BBC Travel

In this sick and twisted world, there is an elite group of the most sick and twisted countries. Adding a new layer of twistedness to the tragedy of the existence of such countries, there are hockers of gawkers: those who are turning a profit on bringing shamelessly curious tourists to the edge of these tragedies. And then there are the tourists themselves: those who are willing to pay for the experience of going to the edge and gazing into the horror from afar, and yes, I am one of those people. I couldn’t resist the gravity of such an opportunity: go to the precipice of one of the greatest despotic horrors of our time.

The DeMiliterized Zone (DMZ) is a two-kilometer wide squiggle, generally along the ‘38th Parallel,’ which divides North from South Korea. It was established as part of the armistice agreement in 1953. To this day, the two sides are technically still at war. Within the DMZ is a very small section called the Joint Security Area (JSA). This is a common area managed by both the North and South, the United States and the United Nations, where all parties are present, brush shoulders with each other, share and provide security for a neutral meeting space. Despite all the “security,” people have been murdered inside the JSA. It is the site of the 1976 “Axe Murder Incident.”

Strangely enough, the DMZ has become a good, old-fashioned tourist attraction for both sides of the border. This made the defection of a Soviet citizen possible in 1984.

The tour started with boarding a yellow bus with a bunch of other people seeking the experience to look across the border, catch a glimpse of the horror and get the t-shirt. In mostly American good company, college-students, service men and women and random people like myself are drawn to the edge of tragedy. Many companies organize tourist trips to the DMZ/JSA, but this one is run by the United Service Organizations Inc., a nonprofit organization that provides programs, services and live entertainment to U.S troops and their families, so there was a very American, red-white-n-blue apple-pie flavor right from the get-go.

From Seoul, it’s a little over an hour’s drive. Our first stop:  “The Third Tunnel”. After the obligatory mini-museum of dioramas and mannequin displays, we all donned our hardhats and descended into the tunnel. Dug by North Koreans then discovered by the South and walled-off.  Should the North attempt to use a tunnel like this to invade, the tunnel could be flooded.

‘Exit through the gift shop’: Before getting back on the bus, the crowds were helplessly drawn into the first of many gift shops we encountered. Wearing make-up and fur coats, well-fed ladies picked through their choice of flavored junk foods while thousands of people starve on the other side of the border. The mind-boggling reality is almost impossible to stomach. And who am I to judge?  I’m right there in the middle of it.

Next stop: an observation deck complete with coin-operated telescopes; our first real glimpse into North Korea. The atmosphere was careless, carefree and festive. The giddy tourists gasped at distant snow-covered mountains to the north. There it was, the other Korea, in the distant smoggy winter haze. South Korean soldiers pretended to not know English. Everyone wanted to have their picture taken with them and the backdrop of real-life tragedy. We could see “Propaganda Village” with its super-high flag pole on the other side.

Then things got serious: what we’ve all been waiting for. People were silent.  We entered Camp Bonifas. This was the gateway to the JSA, where we, wide-eyed wacked-out wanderers, would be sharing the same air with real live North Koreans. We were ushered into a large theater and signed legal waivers then watched a short film of the history of the JSA which had no lack of good ol’ God Bless America and stoked the fears of a mass invasion by the North. After the film our orientation was conducted by a U.S. serviceman who was polished and professional except for his tendency to make insulting remarks about North Korean soldiers. This was the first of a few times we were instructed to make no gestures towards the North Koreans and to remain quiet within the JSA.

We then boarded a U.S. Army bus to be taken into the JSA. Such an incredible amount of time and resources provided by U.S. taxpayers by way of the U.S. Army: why does the U.S. government go out of its way to facilitate twisted tourism in a war zone? Puzzling to say the least. It’s a tremendous liability firstly, and that with a huge price tag.

After again getting strict instructions to not attempt to communicate with anyone across the border, we exited the bus, walked through the “Peace House” and filed out two-by-two onto the stairs overlooking a series of blue buildings on the border separating South from North. We were able to look over above these buildings to a similar set of stairs up to a similar building on the other side. At the top of the stairs was a lone North Korean officer standing attention and staring back at us. We were allowed to take photos of anything in front of us, the U.N. buildings and North Korean side, but we were prohibited from turning around and taking photos of the South Korean side.

