Christmas Island Tales - Part 3

Spirits were bright on the morning of our third day in Jakarta. Sleep had been a bit more sound than it had been the first night and we were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for breakfast. After breakfast, we did a little bit more exploring of the city but didn't stay out too long for fear Steve might turn up early to take us to the airport.

It transpired that he was early, which wasn't a bad thing because we had to go through the same taxi drama we'd faced when we arrived and again, the coffin eventually got loaded into a Tarago and we went separately in a second car. Steve was his usual shifty-eyed self and he didn't accompany us. Instead, we were told the tickets had been booked and all we needed to do was pick them up at the Sempati Air check-in counter.

There was some confusion as to who should pay for our stay at the Jayakata Towers. We stood our ground and asserted the casino was paying for everything, including our drinks and phone calls - an argument we seemed to be losing until the singer mentioned Mr R, the Indonesian owner of the casino. We were all struck by the way mention of his name immediately settled the dispute in our favor - an instantaneous settlement. More about this later.

I was about eleven in the morning when we arrived at the terminal and all of the various airline check-in counters were bustling with activity; the Sempati Air counter was just a small cubicle section identified with a handwritten cardboard sign of the airline's name. It was also completely deserted. A familiar feeling of dread settled on us, though nothing was said. I think we'd started to develop a kind of telepathy by now where we all knew what the other was thinking.

You see things at Jakarta International airport that you just don't see in lots of other airports. For example, Jakarta is apparently a shopping Mecca for Arabs and when I say "shopping" I'm talking about buying refrigerators, washing machines, and huge big things that men dressed like Sheiks (followed by a large retinue of veiled women) fly back to Saudi Arabia as "luggage". I have no idea how much excess baggage like that costs, but it's surely a sum way more than the bass player's "coffin".

Several hours later, there was movement at the Sempati Air counter. The flight was still an hour or so away, but it was blessed relief to finally feel our departure was both real and imminent. Unlike our adventures checkin-in the coffin with Qantas flights, Sempati Air didn't think anything of taking possession of it. However, like the earlier episode in trying to load the coffin into a small car, the check-in people spent several minutes trying to push the HUGE thing into the SMALL hole of the luggage conveyor belt. We were assured somebody would be along later to take it to the plane. The bass player had a small bout of skepticism about seeing his instrument again but, all in all, things seemed peachy.

Sempati Air is Indonesia's domestic carrier though it had landing rights for Christmas Island - an international destination. Once the boarding call was finally made, we (along with fifty or so other passengers) were escorted out through some kind of back door of the departure lounge, down a long flight of stairs to the tarmac where electric busses (like massively oversized golf buggues) awaited to drive us to the far reaches of Jakarta International. An F-28 Fokker jet was already idling its engines and we boarded.

The F-28 Fokker seats 60 or so people and the one we boarded was clean and comfortable, but there was also something slightly primative about it. For example, there was only a curtain separating the cockpit from the passenger area, and seating for three stewardesses between the two sections. We sat in the first row and I had a perfect view into the cockpit where I could plainly see the engineer and co-pilot - both puffing heavily on huge cigars. Through the dense cloud of smoke I could see they wore uniforms, as you'd expect, but they also wore large, dark glasses (think: Al Pacino in Scarface) and, I'm not kidding, snake skin cowboy boots! The singer and bass player also noticed. She had the strangest smile frozen on her face, wide-eyed and unblinking, while the bass player simply looked completely numb as if paralyzed with fear.

None of the other passengers seemed concerned at all and they continued to chat endlessly on their cell phones, even after the plane started taxi-ing toward the runway.

The plane weaved through an endless series of tracks and roadways until eventually it sat poised at the start of a main runway. By this time it became noticable that the engineer thought something was wrong with a very large orange light that blinked furiously on the dashboard. The stewardesses were also clearly concerned by what appeared to be water leaking out from under the wall of the cockpit, and they giggled and stuffed handfulls of tissues into the hole to block the water.

My own sense of dread had by this stage escalated to the point where all I wanted to do was get off that plane. Something was wrong. Clearly. I don't recall which of us started it, but as the engines roared - revving like a drag racing car about to start a race - the three of us started singing "Nearer My God To Thee." I wasn't entirely convinced it was the best song to be singing since, afterall, it didn't help to stop the Titanic from sinking.

The plane was soon hurtling down the runway, faster and faster, with the engineer continuing to wave frantically at the orange flashing light. The expected sudden sensation of liftoff didn't happen and the end of the runway could be seen approaching rapidly through the plane's windshield. All of a sudden, the planes engines were thrown into reverse - so hard, it was only the seatbelt that held me in the seat.

