A Long Post For a Long Bus Ride

The trip from Padang, Sumatra to Jakarta, Java required a marathon 52 hour bus ride, or in terms of distance, 1,300 kilometers of bumpy country roads at Indonesianapolis 500 (like what I did there?) stop-and-go speeds. Without hyperbole, I’d estimate that half of the trip was consumed in accelerating to 60 km/h as fast possible and then soon afterward stopping in order to yield to on-coming traffic. Did I mention that I was prodded by upholstery nails in the mid-section of my seat when I slouched? Or that the guy next to me didn't seem to realize, at least a quarter of the time, that he was in MY seat. Or that it was a 52 hour bus ride? W.T.Fuck.

Google Maps: Padang to Jakarta

Google Maps put the transit time at about 21 hours. Lonely Planet added some fudge factors and suggested at day or more, profoundly noting that it is easier to fly with a competitive price to boot. I planned as much as 36 hours for the sake of keeping a positive mindset. So when I arrived 16 hours after the worst-case estimate – more than half a day thinking the bus would roll up to the ferry terminal any minute – well, needless to say, I had some pent up cynicism to purge.   Hither it comes…

First, I woke up early in Padang to ready myself for the trip. As I walked out the door, the owner of the guesthouse offered me a shuttle to the bus station for approximately 20USD. But I had been suckered into this ludicrously pricey “tourist” shuttle scheme once before when I first arrived with the crew from Bubbles. At the time, they had planes to catch and it was still dawn, so I kept quiet. But this time I politely declined, hoping I wouldn’t hit any language barriers for striking out on my own. Fortunately, I succeeding on the second attempt by showing my bus ticket to one of the drivers of a pimped out shared-taxi. He charged me 2000 ruppiah, or about 0.25 USD, and I got to enjoy the curious, friendly stares of the passengers that we picked up along the way.   A savings close to 100%. Winning!

One flavor of pimped out shared-taxi in Padang. 

At the bus station, I got onto an “Executive” bus, which consists of AC, reclining seats and a TV hung from the ceiling (no guarantees the TV works; and if you’ve never traveled by bus in Asia, hopefully it doesn’t). My leg room seemed to be smaller than the rest of the rows, but it wasn’t a full bus so I had that side of the aisle to myself. Things weren’t looking too bad.

The bus at the rest stop where in The Middle of Nowhere, Sumatra.  Featured is the Super Executive bus I hopped on later in the trip.

About 5 minutes into the ride, I immediately regretted having a cup of coffee and a large orange juice at breakfast. The bus stopped a few minutes before I might have ruptured my bladder, and a young man showed me a nearby toilet in front of a mosque. When I returned to the bus, everyone on the bus quietly chuckled at the Westerner who had to pee in the first 15 minutes of a 30+ hour bus ride. 

Leaving Padang involved navigating steep, narrow switchbacks cut through lush jungle, all the while the road was under construction with kilometer long traffic jams in either direction. The expected two hour trip to Solok took about three and half. I thought our late arrival might be a problem for my transfer at the next stop, but when I arrived in town, I had to wait for another 45 minutes for the “Super Executive” bus. Basically, it’s the same bus as before but with a bathroom. From observation, only females and children use this bathroom. I guess Indonesian men choose if they need to pee.

The view of Padang while winding up the mountain roads. 

In Solok, an Indonesian man bought me lunch and I only talked to him in bare-bones English for a few minutes .  Another man, Herman, saw me struggling to communicate with the bus clerks about the transfer, and he kindly approached me right away to say he’d make sure that I got on the bus since he was on it too. For the win! I didn’t know it at the time, but he was making a commitment to ensure I got to my hostel in Jakarta.

Anyway, back on the Super Executive bus:  I sat down next to some stone-faced punk, probably about my age or little younger. I got settled in and then tried to introduce myself to my neighbor for the next day or so. A simple, “Hi, my name is Adam” with my hand out. He apparently took offense at the token of friendliness, seemed to tell me his name was Erdu (or maybe it translates to “Piss off”), and then outright refused to shake my hand. Man, I thought, what’s up his ass?

But then I realized that I was in the wrong. There aren’t a lot of Westerners visiting Indonesia, and fewer still visiting Sumatra. So over the past few weeks I’d grown accustomed to the friendly and eager Indonesians I’d encountered. Even in the hectic city of Jakarta, I often feel that I’ve made a person’s day with a “simple” hello and a smile – add a high five and you’ve made a solid week. Soon enough, a Westerner starts to feel like a celebrity, as if one deserves that type of reaction, which is no more than an entitlement complex. There are so many reasons this particular gentleman might associate Westerners with something less than good – and I know enough Westerners to understand how one could have a prejudice. So I let the rebuff pass, and made a mental note to try again later.