Then came the climax, the one thing I really wanted to do: we walked down the stairs and into the U.N. Conference Building. The building straddles the border. I was the first member of my tour group to walk in. There were three South Korean soldiers inside standing in “Rock Ready” attention, a modified Tae-Kwon-Do stance used by South Korean soldiers serving within the JSA. Then our American Army officer informed us that those of us on his left were technically in North Korea.  The tour group was allowed to wander around, take photos, look out the windows, and luckily I was able to resist the North Korean mind-control and brain-washing. Eventually we all filed back onto the bus.

From there we went to an overlook where we could clearly see “Propaganda Village” and we were “surrounded on three sides by North Korea.” While on the bus we passed by the monument on the 1976 “Axe Murder Incident” site and the famous “Bridge of No Return.”

The last sight of the tour was boring in comparison: a train station that connected North with South. But the museum dedicated to the history of the JSA was fascinating. It details all the bizarre and sometimes horrific events that have taken place inside the JSA. We were hustled out the door, back onto the bus and on our way back to Seoul. The tour was over. There had been no dramatic confrontation, no breakthrough in diplomatic relations, no communication and not even any human interaction with North Korea. But now the tourists could go back home to their well-stocked refrigerators and warm beds. They had been sufficiently entertained and excited, much like a sad trip to a zoo.

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On the second Sunday in May, I received a message from my childhood best friend in Manado, Gracia “GP”. “GC, what are you doing June 1-8? Let’s go island-hopping in Selayar & Takabonerate!”

I said yes. South Sulawesi—of which Selayar and Takabonerate are part—is a destination I’ve been dying to check off my bucket list. So I flew in 10 days earlier to explore the mainland. My other friends Dian and Rio—siblings I attended middle school with in Papua—generously welcomed me in their home in Makassar.

Rio has travelled his entire K-shaped island many times. He said, “I don’t think we hung out much when we were kids.” He’s always been the rebellious adventurer and I was the outback version of prissy princess. And yet 13 years later, our common passion for travelling has led to an unlikely reunion. We put our faith in each other as he offered me a 1400-kilometre piggyback-ride on the motorbike.

Fresh off the plane, Rio and I started in Bantimurung, Maros. The national park is famed for a butterfly park and a pleasant trek up the block waterfall. The river flows still green waters that turn white as it cascades downstream into serene waterholes. We skipped the butterfly museum but delicate papilions, sometimes in pairs, were spotted throughout our walk.

Suddenly, it rained. We took shelter and wrapped our electronics in plastic. “Kemarau never comes,” I quipped about the late May showers. Alas, my fantasy of hot tea and instant noodles wasn’t coming true, so we moved on riding underneath the cloudburst to Leang-Leang, a karst cave with prehistoric paintings on the walls.

It was past dusk prayertime, but Rio negotiated with the gatekeeper to let us in. It was probably good that the park was closed and it was pitch dark, because otherwise the steep climb would have scared me. With faith in my flashlight and Rio’s instructions, I managed to photograph the famous painting of the leaping babyroussa with handprints “chasing” after it.

The ride home was picturesque, with a myriad of stars twinkling over the silhouettes of karst hills and ricefields.

The next day we rode 220 kilometres northbound along the west coast to Enrekang, with a stopover in Parepare. We meant to catch sunrise at Gunung Nona, but I was dozing off. That morning we had a breakfast of nasu cemba (beef rib soup) at Bambapuang resort and took photographs of the erotic mountain that resembles the female genitalia. Legend has it that the boatmen ancestors of the Toraja landed and settled here 25 generations ago.

After a futile search of Enrekang’s Japanese bunkers and war caves, we headed straight to Tana Toraja. At Londa, I instantly felt like entering another world as we came face to face with a stone tomb decorated with thousands of figurines of deceased persons. From a distance, an eerie church choir was rehearsing, seamlessly blending modern Christianity and ancient ancestral rites.

We stayed in a mechanic’s garage near Makale, then visited a living tree in Kambira in which more than 100 deceased babies were put to rest. Bodies, in fetal position, would be inserted into holes in the trunk and covered by straw. The trunk then regrows over the holes and absorbs the bodies. The tree bleeds white sap, which is believed to substitute the mother’s milk and nourishes the baby with the energy to make it to heaven.