My first thoughts were we were trying to take off from the wrong runway and that a Jumbo was right above us trying to land on the same runway. Fuck. Eventually the plane slowed enough to turn off the runway onto another cross-runway. The plane sat there for a few minutes, again revving its engines like a dragster. The bass player was by now trying to make a move to the exit, but I think his panic kept him paralyzed in his seat. The plane again lurched forward, and then slowed; lurched forward, then slowed. Each time it did this, I could feel my stomach trying to leap from my mouth and may well have puked but for the fact fear had metabolized every particle of food I'd eaten in the previous three weeks.

The plane then started back through the labyrinth pathways until we ultimately stopped back in the far corner of the tarmac where we'd boarded. All the passengers were hustled off the plane (most seeming oblivious or unconcerned) and we stood there, staring at this plane and preying we'd not be forced to get back on it. A plane mechanic dressed in white coveralls soon appeared with a ladder. He climbed up and opened the cowling of one of the jet engines and then, with an 18" wrench, began hammering things inside the engine. And I mean hammering! Like a crazy carpenter beating a recalcitrant nail!

Most of the passengers were Indonesian or Chinese but a couple of European guys approached us and introduced themselves; the casino manager and the chief of Federal Police for Christmas Island. They weren't especially worried by what had happened and just shrugged as if to say "This happens all the time." At around this time, a very friendly Indonesian guy approached and introduced himself (Francis) - apparently a regular visitor/gambler. I forget whether it was the casino manager or the police chief, but we were quietly warned to stay away from Francis. The reasons for this will become apparent later.

By now it was getting quite late. A Sempati Air representative had arrived and made a few announcements, none of which were in English. It transpired that it was now too late in the day for the plan to make its flight, even if it was repaired. Another blessing: Christmas Island's airstrip is too dangerous to make night landings, unless it's an emergency and they line the strip with burning drums of oil. Apparently, the Christmas Island airstrip is one of the top five most dangerous commercial airstrips in the world. Great.

Anyway, feeling safe now with our two new friends, we traveled in the electric bus back to the terminal where we had to wait endlessly while everybody's exit visas were canceled and we were processed in through the out gate of Jakarta International. All of the locals were processed first, as they had homes to go back to. For the rest of us, Sempati Air would book us into a hotel at their expense until our flight could be made.

To be continued...

Christmas Island Tales - Part 2

I spent most of the first night in Jakarta expecting Indonesian police to break down the hotel room door and drag me off to an interrogation room. To make matters worse, every electrical appliance in the room was roughly hardwired into the walls and many wires were bare and exposed. There was a large notice about what to do in the event of a fire pinned to the door and it basically said, "In the event of a fire, run for your life." Not especially reassuring when you're on the seventeenth floor.

Next morning we decided to risk leaving our rooms and go in search of breakfast. There was a large buffet in a restaurant on the ground level of the hotel with a mixture of western and Asian foods as well as something I'd never heard of before: beef bacon. Being a predominantly Islamic country, there was no pork on the menu, but beef bacon was an agreeable substitute.

There were some interesting other guests staying in the hotel. I don't recall seeing any other white people except for one small group that you couldn't fail to notice. Three or four young, stunningly attractive girls accompanied by two of the hugest, most-muscled guys I've ever seen, complete in their 'World Gym' singlets. They were clearly Russians and the demeanor of the men led to quick assumptions they were likely Russian Mafia - this being a time just a couple of years after the fall of Communism.

We lounged around in the restaurant for several hours while the singer made more phone calls. She eventually made contact with "Steve" and a short while later, he arrived and introduced himself. Throughout the brief meeting he seemed very agitated by something and frequently glanced around at everything as if he was expecting to be jumped by somebody. It was very, very strange and, while he told us everything was OK and we'd get to Christmas Island eventually, his actions belied this. He said the next flight to the island would be the following day and that he'd arrange our tickets and collect us around lunch time. In the meantime, we were free to do whatever we wanted.

It had been dark when we arrived in the city the previous night and, while the squallor of Jakarta was evident in the thick stench of pollution, actually seeing it in broad daylight was something else. You can literally see black particles hanging in the air right in front of your eyes. The hotel stood on a narrow laneway bordered on the other side by small vendor vans with bicycle wheels. The vans themselves were festooned with fried chicken feet and bottled water. On the other side of the vans was a narrow canal - in fact, an open sewer with "water" that was indescribably filthy and putrid. It didn't escape my attention that the food vendors washed their pots and pans in this muck and, more alarmingly, the bottled water they sold was water drawn from the canal! On the positive side, street urchins sold packs of Marlboro for $1.00AU. I thought this was a bargain until I lit up one. I'm not sure what they used for tobacco, but they were obviously pr0duced locally and tasted nothing like Marlboros.

