51 - Honkey On A Harley? (Krui, Sumatra, Indonesia)
Head cold headwinds and a stay at Shangri-La. Mr. Bule on a bike… oooh, la ti da. Immigration fooey and a grump from seaside Krui. Sumatra now Sumatra.
by The Nostomaniac
I LEFT KALINDA AND HIT A PROVERBIAL BRICK WALL. My goal was to reach Krui five hours to the northwest. An hour in, a terrible head cold flared out of control, one most assuredly contracted during my swim near Krakatoa. My nose ran sprints, eyes watered furiously. I could barely steer the bike. By then, I was in Sumatra’s fourth largest city, Bandar Lampung. Time to circle the wagons, cowboy!
So, I did what any hardcore adventurer does in times of physical turmoil—I sequestered myself at the Sheraton. Sixty dollars a night was a small price to pay for restorative rest and relaxation. Relatively speaking, that wasn’t too shabby for a four-star hotel. And it was nice. Super nice. Still more than I could justify but my body demanded rest, dammit. I succumbed to temptation… for three fucking nights.
I cannot overstate the timeliness of this respite. It was almost magical, like discovering a lush oasis in the desert after days of wandering. A large comfortable bed. Limitless hot water. Room service. HBO. I slept. I showered. I ate. I slept some more. I watched HBO and then I went to sleep. It was fucking glorious, exactly what I needed when I needed it. I still fantasize about three of the most relaxing nights I have ever experienced. Glorious… and ridiculous, I know. And yet, it lives on as one of the fondest memories from Indonesia. Kooky, no? Exactly what I needed when I needed it, fucker. I hardly left the room, doing so only to inform the front desk I’d be staying another night. I felt like a new woman, better than I was before.
Parting, as they say, was some sweet-ass sorrow. I needed every ounce of rest, but it weren’t no easy task breaking free. Asshole… spoiled. Somehow, I packed my shit and retreated. Bye, bye, Shangri-La. Bye, bye. With my sinus irregularity in check, I headed west to Krui, another village by the sea.
I distinctly remember the moment I “arrived” in Sumatra. On the way to Krui, smooth asphalt ended abruptly in a tangle of rocks and dirt. The pavement resumed later, but something had changed, like I might be in familiar parts of Indonesia ten or more years earlier. Tough to describe in words. I’m not sure the impression held up, but from that point on Sumatra felt like Sumatra.
After crossing that physical/psychological boundary, the atmosphere (or my perception thereof) took on a slightly diminished shade of rosy. The faces became a little less welcoming, the smiles less enthusiastic. The smilers were still there, but I saw fewer of them. Less smiling and more “What the fuck are you doing here?” expressions. A few (males in particular) always seemed on the verge of snarling. And when some folks said “Hello”, it almost felt like a warning. Don’t misunderstand. I make no claim as to their actual state of mind. These were only impressions and could’ve been (and hopefully were) wholly inaccurate.
Three nights basking in modern convenience did nothing to aid my intuitions. The motorcycle didn’t help either. I don’t believe the response would’ve been much different if I’d trolled around on a hovercraft. Reactions ran the gamut from child-like wonder to borderline contempt. Honda Phantoms weren’t common, though locals may have been exposed to the occasional rich Indonesian asshole cruising through on a Harley-Davidson with friends in tow. Still, to see an American goofball on a shiny Harley-esque bike was an anomaly, to say the least. I think it’s fair to say I was an enigma.
Case in point. Petrol stations were now few and far between, so mom-and-pop kiosk operations filled the void. I patronized a small roadside stand in my quest for fuel. Given the abnormality that was me, I was invited for coffee, free of charge. I sat and at once became the center of attention to four young males. A few months earlier, the scrutiny might’ve been unbearable, but I’d come along way since then. I even started to enjoy it. (This assumes the absence of perceived danger, of course.) I sipped. They stared. I smiled. They stared. I tried not to burst with awkward laughter. They stared. If all that wasn’t strange enough, there was monkey tied to a nearby tree for no obvious reason. PETA wouldn’t approve (nor did I), but it probably wasn’t the best time for a “Free Willy!” confrontation.
Imagine you’re chilling with your peeps while smoking and drinking coffee when out of the blue a Mr. Bule (Indonesian word for “white guy/gal”) pulls up on a million dollar motorcycle, fills up on petrol, sputters a few broken words of Indonesia in between sips of his coffee, and then hits the road. Plotting my assassination? Naaaa… probably. Of course, I jest, but such thoughts were not foreign (or completely unjustified for that matter). I should mention there was no attempted price gouging involved (I was familiar with the going rate) and no subtle requests for “gifts” or “tips” either. I found that remarkable considering their financial situation. A testament to the local character? I should think so.
