The Millennium Trip - Letter #18

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Java Island is famous for its rich coffee and turbulent history. With a size half that of mainland Britain, and a population nearly double, it is one of the most densely populated places on earth.

In Jakarta (map), I had dinner with three journalist friends I met in Nepal. Amal, CC and Rudy were taking a well-deserved break from their frenetic jobs when we first ran into each other back in July. Since then they have had to deal with the presidential elections, religious conflicts in Ambon and the independence disputes in Ache and East Timor.

They took me to the Cafe Tenda (Tents Café), outside the CBD. Originally an abandoned development, this vacant plot was turned into temporary restaurants during the Asian economic collapse. Laid off workers from various industries, such as the Airlines, got together and opened eateries in the same place. Since then, the tents have taken on a more wooden appearance and Cafe Tenda has become one of the choice nightspots in Jakarta.

On the way to Bali, I stopped in Yogyakarta and Bromo. In Yogyakarta I went to see the popular ninth century Borobudur temple. The most impressive part of the temple is the bell-shaped and latticed stupas which cover seated statues of Buddha.

Quietly smoking Mount Bromo is set in a crater of black volcanic ash, and is surrounded by extraordinarily fertile hillsides. Green rainforest trees grow beside numerous fragrant and colourful angiosperms like white Frangipani, smelly Durians and the distinctive Delonix trees. These three metre high trees, with their cherry-coloured blossoms, form a merry bridal canopy over much of the road up to the volcano.

Kuta Beach on Bali, like Kathmandu and Bangkok before it, has everything a flagging traveller needs. Oodles of rooms and restaurants to choose from, English bookshops, mango Lassis and nightly VCD re-runs of "The Matrix". All this, and a beach. What a beach: Long, white and sandy with curvy bits in the right places. Sunsets like a Kelsey Grammar impression; "Thank you and goodnight everybody". And surf to satisfy every kind of wave junkie. Wade in up to shoulder height and take your pick.

I spent four days in Bali. Two days hunting for a yacht or a ship going to Australia and two days not. I hired a beat up old surfboard and tried rather successfully to make a fool of myself. With possibly one exception: Late on my last day, with the beach deserted, the sun drowning below the horizon, I caught my first genuine, true blue, kick-ass wave.

With the smell of board wax in my nose, and the sound of surf pounding in my ears, I caught the K.M. T. Kabila for Ujung Pandang. The journey took forty-eight hours and included stops on Lombok, Sumbawa, and Flores.

Ujung Pandang was named after the Pandan tree, of which there are many in the South Sulawesi peninsula. To be completely honest, the place is a dump. Polluted, stifling and boring, I have nonetheless been stuck here for four days waiting for a delayed Pelni ship to Jayapura.

Bantimurung, two hours north of town, is a butterfly sanctuary of sorts. There are a large number of butterflies, but they are openly hunted by net swishing locals. Like ogres in fairy tales. At last count there were 255 different species in the park. Many of them with froody butterfly names like Celcius, Polyura Jupiter and Graphium Agamemnon.

On the waterfront, Fort Rotterdam, following extensive renovations, manages to look suitably Dutch. Steeply gabled roofs, whitewashed walls, window shutters and stoeps combine to create an impression of transported orderliness. Outside the pentagon shaped fort — likened to a crawling tortoise — the tin shacks pile up against the stone walls, grateful for the stability it provides. The fort museum is quite the worst I have encountered on this trip. Ordinary pieces of pottery, baffling artifacts and even a few sports trophies indiscriminately placed in filthy glass cases with no English and little Indonesian labeling. The lighting was weak, there was no air conditioning and the fans did not work. After ten minutes in the liquid heat I lost the will to live, never mind stick around and decipher the confusing labels.

In Paotere harbour, the elegant Bugis schooners still fly the flag for sail power. Plying the archipelago with various goods, including bags of mouldy coconut pieces, which smell peculiarly like Camenbert.

I am feeling particularly stupid at the moment. That is to say more stupid than I ordinarily accept that I ought to feel. On a bus in Java I had a nauseatingly large amount of cash stolen from my daypack when a thief climbed underneath my seat and cut the bag open with a razor blade. A wily moneychanger also diddled me out of some more money in Bali. A common occurrence in Kuta, apparently. These clever clogs attract their victims with favourable exchange rates, claim to have only small bills and then palm a number of them before you put the money away.

This afternoon I begin a two-week journey to Papua New Guinea. The reason for this diversion is that I have been unable to find any form of sea transport from Indonesia to Australia. I am hoping that I will have better luck in Port Moresby.


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