Our next stop was Palopo, where I intended to check out the remnants of the Luwu Kingdom, but the palace was under construction. Instead, Rio decided to detour 220 kilometres eastbound to Sorowako, a remote mining town on the banks of the pristine Lake Matano. It was the most scenic drive of our journey, coloured with blue mountains, green forests and rivers, red earth, warm sun and fresh air throughout.

As we headed back southbound, we cancelled a visit to Lake Tempe due to floods in Sengkang and instead shopped for handwoven silk in a local’s home. We continued to Soppeng where we visited Villa Yuliana, a 1905 Dutch-Buginese house that now serves as a museum. It overlooks the Masjid Raya and is surrounded by trees that house flocks of sleeping bats. After touring the infamous Boné Royal Palace in neighbouring Watampone, we overnighted at the harbour near the fishmarket in Sinjai and visited the Gojeng hills to view the megaliths and Kepulauan Sembilan.

Rio and I parted in Bira, the southeastern port famed for fierce seafarers and the making of phinisi ships. I boarded the ferry to Selayar to meet GP and a band of interesting travellers.

Selayar is surprisingly rich in history, which deserves a story of its own. Benteng, the charming hub of the 100-kilometre long island, is a balmy rustic fisherman town kissed by gentle sea breezes and sunshine. The inhabitants are passionate about the sea and among the friendliest people I have ever met.

Takabonerate, the third largest coral atoll in the world, is a 4-hour boat ride southeast of Selayar. We stayed at a cottage in Tinabo, a miniscule resort island with a serene white sand beach right outside our doorstep. There is limited electricity and no cellular network, but perhaps that made for plenty of quality time for us travellers.

Many found it hard to believe that GP and I had been friends for 20 years and stayed in touch despite the distance. Likewise, we admired other people’s stories: a trio committing to travel Indonesia for a year, a freelance architect looking for faraway inspirations, a travel consultant researching new destinations, a jovial dive blogger who wants to photograph dugongs, and a couple in love. We come from different parts of Indonesia.

We’re sad to learn that over 50% of Takabonerate’s vibrant coral reefs are damaged by bombs and potassium. That said, the sights of paradise-like landscapes and gorgeous sunsets made it worth the trip.

My favourite memory was stargazing the immaculate night sky in Tinabo—photographing the Milky Way, experimenting with “light painting”, and sharing the moment with one of my best friends and a couple new ones.

Back on mainland, I bummed around Bira’s beaches with new friends. The owner of the harbour-view villa we shared is a seasoned boatmaker brimming with stories of the sea.

On my way back to Makassar in a shared car, Rio “kidnapped” me in Takalar. He took me to Puntondo, a secluded ecovillage, to walk the mangrove-covered beaches and meet the friendly locals, who aim to make their village an exemplary conservation project.

My trip to South Sulawesi makes me feel that I’m a very fortunate woman. I live in a beautiful country, whose stories trace back to an eternity before my existence and will remain long after I’m gone. And I get to share them with old and new friends, whose kindness and generosity I’ll forever cherish. But now, it’s time to wrap up my holiday and get back to work!

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In Confessions of a Third Culture Kid, I said I have a complicated relationship with the question, “Where are you from?” The truth is I have several homelands in Indonesia.

My maternal grandparents are from Indonesia’s southernmost inhabited island; Roté in Nusa Tenggara Timur, just southwest of Timor. Mother, who was born and raised in Java, was never keen on passing her heritage, but it trickled down to me nonetheless. The first version of Indonesian I learned was actually Kupang Malay, and the first Halloween costume I wore at age four was a Rotinese selimut.

Growing up in between countries, I struggled with the question, “Who am I as an Indonesian?” Mainstream media campaigns promoting mostly Java and Bali-based cultures provided a mere fraction of the answer for a multiethnic minority like me, though I also grew a genuine appreciation for them.

Then I realised that the rest of the answer lies up my own family tree and my ancestors’ homelands. So I started researching NTT and became fascinated with Flores, Sumba, Timor, Adonara, and of course, Roté.

It took me so long to go because NTT feels so far away and expensive to reach. So I wanted to explore “everything” and made big plans that needed the finances and timing to get “right”. It never happened.

It finally took a sudden announcement that my office was closing for Eid week, and a call from Djitron Pah, saying he got affordable tickets to go home. “Karmana ko, orang NTT mar son tau pulang”, he teased. “What’s up with that, you(r ancestors) are from NTT but you never come home”.