Virginia’s for lovers. Krui’s for surfers. Righteous waves abound for those willing to make the journey. For landlubbers like myself, there ain’t much else. Beautiful beaches ideal for surfing. Swimming? Nuh-uh. And no instructors around to instruct, though it probably isn’t suitable for amateur hour anyway.
My Krui lodging of choice was fully booked (goddamned surfers), so I ventured next door. Ever been to deer camp? If you’ve never had the pleasure, then imagine a run-down ski lodge by the beach. There were few actual rooms, mostly beds spread out in the common area. I imagined surfers, reeking of booze, sprawled out willy-nilly during high season.
Being the only tenant made for an interesting dynamic with the owner (at least I think he was the owner). He was a rather quizzical fellow with a limited English vocabulary. Eventually, I warmed up to him, but initially he annoyed the living bejesus out of me. On arrival, I was greeted by a woman (possibly his wife) who showed me the layout and gave me the go-ahead (unauthorized?) to move in. He appeared moments later none too pleased over something. Moi? If I was a betting’ man…
Why? Dunno. Maybe a single guest didn’t justify the hassle. Maybe he didn’t like the cut of my jib. When our eyes met, he managed the facade of a smile but went right back to Grumpy Pants thereafter. Doth my manner offend, kind sir? We then had an “adventure in language barriers” discussion regarding passport information. Normally, hotels require guests to fill out a form that includes name, nationality, address, passport number, port of entry, etc. I did that, but Grumpy also wanted a copy of my passport and visa so he could drive thirty-two kilometers to a police station and provide copies. Umm, ‘kay.
Grumpy mystery solved… I think. I’m guessing I wasn’t worth the petrol it would require for the drive. Provide foreign guest information to the police immediately after arrival? That was a first as far as I knew and seemed like overkill. I’m guessing it’s the government’s policy for keeping tabs on travelers in case of an emergency, but I never did find out for certain. Why there, in Krui? Something special/nefarious about Krui? Hmmmmm. The owner did say every hotel must comply, but something felt off. Somewhere in the root cellar of my mind, I imagined a roadblock checkpoint near Liwa (next town) with my name on it.
(Author’s Note: You may recall from an earlier post that I wasn’t carrying my passport. It was sitting in a safe in Ubud. All I had were copies and a letter verifying my documents from the visa agency back in Bali. You can see why the exchange above made me nervous. I parted with copies and hoped that would be the end of it and, thankfully, it was.)
I asked Grumpy Pants (only half-joking) if they do this in light of potential dangers. His response: “Ha, ha, ha… maybe.” Super, I thought. He punctuated this statement with a laugh that reminded me of a lunatic shitting himself in a filthy corner of the asylum. This laugh was particularly unsettling when he cackled with no clear provocation. He’d mutter something in Indonesia and then begin chortling away. At first, it unnerved the shit out of me (especially considering our odd exchanges), but after a break-in period, I chuckled along on the inside. When in Rome…
After returning from an exploratory drive around town, he looked at me and said, “America many money.” Probably his way of implying I was a crazy-rich asshole. He’d sit behind me while I typed on my crazy-rich asshole computer, no doubt confirming his crazy-rich asshole suspicions. Word got out. I overheard his friend telling the woman working at the hostel my bike cost 200 million rupiahs (roughly $20,000 US). I understood just enough Indonesia to rebuke this claim in a feeble attempt to set him straight, and then repeated my half-assed “bike’s not mine” cover story, stating, in half-assed Indonesian, the Phantom was a merely a loner from a friend living in Bali. I might as well have told him I built it from scratch. He didn’t buy a word.
This odd combination of quirky experiences led to one of many “Whatcha ya doin’, dingus?” moments. Soooo… ya gonna drive the entire length of Sumatra (fourth-largest island in the world) on a motorcycle by yourself with little to no mechanical knowledge, a rudimentary grasp of Indonesian, and a sincere hope you can find a boat back to Jakarta to avoid doing the whole trip over again. Sell the bike and fly back to Bali, you say? Good idea. That was my Plan A, but I wasn’t sure if I needed a passport to fly domestically. If so, I would have to drive back or harness public transport. The latter had a special place in my nightmares.
I mentioned the word bule above. My dictionary says it’s a derogatory term for “whitey.” Like “honkey”, “peckerwood”, “Crisco”, or “cracker”, perhaps? I’m not convinced it’s necessarily pejorative. If it is, there was a shitload of prejudice flying about. I heard it constantly. Possible translations went something like this:
“Hey look! A honkey!”
“Hey, Crisco, nice bike!”
“Peckerwood, buy my little girl some ice cream!”
“Look! A freakishly tall cracker-ass cracker!”
Hard to imagine Sumatrans screaming racial obscenities at foreigners as they pass. If so, they were incredibly polite about it. Either way, I couldn’t help smiling every time. Then again, I am pretty fly for a fucking white guy.