At the next rest stop, I got to know Herman better over a plate of curry and an unknown fibrous vegetable that looked a little like a pineapple. He insisted on paying, which seemed absurd given my self-indulgent reasons for traveling and his. He was returning home after finishing a two year work contract that stationed him 2000km away from his wife and family in Jakarta, and hadn’t been home the entire time. Once back in Jakarta, he would begin following up on leads for his next contract. My impression of Herman is that he is the type of guy who, even if he knew how much money I could make in a year, still would have insisted on paying. We talked on things for where our vocabulary overlapped and otherwise sat in silence until the call of the horn beckoned us back onto the bus.  

Around midnight of the first night I found out that the itchiness on my back was actually the point of a semi-blunted upholstery nail sticking through the seat. It wasn’t noticeable unless I slouched, which is bad for one’s posture (and mine is crap), but slouching is a tried-and-true method of shifting weigh off of a gravity weary gluteus maximus. It never pierced me, but every once in a while I’d forget it was there and the jerking of the bus remind me that, yes, it is still there.

I also made some progress with the guy next to me. Ultimately, I think he formed a better second opinion of me after observing that I didn't rip the heads off of any Indonesians (and that I liked to play with the adorable toddler in the seat in front of us).  First, I offered him a doughnut-like snack I had picked up at a rest stop. He declined, but there was no malice in his response.  Later, he offered me a tissue, which seemed odd since I was just staring out the window at the time, but a nice enough of a gesture (I think). And eventually, he offered me a vanilla wafer which I accepted. Occasionally, as we marched back onto the bus, we’d acknowledge each other with a smile – a knowing, “Yup, more bus riding”. So despite the fact that sometimes he literally sprawled out in his seat so much that he encroached, and sometimes downright occupied my seat, we were at least on friendly terms.

The bus made a stop around 3am on the first night of the journey. Herman paid for a midnight snack, though I made a few unsuccessful attempts at trying to even the score. At one point, he asked me a question about a bracelet that I had picked up in the Nias Islands. Realizing he had some vocabulary to continue the subject, I made a nonchalant inquiry about the origin of the necklace he wore. It was from Banda Aceh. He asked if I liked it, I said yes, and the next thing I know he had taken it off and laid it out in front of me as a gift. Honest, like refusing to eat home cooked food in front of grandparents, I tried to give it back without offending him. I failed, and it is a really nice necklace -- nice enough that I don’t mind wearing it even though I’m no longer the tree-hugging, devil-stick juggling, hippy I once was. Anyway, I’m wearing it now and for the foreseeable future.

Herman and I at our midnight rest stop after he gifted me his necklace.

To speed things up a bit, here is a selection of some notes I recorded in my journal:  Stray goat eating out of garbage patch; suicidal juice hawker marching down the middle of the main highway; a passenger on a bike with hands clasped as if praying that she’ll survive the particularly steep switchback road; served the heart, lung, and esophagus of a chicken in a curry dish; bus bottoming out so hard that the co-pilot stopped to see if there was permanent damage; in small hamlets that we pass all through the night (1-3am), groups of men playing cards outside; at midnight pit stop, I just want to pee while nearly everyone takes a bucket shower in the stalls; awoke to a changed landscape with mountains no longer looming in the distance;  shanties sprawling over the marshy landscape for as far as the eye can see; song after song of indistinguishable Indo-pop music blaring from the TV; passed an aged but seemingly functional “Water Boom” theme park in the middle of nowhere; endless rows of meticulously aligned tree plantations with collection cups on the trunk just above a removed patch of bark – rubber trees?; bus stalls a few times and engine is running rough but eventually starts back up; arrive at the ferry terminal at 2am, but we don’t start loading until 4am; think I saw Mt. Krakatau though the morning mist while on the ferry crossing;  people littering off the boat left and right; bus smells of Durian; Herman offers me to stay in his house – after not being home for two years – I politely decline.

Okay, that just took 52 hours. Now I’ve arrived Jakarta. Jakarta reminds me a little of Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: Congested with traffic and an endless sprawl of rundown apartment buildings. Herman helped me find a local bus, and then hopped on too, which I assumed meant he was going the same way. But after a few attempts at deciphering his broken English, I figured out that he was going to personally make sure that I got to my hostel. As he said, “First I make sure that Adam has a place to live. You are my friend. Then Herman does not have to worry.” Unnecessary but it definitely made my life a lot easier.  

Sunrise from the ferry. The picturesque scenery of hope that the bus ride will end.

The local bus eventually made it to the waypoint, and then Herman helped me find the road to my hostel, which I soon located. Its 3:30pm on June 26^th, after having left at 9am on June 24^th. I said goodbye to my helpful friend Herman, and we exchange contact information. He tells me I can stay at his family’s house if I go to Boroburdur in Central Java. Herman, the world needs more people like you. 

So in the end, I’m not worked up about the length of the bus ride. No doubt, there were some boring and trying times, and I really did spend more than a few hours thinking we were just an hour away from the ferry terminal. But I also saw a lot of Sumatra that people usually don’t see, using a method of travel only the insane would elect, and I met a really nice guy named Herman. In any event, consider myself recently re-committed to continuing my over land and sea journey for a little while longer. If a bus can take me to the proverbial “there”, it can’t be worse than what I’ve just accomplished.