Something else that really strikes you hard in Jakarta is the poverty. Beggars were everywhere but one that made a lasting impression was an old woman (she looked like she was 80 but may well have been only 30) sitting on the pavement near an electric escalator to an overpass. She didn't have any legs and her arms were grotesquely deformed. A similarly dirty and disfigured infant lay asleep in her lap. She held out a small plastic bag of peanuts that she was trying to sell for a couple of rupiah (a fraction of a cent). Enough to say it left a lasting impression.

Nobody knows how many people live in Jakarta. The official figure is around 20 million, but we were told it could easily be double that. The main road was a sea of cars in both directions and, in stark contrast to the poverty on the pavements, the number of Mercedes and BMWs was surprising. The aforementioned escalator didn't appear as if it had worked in years but it led to an overpass across the busy road. Everywhere you looked there were market stalls and shops selling everything from fried chicken feet to washing machines and refridgerators stacked five high. First attempts at haggling to buy some cheap local trinket were met with much laughter at my complete lack of negotiation skills.

After a few hours of roaming the streets of Jakarta, we headed back to the hotel for lunch. It has to be said at this stage that the Indonesians who worked at the hotel were about the most hospitible people I've ever met. That they could grow up in such surroundings and be so friendly, like many impressions of Indonesia, left a profound mark on me. Most staff spoke at least some English and I took the opportunity to learn some Indonesian (Bahasa Indonesia).

I spent the afternoon sampling the local beer (Bintang) while relaxing by the hotel pool. It was a balmy, tropical afternoon and if it wasn't for the constant and inescable stench of pollution, I almost felt like a tourist. The bass player also found his way to the pool and conversation that I can remember mostly centered around the filth we could see floating in the air and the fact we were breathing it in. It was around this time that I started to get a sore throat and nose-blowing led to tissues filled with what could only be described as a kind of black tar.

Later, after dinner that night, the bass player decided to go exploring for Jakarta nightlife. I might have joined him but by now was feeling less than spectacular and in fact, I started to lose my voice. He returned after a short while, looking somewhat ashen-faced and shaken. There was a bar across the street, he said, that he went to where there was only candle light and a clientele that was a mix of shadowey Asian men and sad-eyed half-dressed Asian girls. He ordered a beer, served at tropical room temperature, and left before finishing it. To cap off his adventure, he accidently stepped into a sewer gutter and had to wash his jeans from the knee down in fountain in the garden of the hotel. Whatever grip he'd had on reality to that point clearly appeared to have loosened for him.

If we'd all been on a cruise ship, I guess we'd have started singing "Nearer My God To Thee" by now. We bunkered down in one of our rooms and drank the mini bar dry while reassuring each other we only had to wait it out for another twelve hours or so.

To be continued...

Christmas Island Tales - Part 1

Christmas Island: hmm, where to begin?

I first went there at the end of 1993 in a jazz band booked to play at the grand opening of a casino newly built there. There was only a few days notice given for the gig and I jumped at the offer, even though I knew absolutely nothing about the island or the booking agent. The singer (a rather scatter-brained girl) was placed in charge of all the travel details and we were assured everything was paid for. Things started to go awry even before we boarded out first flight out of the country.

The bass player turned up at the check-in counter with his instrument - an acoustic bass that stood approximately 7' tall in its fibreglass case. The expression on the face of the guy at the check-in counter was priceless as we approached: a look of sheer horror. His first words were "Nobody told me that was going on this flight!" After he weighed it, we were informed there was an excess baggage fee of some $800.00AU to pay for the bass. Naturally, none of us had that kind of money to pay for excess baggage and so we simply said, "The casino is paying for everything. Charge it to them." As it was 5.30 in the morning, there was nobody to phone and confirm this and, after much haggling, the guy gave up and said, "I'll load it - it's Sydney's problem now." (Sydney being our next destination)

We flew 'domestic' to Sydney and then had to find a way to get to the international terminal (several miles away). When we attempted to board a shuttle bus, the driver got an expression on his face much like the aforementioned check-in clerk: "You can't bring that on the bus!" Again, we haggled and begged for understanding, explaining that we needed to get to the international terminal to make a connecting flight. Ultimately, faced with no alternative (and generosity of spirit on the driver's part - much to the amusement of the other passengers) we were allowed to board and made it on time to the international terminal.

There was a very long queue of people waiting to be checked in and all eyes were on this giant blue case (nicknamed "the coffin") When we finally got to the counter, the check-in people said the same thing as the guy in Brisbane: "Nobody told us, etc." and "Excess baggage of $800.00" Again we argued our circumstances and said, "The casino is paying for everything." There were lots of phone calls made but eventually, we were allowed to board without paying the excess fee.

We were told that we would not need to enter Indonesia and that we were to go directly to the transit lounge to make a connecting flight from Jakarta to Christmas Island. Well, we followed the crowd disembarking the plane and eventually found ourselves standing at the immigration counter in Jakarta international - no sign of any "transit lounge". Before we realized exactly what had happened, our passports were stamped and we found ourselves standing on the Indonesian side of the customs barrier.

