Monsoon Nearing

An airy drizzle fell as I sat on the bow of the ferry, making my way across the Bali Strait. Twenty or so Indonesians sat around me, most puffing cigarettes, a few chatting with each other, their words radio static to my ears. Reclining uncomfortably on an anchored plastic chair, I locked my eyes on the horizon and watched the sky dim grey as dark clouds wrapped around the sun.

I had spent the previous few weeks traveling around East Java with a friend. We didn’t have much of a plan other than to drift from one place to the next, allowing the undercurrent of circumstance to direct our path. Each decision had a way of leading to unexpected and even unimagined experiences. Every choice created consequences that could not be foreseen. One day I lectured at an Islamic madrasa, the next day I preached at a charismatic, holy roller church. I once found myself bargaining for a pet monkey, and on two occasions we had to seek permission from community elders to stay overnight in an isolated village. We often came across children who had never seen a westerner like me. They would surround me on the street, inspect my camera, poke my legs, and when I bent down to take photos, they would grab my long, shaggy hair, and tug.

All of this happened, though, before leaving my friend some thirty minutes earlier at the Banyuwangi train station. We said goodbye, and I stepped out of the train and walked alone to the Ketepang ferry point, where I paid 7,000 rupiah for a one-way trip to Bali.

Soon after the ferry left East Java, I noticed a boy, probably three-years old, sitting in front of me on his mother’s lap. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him turn around, slowly peek over his mother’s shoulder, and watch me. His eyes hung there for a minute, scrutinizing my every move, until I turned my head, flashed a playful grin, and said hello. His determined face cracked into an astonished smile, as if he didn’t think I could speak, and then he hid behind his mother.

Startled by my voice, the boy’s mother turned, looked me up and down, tilted her head to one side, and asked, “What you doin’ here?”

Probably as surprised as her son seconds before, I sprang up in my chair and told her I was traveling to Kuta beach. Her face instantly came alive, morphing from suspicion to excitement. She explained that her nephew, Dewa, drove a passenger van from Gilimanuk, where the ferry stops, to Kuta. I asked where I could find the van, and the woman, struggling through every word, explained the best she could.

I told her thanks, ruffled the curious boy’s hair, and then walked to the railing. Below, the sea fought against the the ferry, riling up a mosh pit of plastic bags, cigarette packages, and Styrofoam cups. As we neared Bali, I followed a stream of people to the lower bow and waited for the castle-like doors to drop, freeing the anxious, sweaty crowd.

Once ashore, I followed the woman’s directions and quickly found the van exactly as described. When I told Dewa that I had met his aunt on the ferry, he looked disappointed and murmured something about a commission. I pulled out 30,000 rupiah, the equivalent of $3.25, and handed Dewa the cash. Then I squeezed behind twelve Indonesians on my way to the back of the van, where I strapped a frayed seatbelt around my waist.

We arrived at the coastal city of Kuta three hours later. I stepped out of the van, into the damp, humid night. A breeze rushed in from the west, bringing with it the brackish smell of the sea. As I stood, contemplating whether to take a taxicab or motorbike taxi, the drizzle transitioned into a light, persistent rain, pattering the damp streets. I sensed a coming storm, a monsoon nearing.

But it hadn’t yet arrived.

I walked up to a motorbike taxi and over the next minute, negotiated the price from 12,000 to 9,000 rupiah. Then I hopped behind the driver, a skinny 30-something beach bum dressed in a faded t-shirt, shabby shorts, and worn flip-flops. With my right hand, I grabbed his shoulder, and with my left, I held my grey fedora to my head. Without warning, the driver popped the clutch and the bike darted onto the road. Weaving through traffic, headlights stabbed in every direction and high-pitched horns cut into any sense of a pre-storm serenity. I struggled to force my body forward against g-forces pulling at my oversized backpack, trying to drag me off the bike, onto the pavement.

And then, the sky opened – unleashing barrels of water suddenly too heavy for the clouds to continue holding. Within seconds, my clothes and backpack were saturated. I pulled off my fedora and hid it under my shirt, and then shouted for the driver to drop me off at McDonalds, the one across from the beach, a mile or so away.

Without slowing, the driver turned his head, looked at me, and started talking about a guesthouse owned by his brother. “I take you there, you look. If no like, don’t stay. But you will like, I promise.”

I shook my head. “No thanks.”

