Indonesia

Shortly after boarding the train from Surabaya to Malang any boyish idea of glamour riding a steam train through the countryside shortly evaporated. We were in central Java, a world away from the hoards of waddling, bright red tourists on Kuta beach in Bali, where our voyage through Indonesia commenced. After finding a place to stow our backpacks we took our 40cent seats in one of the economy carriages, and settled in for what we thought would be a relatively quiet day on the train. Bri and I had two seats facing each other next to a window. The plastic vinyl seat was tolerable, and the legroom was adequate, there was even a slight breeze as the train chugged away from the station. With a satisfying level of comfort, and a joyful buzz to our conversation, we were feeling relieved to be in motion towards our destination. As we rolled through a few stations the scenery began to change, the train came to life.

It was evident from the moment we had arrived at the Surabaya railway station that we were in a foreign land. Glares, stares and un-breaking eye contact shortly heightened my sense of vulnerability. After three passport checks, a police escort and an increasing desire to pee, we were shuffled into a large, swelteringly hot passenger terminal that more resembled a holding pen. Iron bars anchored over the windows cast ominous shadows through the room, and with armed security positioned at every door there was no escaping the feeling of entrapment. The walls housed a couple of antiquated photos of a few influential leaders, and a mounted tube television from the 80’s kept the vast number of elderly women bathed in headscarf’s of fine silks transfixed for hours. Suspiciously casting an eye and a nose over the limited bathroom options I nudged Bri to brave the toilet first. Upon returning, I asked her how it was. I received a lifted brow and a small smirk. Not taking this reaction as a good sign, but seeing as though I was unable to hold my bodily functions in any longer, I desperately walked from one side of the pen to the basin area with glaring eyes in my wake. I stepped into the flicker of fluorescent lighting tastefully coupled with degenerating lime green tiles covered in brown residue. I closed my eyes took a deep breath and suddenly began to wrench. The most god awful, disgusting, pungent, thick smell entered every sensory oraphis in my body. Pushing someone aside I ran out gasping for air! Bri’s gaze dropped and she began to laugh. I slowly regained my composure, deeply conflicted with the navigation of this foreign toilet; I stole a large gulp of un-perfumed air, and briskly walked back to my pending doom. I had made it!…or so I thought. As I began my business my eyes began to water, I was loosing my sense of calm, “Oh no!” I thought, mid stream I began to wrench and vomit. Convulsing trying to aim two projectiles into a hole in the floor from a distance is as hard as it sounds. I had sufficiently failed.

Back on the train, we were moving past the scenery of the very well coordinated mess and maze of the Indonesian road network. Indonesians are perhaps the most resourceful race of people I have encountered yet. Nothing goes to waste here, plastic bags become jewelry, and glass bottles are yet to be replaced by bowsers at gas stations. People have inhabited every livable space building up, around, down and through every obstacle. People grow food on the land between their back fences and the railway line, as well as graze cattle, cook, relax, and raise their children. The train was proving to expose Indonesia in its true form, answering many questions about daily life, religion and culture.

After a few more stations the train was filling fast. Our comfort was now displaced as our cumbersome bags found a way onto our laps. Our legroom suddenly disappeared and the seats, windows and walls simultaneously became hot and sticky, and for what was at first a tolerable level of heat, now began to quickly saturate our skin. The train had coughed its way into full speed when out of the toilet, under the seats, and god knows where else, salesman, food vendors, junk purveyors and everyone else in between began to trip and stumble their way up and down the three adjoining carriages of economy class. “Nasi, nasi, nasi!” (rice) was the catch cry of many people trying to flog off an overpriced meal, followed by “Sicken, Sicken, Sicken” (chicken) directed in broken English towards us. This was the beginning of many hours of hecklers, hagglers, and semi professional comedians, finding a way to humor the carriage at our expense. Just as the circus was getting into full swing I began to hear the jingle of coins coming up slowly from behind us. It was getting closer and closer until it was bashing my left eardrum, I turned my head, and nothing was there. Elevating my posture to crane my neck for a better look, on the ground, was a crippled man, with contorted limbs sweeping the floor with a makeshift broom. He much closer resembled a crab then a human being. With a great level of surprise I resumed my seat, jaw on the floor, watching this person continue to scurry up the carriage shaking his coin pouch.