Later that day, I bought last minute tickets for Kupang. No plans. I called my mother’s cousin the night before flying in. “I’m sorry for disrupting your holiday on such a short notice”, I apologised. “Don’t be, we’re happy that you’re coming from so far away”, replied my aunt Ritha.

I’d expected a sentimental soul-searching solo journey to my grandparents’ birthplace in Roté, drinking palm wine over all-nighter tribal dance feasts. Instead, my uncle said I couldn’t go to Roté. Ferries were cancelled due to strong winds and high tides. Moreover, relationships between our Timor and Roté families are apparently complicated, so I shouldn’t travel unaccompanied.

“It’s a small island, so when families grew down the generations, land became scarce and many Rotinese migrated here to Timor”, said my aunt, adding that many Rotinese in Timor haven’t been back in their lifetime. The ones who have mostly do so to settle land disputes with their relatives.

The next day, my cousins, niece and nephews took me sightseeing in Kupang. We took photos at the Tenau harbour, monkey caves, the old town, Teluk Kupang outlooking Pulau Semau and Pulau Kera, and the sunset at Subasuka. It was hurried, but fun for the kids and me. The weather was dry, the ground arid, and the trees yellow like autumn. The streets were vacant and sleepy, reminiscent of Outback Australia.

Day three, we headed for Soë, a small mountain town 113 kilometres northeast of Kupang. With toddlers poking each other in the back, the car was a bit of a circus ride. We passed a village my grandfather grew up in, called Oësao. Uncle attempted to explain what was where, but Opa’s house was no longer there. He and my aunt seemed hesitant of meeting whoever has currently settled there.

“No, it’s not there anymore, stop pretending with your foolish explanations”, snapped my aunt as she tried to calm the crying baby.

Driving past without stopping or taking pictures, I felt let down. But what my aunt said is probably what I sometimes do as an ignorant migrant; romanticising a past I never knew and getting foolishly sentimental over misrepresented memorabilia.

I learned the bitter truth that even my relatives in Timor don’t have to go far to be a stranger in their own homeland. All they needed to do is settle in Kupang, get a modern education, build a career and a family there, and a generation later they’re hardly even welcome in a village where their parents grew up. Ironic, considering that NTT is supposed to be one of Indonesia’s friendliest places.

My disappointment was alleviated when we later stopped by the tranquil Camplong wellspring, admired the landscapes of the half-dry Noelmina River, and played with my nephews at the Oëhala waterfalls. I spent the night at aunt Yetty and uncle Min’s cabin surrounded by lush forests. We stargazed from the mountaintop that night and I photographed the sunrise the next morning.

On day four, I hopped on a motorbike with my cousin Daniel to visit Boti, Timor’s last indigenous religious community. From Boti, we stopped by Kolbano, a secluded white rock beach in the south coast of Timor. We spent three hours conquering peaks and valleys on steep serpentine roads of damaged asphalt. But the view was amazing.

On day five, I left Soë with Daniel and our cousin Christine. We stopped by Christine’s sister, Jean, and her family. Jean’s generous mother-in-law had made for us delicious bread, fried plantain, and yams. From there we visited the Pah family in Oëbelo to learn about sasando, the Rotinese palm harp.

The sixth and final day of my visit came. I followed Christine and her husband, Erwin, to Gua Kristal, a glittery rock cave with a deep blue pool of brackish waters, where people often go snorkelling.

So, I didn’t make it to Roté this time and my visit to Timor was like nothing I expected. Instead, I found meaning in my Rotinese identity in things I least expected.

I find it when I meet relatives I didn’t know existed, who fondly remember my late grandfather and treasure his legacy.

I find it when they spend their week off showing me my grandparents’ adopted homeland, and are genuinely delighted with my visit.

I find it when my young nephews tag along my trips and try to bond with me.

I find it when my cousin’s mother-in-law who barely knows me cordially invites me for a meal and packs snacks for my road trip.

I find it when I learn of beautiful places in Timor named after my grandfather. And I’d don my sunglasses hoping no one notices my glistening eyes.

My mother always said of our travelling family, “Home is wherever the four of us are.” NTT may have never been this place for my parents, brother, and me. But as far as my extended family is concerned, my home is also wherever they are. And despite never having met them or been in their hometown before, I truly feel that I am no stranger among them.

For this Third Culture Kid, this is what “going home” is all about.

In memory of Prof Dr. Ir. Herman Johannes – educator, scientist, inventor, national hero and a beloved grandfather.

