Jakarta to Pangandaran

I leave my hostel early. I have a heavy 20kg pack on. I walk to the taxi scooter stall. 50,000 ruppiah, he says, for the 18km ride to the bus station. I negotiate to 40,000 ruppiah (around 5USD) and the driver begrudgingly agrees. When he drops me off at the Kampung Rambutan Bus Station, the driver tells me he doesn't have change as he pockets the 50K bill. I knew that was going to happen -- don't think you're clever -- but I had already planned on giving him a 10K tip because he wasn't reckless.

I'm reading on the bus waiting for the bus to gather enough people to leave the station for Pangandaran. In my periphery, I see a guy assess the passengers and skip over a few empty rows of seats. I think, "Yup, come on. Sit down. I'm here for you to practice your English. Don't even concern yourself with the fact that I'm reading a book." Incredibly, he reads my mind. His name is Yono.

Yono wants me to pay for his ticket. I tell him no. I think, what distorted image of wealth do you have for westerners? He tells me that he works as a waiter in the only 5-star hotel in Jakarta. Oh, I guess that image.

With the seats less than half full, we leave the station. The bus clerk comes to get payment from each passenger; he notices that Yono can speak English enough to talk to me. I pay the 55K ruppiah for the ticket, as listed on the stub. The clerk and Yono have a brief conversation in Indonesian. Yono says that I need to pay 1,500 ruppiah for something extra, "plus-ing" he calls it. I show him the stub, it says 55K. I tell him I paid 55K, so its okay. He shuts up.

The clerk comes back and says something to Yono. Yono tells me that I must be "plus-ing" for my backpack. I point to Yono's pack next to him and ask him if he paid. No, he says, because he can put it on his lap. I point out that if I need to, I can put my backpack on my lap. I also point out that the bus is half empty, so my bag is fine where it is. I'm starting to get angry, its obvious in my voice. My body language makes it pretty clear that to the clerk that I know I'm being discriminated again.

The clerks seems to pick up on this, doesn't like being in the wrong and facing a confrontation about it. Hopefully, he realizes that westerners aren't the fools he assumed we were, or maybe he re-considered the image of westerners being too happy to depart with their weighty, burdensome paper money that we all have too much of. So the clerk gives up and heads to the front of the bus to sit. Yono is keeping up the fight, for why I don't know. I want to be done with it and Yono says, "Maybe give him 10 (thousand)". I'm ready to concede, but the clerk has already given up and he doesn't come back to settle the matter.

Yono thinks we are best friends. I do my best to keep my nose in my book or nap. He does his best to talk to me, sometimes in straight up Indonesian, and then seems confused why I don't understand him. I just pretend I understand, probably saying things like "neat" when I should be answering a question. He wants me to come to his house, basically as a trophy to see his mom and the other villagers. Then he will drive me for one hour on a motorcycle through dangerous hilly roads (his words earlier in our conversation, not mine) to my ultimate destination. I decline. He offers himself as a tour guide in Pangandaran. I decline that too, seeing it as a not-so-sly money making scheme he'll mention after the fact, not the friendly gesture he passes it off as.

We stop for lunch. Yono wants to eat lunch with me. We both have bakso (the K is often said like a hard H). The proprietor doesn't speak English. I ask Yono how much lunch was. 16K. I hand over the money to the owner. Yono gets up without paying. I realize I just paid for his lunch. I get pissed off at him. He seems confused, its only 8,000 ruppiah (1USD). No shit, but you didn't even ask.  Yono gets me some Indonesian candy (dodol) and a spiky brown fruit (satak). The dodol has durian in it, so it tastes like rotting onion. The taste of satak isn't strong, sort of like a fermented, dry jackfruit. I don't particularly enjoy either; for one reason or another, a bitter taste lingers in my mouth.

A few times I look over from my book or nap, and he is snapping a picture of me with his phone. Fine. I'm basically fuming inside, but I refuse to let this ignorant guy get the best of me. He tells me that his brother wants to call me on my phone -- he's curious to talk to me. I explain to him why that doesn't make any sense. At all.  While I'm at it, I'll just go around and call the rest of the 240 million curious Indonesians.

He sort of gives up talking to me, spending most the trip texting with his brother, who wants to meet me in person now. I imagine the conversation went like this:

Yono: I'm best friends with a white guy.
Brother: OMG. Brad Pitt?
Yono: No, but still super rich. Bought me lunch without even mentioning it.
Brother:  Coo, what's he like?
Yono: Big nose, blue eyes, strong chin, and really really rich.
Brother: get a mobile pic and send it to me.
Yono: *sending picture*
Brother: woah, look at that nose. that's a wealthy looking nose.
Yono: did i mention that he reads a lot and has functional elbows? he's the best.
Brother: so cool!!1!!11 i'd really like to practice my english with him. can i call him on his phone?
Yono: sure can, bro! it is 8102398101623

Yono leaves the bus an hour before I need to get off. I'm the last person to leave the bus and its the end of the line. I restrain myself from taking out my frustration on the persistent rickshaw driver that wants to drive me the 400 meters down the road for a suspiciously low rate. Apparently, if a rickshaw drops a tourist off at a guesthouse in Pangandaran, the local union/mafia gets a fee, which he would then get a cut of. I knew this, so I refused. Minutes later under the gates of the city, an officer stopped me and told me I had to pay a small fee to stay in town -- I probably could have lost it right then and there -- but it seemed official. Checking later, the Lonely Planet corroborated that there was a fee.

Whether or not I'm rich in comparison to many of these people in Indonesia (which is probably true in many cases), I am perceived as a neon pink, infinitely deep, walking wallet. For much of my traveling, I've assumed that this image was formed purely out of greed, but this experience also showed that there is a cultural ignorance and stereotype about western people and their money. In the future, I attempt the equally frustrating and fruitless act of educating any annoying "friends" on the truth of the matter.

Finally, after dinner, I received this text from, I assume, Yono's brother: I would like to introduce sir, my name is Yuda. wellcome in Indonesia, I hope you can enjoy visited Indonesia.

Me too, Yuda, me too.