It goes at a hundred miles an hour, twenty-four hours a day. I arrived mid-morning and was one of the last to get off the ship. As I was considered by my shipboard companions to be a high-risk target, they decided that it was better to let the touts and taxi drivers hassle the locals first then maybe I could sneak through unmolested, so to speak.
They insisted that two of the guys get off the ship with me and find me a little push bike taxi called a Becak. The committee had also decided after consulting the Lonely Planet Guide that I should stay at a hotel called the Wasata Inn – no stars but good enough for a cheap skate like me. It is actually very disconcerting to have a whole group of people who know what’s going on worry about you. It makes you think that maybe you are missing something, or not picking up on the vibe as it were. They kept saying that Makassar is a very dangerous place, I kept thinking you have never been to Port Moresby on a pay Friday.
Anyway, I got through the spivs at the wharf and found a ripper little Becak driver by the name of Ishmael, he pedalled me the two miles to the hotel for Rp 6,000 or K 2.40 or a bit less than seventy US cents. I didn’t feel ripped off. He offered to take me for a City tour for Rp 10,000...you do the maths on that one.
The next day I planned to find a decent Motorcycle, I had talked to the guys on the boat and they said I should be able to pick one up for around Rp 6,000,000 a bit less than seven hundred US. I thought that’s not too bad even if I sell it for half price when I have finished, three hundred and fifty bucks for two months hire is a good deal, and maybe…just maybe I might get what I paid for it, or even more…whooo Stop, let’s not get carried away there.
Next morning. There was Ishmael, all set for the big day out. We had a little chat and established a more reasonable price structure; we came up with the princely sum of Rp 50,000 for the day, I doubt that this amount was going to change his tax bracket. But still he was over the moon and I was his new best friend.
We hit the bike shops and for some reason, no one was actually listening to what it was I was saying, just because you don’t speak the language bike dealers automatically think that you are not the full Quid. Through Ishmael I explained what it was I was trying to do. What I was after was someone who was actually interested in the Idea as much as someone who had a descent bike at a descent price. Most of them came across as used Camel dealers with the odd one who seemed to have his heart in the right place but not the right bike in his place.
Then as often happens in these tales, I chanced upon a fair maiden and she had just what I was looking for. What’s more she would give me a million rupees off and throw in a helmet. And that, ladies and gentlemen is when I met Hardly.
Now there might be those of you out there that have an aversion to cheap Chinese rip-offs, and to be perfectly honest I’m on your side. But the equation went something like this, I could get a ten year old Japanese bike – Honda or Yamaha for between ten to fifteen million, because they were so old they were around the 110cc mark and looked their age. Or I could buy an eighteen month old, 150cc with two thousand kilometres on the clock for eight Million. I ask you… which one would you pick. The deciding factor was the riding comfort and position. Hardly is comfortable, light, easy to ride and has a range off a little over two hundred kilometres. That’s why he got the job, that and the fact that Ratina the sales girl was cute and offered to buy me dinner, but I will tell you all about that some other time.
The following day they gave it a service and a quick wipe over with an oily rag, I paid the money and was now the proud new owner of a Jailing JH 150 T, registration number DD 6666 MG soon to be known as Hardly. (The bike is advertised as a Harley–Davidson replica, but it’s Hardly a substitute for an original Harley-Ferguson…so I am calling him Hardly.
Now if you are going to ride a bike in any Asian country… you don’t want to think about it too much, if you do, you probably won’t do it, this is especially true about Indonesia. To the untrained observer, the traffic may appear to be somewhat chaotic, in reality it’s a complete and utter shit fight, but a shit fight with a rhythm and tempo, and once you get tuned into that then you can manage quite well. The important thing is to move with the same beat as the other road users, as soon as you go out of step; you hear tyres screeching and horns blowing beside and behind you. Most of the drivers are good-natured but there is undoubtedly a small man big truck syndrome that you have to contend with, and I suffering from small man–small bike syndrome, its no wonder I am insecure.
In order to understand the game, first you must know all the players. Lowest in the pecking order are the pedestrians…they count for nothing – that is unless they are waving their right hand in an up and down motion, in which case they have the ability to stop all traffic at any given time. Next you have the becak (three wheeled cycle taxis) drivers, they can move in any direction at any time – they are completely unaffected by traffic lights or one-way traffic and are not expected to have any lights or other form of illumination regardless of hour or weather conditions. Then you have Scooters, the striking similarity in appearance between scooters and Dodgem cars I am sure has not gone un-noticed, and there is a reason for this. Invariable the scooter driver must appear to be two sizes to big for his vehicle, he must have lost the ability to move his neck in more that a forty-five degree arc and feel that his weight alone will see him through.