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Almost 20 years ago, in 1994, best-selling author Terry Pratchett first met the alpha male Kusasi in the rainforests of Tanjung Puting, Borneo. As Terry shared his thoughts with Dr. Biruté Galdikas about his encounter with this giant orangutan in the recent documentary, Facing Extinction, she tenderly nodded, “He made quite an impact on you.”

In fact Kusasi, with his lingering stare and large cheek pads made such an impact, that despite Pratchett’s rare form of Alzheimer, he trekked across the slippery moss and peat ditches to find him. But Kusasi was not to be found, and only his proud successor Tom was discovered, relaxing in the sun. Dr. Galdikas explained why, around ten years ago, “Tom realised that Kusasi’s arm was broken…they battled and of course Tom did so much damage to him that Kusasi was just lying there when we rescued him.”

Kusasi’s reign as king of Camp Leakey (the famous orangutan research station) was over. He had lived there since infancy; both of his parents had been killed for their meat and he was distrustful of humans. After he reached camp, he escaped from Dr. Galdikas’ care and remarkably survived on his own.

Dr. Galdikas first made the camp in Tanjung Puting in 1971 after being selected for research by the famous palaeontologist, Dr. Leakey. The trio of women referred to as ‘Leakey’s Angels’ were Dian Fossey who studied gorillas, Jane Goodall who researched chimpanzees and Biruté Galdikas who settled in the rainforests of Borneo. Over the years she worked tirelessly to protect the orangutans and collaborated on projects with influential figures, including Morgan Freeman and Julia Roberts, who encountered Kusasi during the filming of In the Wild, 1998.

Now in her 60s, Dr. Galdikas is full of mystery and I remember the first time I met her in 2011 when I was accepted as communications officer for her NGO – Orangutan Foundation International (OFI). It was about ten o’ clock at night when two other volunteers and I received a call to visit Dr. Galdikas. With torches we checked her garden path for snakes in the shadows of durian trees. After living in Borneo for over forty years, Dr. Galdikas was very ‘Indonesian’ in the sense that she had a very ‘fluid’ and relaxed attitude towards the time! Waiting in her living room, we chatted with her husband Pak Bohap who was smoking kretek cigarettes.

Finally Dr. Galdikas opened two large doors and invited us into her private backroom. We passed through her office into a large chamber filled with Dayak artefacts that she had collected over the years, as well as a photograph of a young Pak Bohap. Her home was breathing with life and I suddenly felt nervous. But Dr. Galdikas relaxed us with her endless stories and described her early adventures in the rainforest.

But one passion drove her – the orangutans – and at the time of my tenure with OFI, her Care Centre in Pangkalan Bun held around 330 orphans requiring rehabilitation. Since there was a policy of ‘never turn an animal away’, more and more victims of deforestation were pouring in – putting strains on the crowded centre. Many were orphans, whose mothers had been killed, often on plantations. OFI and the volunteers raised funds to build 35 more sleeping enclosures for the orphans and funds were also raised to purchase forestland – where 32 rehabilitated orangutans were released this year. Unfortunately some of the larger males were too strong and dangerous for day release into the forest and were placed on a waiting list to be released back into the wild. In the meantime, OFI hopes to raise funds to build larger enclosures and buy more release sites.

In the wild, an infant will receive constant care from its mother for six years before it can survive independently, therefore each orphan at the Care Centre was allocated a surrogate mother who taught the orangutan skills to enable a successful rehabilitation; however not every case was successful and some orphans didn’t survive the trauma of losing their mother and their forest home. Because of the influx of orphans, I helped the veterinarians in the clinic by feeding a nutrient-rich porridge to the underweight orangutans and I bonded with Berman – a grumpy female orangutan who once pulled a splinter out of my hand!

The charismatic orangutans coaxed me deeper into the forest and in Camp Leakey I met Pak Umar who smoked a hand-carved pipe. A great Dayak story-teller, he explained that one night, as he was sleeping in the ranger’s lodge, he was awoken and dragged out of bed by Kusasi who dumped him outside and casually ambled away. It wasn’t a fair contest – male orangutans can have the strength of up to eight men. After that incident, Pak Umar had no doubts – Kusasi was definitely the boss!