Uncomfortable and slowly discovering a receding level of humor in the events unfolding on the train, we pulled into another station. The carriage became comfortably quiet, this was an unusual occurrence in a noisy place like Indonesia, it doesn’t matter what time of the day or night it is, you can usually hear cars, busses, motorcycles and the general movements of people at all hours. I was starting to feel restless frying under the hot tin roof of the station, the temperature soaring, no amount of cold water, glucose in your system or cold towels can prepare you for the incredible heat. Feeling like a hard fried egg after being stagnant for thirty minutes, a five-piece band began to play in the center aisle of our carriage. I was becoming a delusional mess from the smell of body odor, (most of which my own), and a pounding headache from bongo drums and un-tuned violins. Staring out the window dreaming about air conditioning, and ice cubes, I was facing the hallucinatory effects of the soaring heat, and willpower not to grab this guys out of tune guitar and break it into several pieces over his head. After a few songs and the lack of expression on everyone’s face the Indonesian Mumford and Sons rolled into their next gig down the train. Following the band, I heard that all to familiar jingle of coins, another cripple? Could it be? Yes! My morbid sense of humor was going to feast on a plethora of strangeness over the next twenty minutes. A women with severely bowed legs, staring at me like I was that one big fish on the train, the cash cow that is setting all cripples free. My attention was almost immediately diverted to Bri who was making a hasty exit from the carriage, I saw her quickly disappear into a crowd of people on the train platform. I was worried that this train could cough and splutter its way into mobility again at any moment. I barley even noticed the burn victims who were the next act in the procession of pauper’s and beggars. If this train moved I was going to be throwing our luggage off and selecting a nice grassy landing for my commando roll. I felt a great deal of anxiety, as Bri was somewhere out there, somewhere out of sight. I honesty thought this must be how people get stuck working in this railway circus, and a fleeting image of Bri and I starting a two man band or selling stickers and other crap haunted my imagination for a couple of minutes. The temperature inside the rail car was upwards of 45 degrees, and climbing. Bri made a well-timed re-entry back into the carriage holding a large, cold, refreshingly delicious bottle of water. Much to my relief; I no longer had to endure Indonesian Idol alone. His amplifier placed right next to me, wailing into the microphone maybe he thought I would pay him to shut up. Then something interesting happened, after a few gulps of water I began to embrace my surroundings. I knew I would much rather be on this train in contrast to the salmon run of people commuting to work laden in suits and technology, where eye contact was avoided at all costs, and anything expect silence was considered rude. The train shortly started moving, rewarded by a relaxed demeanor, and overcoming the first real challenge of comfort while travelling, I began to enjoy the creature comforts of the railway. The entertaining personalities, the could be performers, the out of tune jukebox in the next carriage attempting to sing in English, slowly won a slice of my heart. I was starting to get use to the gawking stares of locals, as I was here to learn, this train ride was the all Seeing Eye of the country that I was becoming quite fond of. In spite of the heat and the reality that I was now physically glued with sweat to the plastic seat, I knew I would much rather be here with Bri by my side then anywhere else in the world. Indonesia has a very rich and vibrant culture, colored by food, religion, and music, with an emerging younger generation that is slowly adopting a more Westernized version of living. Java is rooted in a very firm Islamic tradition that seems to have a surprisingly high level of tolerance towards their Hindu counterparts living right next door.

The second half of the trip was thoroughly enjoyable; observing this largely agrarian society mixing religions with a common goal of progress is heartwarming to see. The scenery of tiered rice patties, dotted in between thick jungle made for perhaps the most scenic and impressionable train ride so far. The glimpse of a blue or silver onion domed mosque in the distance broke up the full spectrum of greens in the jungle. Rolling back into the city I was much more capable of refusing hospitality with an all-important smile, and was much more prepared for the challenges of travel that waits ahead. The underground walkway at Malang station funneled us out into the main artery of traffic in the city. With a limited map at our disposal, traversing the footpath that was falling apart, with large pot holes and raised bricks from underlying roots was a great challenge, whilst trying to dodge motorbikes and cars on the road. The noise, and choking exhaust fumes was framing the great sense of relief we felt once we got to our destination. A bamboo gazebo on top of a hostel. The sun was setting just as the evening call to prayer echoed throughout the city. The cannon of the prayer bounced off the buildings and the sky, and reverberated deep inside of me. Looking across to Bri after our day, without saying a word we knew how far away from home we were, and smiled at this symbolizing the start of a journey on the road less travelled.

“A train isn’t a vehicle. It’s part of a country. It’s a place”

Riding the Iron Rooster

By Joshua Thaisen