Then comes the step-through, this is the most numerous of the players on the field, and by rights should be put into sub-groups, but for the purposes of this explanation we will lump them together as general canon-fodder. The wild card in the game is the sports two-stroke racer, always heard before they are ever seen; these guys have many characteristics simular to mosquitos, mostly their annoyance value and their seeming total disregard for human life.
Next in the food chain comes Kota Bus, these come in a variety of colours mostly depending on which town you happen to be in but there behaviour is universal. They are little two stroke Suzuki mini-mini buses designed to carry six passengers, but if you were to ask them how many they can actually carry they would all say “one more” These guys have been exempted from having to use their indicators and are allowed to park on the crest of a hill the apex of a bend or either lane of a dual carriageway. It is also mandatory for the Keneke (drivers assistant) to hang out the door and take the piss out off any near by pedestrians. There appears to be an age limit on Kota bus drivers they have to be seventeen years or under. That way, the lucky passengers get to share their best ‘boy racer’ years with them while paying for the experience. We will take pony, horse and buffalo drawn vehicles and lump them together as sideline players with only minor roles in this game.
As every other, if not every car in Indonesia is a Toyota Kujang, we will call this category Kujangs (mid size, mid priced family car). These seem to be driven by recently promoted two stroke sports bike riders, consequently they absolutely have to be in front of any two wheeled vehicle – so no point in leaving a safe braking gap between you and the vehicle in front as it will only be filled by a Kujang. Now we are moving up the ladder to the heavy hitters – the big city buses, these slow moving ponderous contraptions will often lead you to believe they are relatively harmless. They have the ability to brake that is second to none, without showing the least signs of having done so. They mask their escape in a cloud of black smoke – not unlike an Octopus or Cuttlefish.
Trucks and intercity Coaches are the top players in this game, something equivalent to the Queen in a game of Chess; they can do what they want when they want – usually at high speed. There are other small cameo role players who pop in and out of the game, but this should give you some insight into the game of driving in Indonesia.
I spent about half an hour out the front of the hotel packing and unpacking the bike, trying to get the back pack and computer in the right place and still give myself a comfortable place to sit. It was always going to be a compromise, but my biggest concern was keeping the computer as insulated from bumps and vibration as possible while making sure it was dry and secure. Eventually I got as close as I thought I could to a workable solution and with cheers from the hotel staff I joined the Ujung Pandang rush hour traffic. I was heading north to a town called Pare-Pare, which was going to be my first destination…once I got out off Ujung Pandang. The receptionist at the hotel had given me a sketch map of how to get on to the right road, and it all seemed fairly easy. But giving good directions is a gift that not many people posesse. A lot of it is to do with scale (distance), landmarks, and detail. Now when I ask direction I sound like a policeman – “Just the facts please, Mam”. Otherwise I find it just too confusing.
So there I was ten minutes down the road and I was lost already, she never mentioned anything about toll roads that motorcycle were not allowed to use. Armed with only the very basics I started to try and get new directions. I understood, Kiri – left, Kenan – Right, and Trus – straight, so how hard could it be? 'pagi pak' ('morning Sir') 'jalan Pare-Pare?' ('road Pare-Pare?'), well you don’t get anything until they find out where you are from, so you have to do the 'Dari Mana?' (from where?) thing. By the time you have gone through that a small crowd has invariably gathered, and they have to tell each other who you are, where you are from, and where you are going, and the make of your motorcycle. Invariably someone will have to just check that they have the information right and ask you once again where you are from. Once everyone is up to speed on what’s happening then the directions are forth coming. Trus – Kiri – kiri – Trus – Kanan –Trus and there you have it as simple as that. You have to be very careful about ‘leading the witness’ as it were. Like most people the world over, Indonesians want you to be happy, and if you indicate that you want something to be so, and it costs them nothing, well it is easier to agree than to correct. Does this road lead to the Internet café….oh OK if you want it to , then why not...Yes.
Anyway after a few false starts, I finally found the non-toll road heading north to Pare-Pare, and once I was on it, it was trus (straight) all the way. The outskirts of Ujung Pandang are much like the outskirts off any major city, the further from the centre the worse the shanties get, until finally you break through an invisible line and then you are in the countryside once again. From rusty corrugated Iron, the houses change to Rustic Bush material and the transformation is complete, you are in the country again where things are healthy and people are honest…it’s only a notion of course but it works for me.