However, I sympathise with Pratchett and the bond he felt with Kusasi, since I often think of Berman. Pratchett never saw Kusasi again and so I contacted some of the rangers in Tanjung Puting to find out more. The good news is that they still hear his ‘long-calls’ – these are deep bellows emitted by males. However, Androw, a patrolling forest ranger said, “Kusasi hasn’t been seen at the camp and also at the feeding location. Actually many people assume that as Tom enlargens his territory, Kusasi is pushed further away from the camp. Once we made a patrol to the North of camp, to post 17, Crocodile Lake and Batang Lake, but there was still no sign of Kusasi.”

Yet Kusasi’s determination I hope, is a metaphor for the fate of the species, which is facing extinction. The major problem facing orangutans is habitat loss, caused by the pressures of sawit, or palm oil plantations. Thanks to the work of relentless conservationists such as Dr. Galdikas, small pockets of forest are being protected and the fighting spirit of the last orangutans may find sanctuary. As Dr. Galdikas explained, “Kusasi joined that caste of wandering nomadic males that have lost their dominance and those males can wander the forest for years. He will not give up. He will simply not give up.”

Further Information

Documentaries:
Terry Pratchett’s Facing Extinction
Julia Robert’s In the Wild

Books:
Reflections of Eden by Dr. Galdikas

Website:
Orangutan Foundation International: www.orangutan.org

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Travelling to an Indonesian island that is not in the guide books and barely mentioned on Wikipedia in search of waves is always an adventure. Earlier this year a friend and I had a couple of hot tips from a few trusted friends and the luxury of a week to visit an island off an island, off an island in search of the perfect surf at our disposal. It was a full word-of-mouth, roll-the-dice kind of trip, but with the swell forecast looking promising we knew waves were coming, so the first piece of the puzzle was set in place. Passing a smoking volcano crater on Sumatra on our tiny prop plane flight to the island as the sun rose was a sign that we were definitely going into the wild.

Upon arrival the first thing was to sort out accommodation and then transport. There were many losmen (budget accommodation) and newly built air-conditioned bungalows available, so that part was easy. All sorts of motorbikes were available to rent, but we waited to seek out the one local on the island who had made a motorbike with surfboard racks on it. These were not the professionally finished racks you see in Bali; these were a rough form of rack made by a backyard welder with barely enough space for your feet when a board was carried and there was no bungee cord to hold the board in the rack, or foam to keep the sides from damaging. The racks were strictly surfboard on metal, but after a few strategically placed towels and a little screwdriver adjustment for foot space, we were mobile and off, headed to the beach with the pedal to the metal.

Being a freshly developed island, the roads were potholed and we even went to dirt at times. Bridges had sketchy platforms to cross over that one wrong swerve meant going overboard. Farm animals roamed freely and on the drive to the beach we spotted a black monkey, countless deer, cows and buffalo, which, although very natural, made you proceed with caution in case you hit one by accident. They say over 200 people die a year by coconuts falling on their heads and on this island there was no shortage of doubt that this could be true with the amount of heavily fruiting coconut trees that sprung up everywhere like weeds amongst a dense green background. This was tropical paradise at its rawest, and the air was about as fresh as you can imagine.

The one lane coastal highway ran parallel to the beach and there were signs of waves everywhere. Not every wave looked amazing, but there were some definite breaks that were working with not a soul in the area. When we got to the beach we were looking for, there were already surfers out. News does travel in this small world and the wave had been found for some years, but obviously the cat was not totally out of the bag with only about six out enjoying overhead to double overhead (6-10ft) waves breaking left and right off of a perfect peak in glassy smooth conditions. Everyone had big smiles on their faces, everyone sharing waves and happy for the other surfer’s ride, totally opposite to the vibe on Bali or other crowded Indonesian waves.

The story goes that this wave was formed from the 2004 earthquake that pushed the coral reefs up close to two metres in some areas, creating this wave and also the deadly tsunami that wiped out parts of Sumatra, Thailand and more in the process. Legend has it that the villagers on this island were told by their ancestors that when there is a terrible earthquake and the reef dries up and the animals start going wild, run for high land because the big wave is coming. And that’s what they did, and though the coastline was destroyed, nobody died because of the tsunami in 2004. Some good did come of it, with this wave being created, where it never existed when the reef was deeper, although the tens of thousands of lives lost elsewhere is nothing to be taken lightly.