This was a major source of panic because we had no idea about visas and believed we were technically "illegal immigrants" (it transpired temporary visas were stamped back at immigration). Also, we had no cash and no tickets for the connecting flight thus, couldn't get into the transit lounge. Numerous phone calls to "emergency numbers" given to the singer all failed to connect with our "local contact". We stood around for an hour or so wondering how long it would take to be arrested. Collective optimism at the time suggested the worst thing that could happen is we'd be deported.

Anyway, eventually contact was made with "Steve" and we were told we'd missed the connecting flight to Christmas Island and that we should get a taxi to a hotel in town. As there was no alternative, we went in search of a taxi. It was both surreal and funny to be standing on the footpath outside the terminal with dozens of trolley boys begging to carry "the coffin" and hail us a taxi. The taxi that was hailed was a tiny, tiny sedan and clearly, the coffin wasn't going to fit inside no matter how much the driver and all the trolley boys tried to force it inside.

Once the physics lesson of "big thing won't fit in little thing" was learned, the driver radioed for another vehicle - a Tarago 8-seater thing - that could accommodate the coffin, but there was then no room for passengers. The singer, bass player and me then got into the first taxi and, with the Tarago following, we set off for the city.

By now it was late afternoon, drizzling rain, humid as hell and about as bleak a day as I've ever experienced. The whole way into town, the bass player would glance back to see if the Tarago was still following. It was, but he continued to shake his head and mumble, "I'll never see my instrument again." Looking out the window, as we sped along the highway into Jakarta (at truly hair-raising speeds), we passed rice fields that made me think we were driving onto the set of Apocolypse Now!

Perhaps the most frightening thing of all is none of us had anticipated we'd actually walk on Indonesian soil and subsequently, none of us had had any "shots" at all. As far as we knew, we were at risk of catching diseases science probably didn't even have names for. (This later proved to be untrue and the tetnus shot I had before leaving Australia was the only one necessary)

When we arrived at the hotel, the bass player was much relieved that the Tarago eventually arrived as well. We checked into the hotel without problem and then went to our room and sat in stoney silence, looking blankly at each other as if to say, "What the hell are we doing here?"

To be continued...

Annotated Astrology - Sagittarius & Sagittarius

From Yahoo! Horoscopes...

When two Sagittarians join together in a love match, the truth-loving natures makes theirs a near perfect relationship. This couple views the world around them with an educated eye and both share an intense hunger for more knowledge. They will engage one another in pleasant conversation and banter that challenges and tickles the mind. An occasional hotheaded dispute can erupt in the Sagittarius-Sagittarius relationship, when one fact-fanatic Sag partner carries things a little too far.

Easygoing and independent, these two are compatible when it comes to balancing personal interests. They've never known jealousy, and each partner keeps busy with personal projects when not with their lover. When they are together, however, they do all they can toward pleasing their partner and satiating common interests. Although they are adaptable and modern, they can, at times, fly off the handle. However, it is not in the Archer's nature to hold a grudge or let disagreements fester very long.

Sagittarius is ruled by the Planet Jupiter. Expansion is the key word here; as both partners enjoy the acquisition of knowledge, they will carry over exiting ideas into their relationship. They must be mindful of over-indulgences, as such gluttony will only distract them. Their charm and charisma make them a very pleasant couple not only to one another, but the entire crowd.

Sagittarius is a Fire Sign. When these two Fire Signs come together, they merge to build a bigger flame. They constantly reach out together and experience life: They love to take trips more than just reading about places in tour books. Outgoing and friendly, it is the downfall of many Sagittarians to speak before thinking, thus finding themselves in an awkward social bind. These two love to engage in new projects, but neither have the dedication to stick to their guns. Both are far too eager to move ahead to the next new thing.

Sagittarius is a Mutable Sign. The flirty, excitable Sag is easy to get along with, for the most part. Arguments rarely ensue between them. Both are extremely accommodating to their significant other. Every so often a stubborn thorn will pop up, but neither partner wants to stay with this subject, and so the matter is dropped completely.

What's the best aspect of the Sagittarius-Sagittarius relationship? It's their compatibility and shared desire for knowledge. This couple has found the perfect balance between intensity and allowing the other room to breathe. Together, they will explore the vast outside worlds as well as the worlds of the intellect.

I can't speak from any experience about what it's like to team up with another sagittarian as I've only ever met one sagittarian woman. She was a sports nut and thus way off my attraction RADAR. That said, I think it would be quite interesting to get into a relationship with somebody who is anything like me. Kinda like dating a living, breathing mirror image of me (but preferably without the facial hair).

Thought of the Day

Is the glass half full or half empty? Maybe the glass is twice as big as it needs to be...