The driver turned around, defeated by my rejection, and continued towards McDonalds.

When we got to there, I jumped off the motorbike, pulled out a 10,000 rupiah bill, and handed it to the driver. He responded with a peace sign. I flashed one back and gave a quick nod, then ran through the rain, into the McDonalds, my waterlogged shoes squishing with every step.

I entered the restaurant full of western tourists and Indonesian teenagers and spotted an empty table. Once seated, I placed my now-warped fedora on my head and methodically took off my shoes, socks, and jacket, and laid them out to dry. Then I unpacked my backpack – clothes, books, camera, netbook, mask and snorkel – and set them on table. And then I waited, hoping the deluge would let up long enough for me to sneak outside and find somewhere to sleep for the night, somewhere cool and dry.

Thirty minutes later and the storm showed no signs of letting up. So I stayed inside and looked out the window, watching massive drops of rain form vertical streamers diving through the air, crashing to the earth. I eventually ordered a cheeseburger, the first I had eaten in three weeks. Twenty minutes later, now past midnight, and still no break from the rain. So I decided to get an ice-cream cone.

The employee making my ice-cream cone was named Guntur and looked about 17-years old. I asked where he lived, and in broken English, he told me he rented a flat with a few friends just outside Kuta. I asked if he knew any cheap hotels nearby, and he said they lined the next block over, the one that ran away from the ocean. Then he offered to let me stay at his place. I told him thanks, but that I planned to go surfing in the morning and wanted to find a place near the beach. He nodded and told me he would drive me around when he got off work in ten minutes.

I looked outside, the rain still pouring, then at my scattered belongings on the table, and then back at Guntur. I asked if he had a motorbike. He laughed and nodded with enthusiasm. I asked if he had a jacket I could borrow, something to keep my backpack dry. He slipped away for a minute and returned with a black plastic trash bag. I smiled, took the bag, and repacked my belongings. Then I stuck my backpack into the trash bag and tied it in a knot.

Ten minutes later, I followed Guntur back into rain and onto his motorbike. We drove slowly through the narrow, flooding street, as the tires sliced through a few inches of standing water. At the first hotel, I jumped off the motorbike and ran inside, to the front desk. But it was too expensive – $50. The second hotel was $40, which was still too much. The third hotel charged $20, more than I ought to pay, but I was too wet and too tired. So I ran outside, my shoulders hunched forward and my hands hovering over my head, trying to shield the rain, and told Guntur goodbye. His face lit up and he told me he would see me around, maybe at the beach, surfing tomorrow. Then I went back to the hotel and paid for a room.

Finally inside, I laid out my belongings, one by one, and slipped on flip-flops. Then I left the room, locking the door behind me, and walked outside in search of an internet café. The monsoon, minutes before a fury, had weakened into a steady rain. I found a convenience store a block away that housed three ancient computers with flickering monitors sitting on a makeshift table next to piles of cigarette butts and empty beer bottles.

After sending a few emails, I paid the cashier and headed outside, the rain now a light drizzle. Walking on the right side of the road, my feet immersed in muddy water and the legs of my pants rolled up to my knees, I noticed a young woman drive by on a motor scooter. She looked to be in her mid-twenties and had long, wet hair that fell over her soft face. A blue poncho draped her slender body, flapping in the wind. For a moment, we made eye contact, and like a well-rehearsed reflex, she pulled a sharp U-turn, swerved in front of me, and stopped in my path.

And then I heard her voice.

But it was too soft, too quiet, so I couldn’t make out her words. I shook my head, confused. She spoke again, her face growing frustrated. Her voice was louder this time, but now that I could hear it, the words sounded garbled, incomprehensible. I shook my head again, my eyes squinted. She jerked her body off the scooter, took an abrupt step towards me, and thrust her face close to mine.

Her voice, now clear; her breath, the smell of sulfur.

I jumped back, my eyes fixed on the woman, frozen by her offer. Her delicate face looked sad, her light brown eyes sympathetic. I saw her hand reach out, towards my hair. And then I felt her skin softly graze the back of my neck.

My head twitched and I jumped away. Anger shot through her face and her eyes narrowed. I looked down, breaking eye contact, and slowly shook my head.

And then I walked past the woman, through the streets, the water having receded enough to find patches of concrete – places of refuge – and I headed back to the hotel, back to my room with everything I own, lying out to dry.