Day One was just about over and with the sun setting pushing pinks, oranges and yellows into the sky, the only thing missing was a cold Bintang. Yes, on these strict Muslim outer islands, beer and all alcohol is seriously illegal, and you can’t just cruise down to Circle K and grab one because there are no Circle Ks or any mini marts, nor do any of the warung sell alcohol except for the kind you can’t drink. The island was promoting healthy living.

Day Two saw more exploration. Waves to ourselves, waves with nobody, waves in the middle of nowhere; good waves at that, too. After basic pancakes and coffee in our air-conditioned bungalow (OK, we weren’t roughing it that much) we would load the boards and take off. Past the buffalo, past the waving kids yelling “Hello Mister!” Groundhog Day never felt so good; days melted into days and no phone signal meant no contact and no emails, and neither of us felt the urge to switch to a local SIM card to communicate more. The only indication that time was moving was our growing sunburns and the calendar at the front desk where we luckily did ask what day it was. Finally it was time to go and we had to say goodbye. The locals don’t have a surf shop on the island, so we gave what we could; boardshorts, t-shirts, hats, stickers. The surfboards we kept because they were magic, plus the one local surfer on the island already had a good board.

As soon as it started, the trip was finished; waves caught, mission completed, time to go home. You always say you will go back to a special place you visited and in my experience, it’s always 50-50. That’s why you have to live every moment to the fullest and take lots of pictures because you never know, it might not be the same the next time you visit.

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Transjakarta Bus

This year marks the 10th anniversary of the Transjakarta busway: a public transport system beset by financial scams. Even before the project commenced, funds allocated for the busway were diverted to buy marked up equipment for the City Transportation Agency. This included laptops falsely priced at Rp.50 million each and walkie-talkies at Rp.8 million per unit.

Fast-forward in the slow lane to 2014 and little has changed. Buses sold for the equivalent of Rp.1 billion ($86,300) each in China were being purchased for Jakarta’s busway at the marked up price of Rp.3 billion. Some of the buses from Chinese firm Ankai broke down within days and were found to contain faulty and rusty parts. Officials in the past have said the buses have an expected lifespan of just seven years. Breakdowns are not uncommon. There have even been fires on some buses.

The busway network now spans over 170 kilometres and carries nearly 400,000 passengers each day. With tickets priced at Rp.3,500 (and Rp.2,500 from 5am to 7am), annual ticket revenue can be conservatively estimated at Rp.420 billion. The Transjakarta Management Body operated in 2013 with a budget of Rp.1.3 trillion, of which Rp.886 billion was provided by the Jakarta Regional Budget.

Funds allocated for maintenance and cleaning crews do not seem to be put to good use. The busway operates 12 corridors, with fleets that vary greatly in quality. Among the worst are the grey rattletraps plying Corridor 6, which goes through Kuningan, linking Ragunan and Dukuh Atas 2. Seats are broken, door hinges and gaskets are missing, there are holes in some floors, and broken “automatic” doors are tied shut with wire and plastic.

The ticketing system is supposed to be fully automated so that all commuters can use e-tickets. In January 2013, several banks began selling durable e-tickets, which are ‘tapped’ at entrance turnstiles and can be topped up with credit. A non-government organisation called the Citizens Coalition for Transport Management Demand led the push for e-ticketing, warning that manual ticket sales could be prone to manipulation and misuse of proceeds.

Most tickets are still sold manually and printed on paper that does no favours for the environment. Upon entering a busway terminal or shelter, commuters line up to purchase tickets measuring 15cm by 7.5cm. A stub of the ticket is then torn off and kept by a turnstile attendant, who usually uses an e-ticket to tap each commuter through a single turnstile. The large remainder of the ticket instantly becomes rubbish as the buses have no ticket inspectors. The size of the tickets could be reduced by half or more, if Transjakarta wanted to save money and paper. Ticket vending machines could also be introduced.

Transjakarta’s environmental policies are on display at Harmoni, one of its busiest terminals. There, bus guards throw their daily lunch wrappers and other plastic waste into an adjacent canal and onto the road. Harmoni is the same terminal where guards were recently accused of molesting a woman who had fainted on a bus.

Some ticket vendors are prone to slowness in giving change. A commuter hands over Rp.5,000 and is immediately given a ticket, while the Rp.1,500 change can take much longer to materialise and is sometimes placed almost out of reach, as if in the hope it will be left behind. Still, that’s peanuts compared to the massive mark-ups in the cost of “new” buses. The case was reported by an NGO to the Corruption Eradication Commission, which is yet to launch an investigation. The city administration confirmed there were irregularities but instead referred the case to the Supreme Audit Agency. Deputy Jakarta Governor Basuki ‘Ahok’ Purnama has suggested Transjakarta should in future purchase buses made by European firms such as Mercedes Benz and Scania.

Corruption aside, one of the main problems facing the busway is that its dedicated lanes are often encroached upon and jammed by motorists. Police in late 2013 began enforcing fines of Rp.500,000 for motorcycles and Rp.1 million for cars in the busway lanes. Since then, ongoing enforcement has been haphazard. Police recently launched a website – http://www.tertiblantas.com – where people can upload photos of vehicles transgressing the busway lanes. Supposedly the motorists will then be summoned and fined.

Despite the criticism, the busway is great – when it works. Managers just need to learn to have buses running in five-minute frequencies, rather than have five buses travelling one immediately after the other and then a gap of 15 minutes before the next bus.

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Dial Phone

My dear old granny was a spritely 97 years and 7 months old exactly when she decided she’d had enough and laid down for the long sleep last month. It must have been incredible for her to witness all the amazing advances in technology that became commonplace during her lifetime. The horseless carriage, the flying machine, the wireless, the telephone, the television, jet aircraft, rockets, space travel and just about every other major advance all became accepted into everyday life while she was alive. She was also around for the introduction of the fax machine, the mobile phone and the internet but by then she was already too old to be bothered with such new-fangled nonsense. She believed to the last that writing a letter was far more personal and valuable than sending an email could ever be, and she was the last person I could reach ONLY by telephone or post.

A few days ago my kids asked me to sit down and watch something called The Elders React on YouTube. These videos show older people being exposed to new technology while cameras record their reactions. I must admit that watching people with grey hair and thick glasses shuffle their dentures while playing Flappy Birds was hilarious, and my kids thought it was even funnier to watch me play the stupid game afterwards, while giving them a crash course in old-fashioned cursing. I expect my granny’s granny would have provided similar entertainment had she been asked to maneuver a horseless carriage between sticks at high speed.

After The Elders React, we watched an episode of Kids React, a YouTube programme in which five to 13-year-old kids are exposed to ancient technology. In this episode they were introduced to an old dial telephone. The programme makers just put it down in front of them and asked them what they thought it was. The younger ones had no clue. Some of the older ones said they’d seen them in old movies. None of them knew about dial tones or busy signals. When they were shown how to “dial” a number there was much tongue chewing and kiddy cursing as their fingers kept slipping out of the holes. “That’s going to take a long time,” one of them said. When asked to send a text message with it, most of them gave it a serious try. Even teenagers tried. When told there were no text messages back then, one of them said “So how did you..ohh, you had to CALL them!” (Google ‘The Elders React’ and ‘Kids React’).

The norm now is to avoid talking to people as much as possible. Even the older ones among us prefer to send messages by BB, WhatsApp, Viber, Skype or Facebook and we’ll even email someone before we consider actually calling them. The problem is most of the phone networks do not provide very well for this requirement anymore, so often we can’t get through and we go back to messaging. When messages get delayed we sometimes get a “yes” in reply to a question we were expecting a “no” for and confusion reigns. Then we end up in arguments with people we love because we say things in hastily typed messages that get taken the wrong way. How many times have you been asked why you’re angry by text message when you’re not? This is predominantly a boy/girl problem but it happens between friends and colleagues too. Smileys and Emoticons were invented to lend tone to our written words and replace body language but they haven’t worked.

We kid ourselves that we use text messages because it’s easier and quicker, but if you think about it for most of us typing the words is more difficult and time-consuming than saying them. The truth is, we are avoiding talking to people and our lives are worse for it. When we call we have to go through the pesky pleasantries like “How are you?” before we get to the point. By text, we don’t need to do that and I think this is damaging relationships and eroding social skills, especially among the young who have never known any different – although they are not avoiding anything, they are just doing what we taught them.

Make it a rule; if the message you are typing is more than ten words long, call the person. Better still, use three words only: “Can you talk?” I believe it will greatly enrich and simplify your life.

It’s too late for the kids, though. It would be like my granny’s granny trying to tell her she should send a telegram instead of using the telephone. RIP Nan.

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