Banyuwangi

Once again, nothing could have prepared me, perhaps even prepared us, Yudhie and me, for the care and welcome we received from people who were up till then complete strangers, when we arrived in Banyuwangi. But let me back up a bit.

We knew our stay in Bali would be cut short because it would have to be from our home in Singaraja that we made the trip to Yudhie’s ancestral village across the strait on Java, in the far south of Banyuwangi Regency. To get there, there was only one option, to ferry across to Java from the port of Gilimanuk, at the western tip of Bali. Once across the strait, we would have to get in touch with Yudhie’s cousins in Siliragung village, and see if they could pick us up. Otherwise we had little hope of finding our way, let alone public transportation, of which there is none, unless we hired a car with driver.

After considering all the possibilities, our family in Singaraja decided to take us as far as Gilimanuk and the ferry terminal. Moda and his wife drove us there in the morning along the lovely north coast of the island, passing under over-arching trees that shaded the road a good part of the way. The road is well paved and the traffic was light in comparison to most places we’d been. I think I could even drive there without a problem. Gardens and rice fields and banana trees in profusion flowed past us almost without interruption. Before we knew it, we were entering a town, Gilimanuk, and headed straight for the ferry.

Here, as happened to us again when we were to buy tickets for the return trip, our friends bought our tickets for us, six thousand rupiah each. That’s about sixty five cents (USD). We were only penumpang, ‘passengers,’ hence the low fare. We said goodbye and thanked Moda and his wife again for their hospitality. Then we ran to the ferry and got on. It was with mixed feelings, sadness and excitement, that we watched Bali slowly distancing out. The strait is narrow, but the ferry still took almost an hour to make the crossing, because of dangerous currents, and having to wait for an open dock.

Looking back at Bali

When we finally arrived on the other side, we disembarked and as we were getting off the ramp, a woman looked directly at us and said something to Yudhie that I didn’t understand. We stopped and Yudhie talked to the woman and the man who was with her, presumably her husband. He turned to me and said, ‘These people are going to take us to where we can meet my cousin, who will carry us to the village.’ At the time, I really wasn’t sure who they were. I thought they might be some of Yudhie’s relatives, but after we got into their car and started driving, the woman handed Yudhie her cell phone.

Yudhie started talking to whoever was on the line in bahasa, and then handed me the phone, ‘Here, it’s for you.’ ‘Who would be calling me?’ I wondered, as I took the phone and cautiously put it to my ear. I have never owned a cell phone and still don’t know exactly how they work. The voice on the other end was a woman’s voice, and speaking mostly in English with a few bahasa words thrown in. She asked me at first, ‘Is this Pak Romanos?’ and it took me awhile to realize I was talking to Ibu, because I’ve never spoken to her on the telephone before. Whoever it was kept asking me, if we were safe and alright.

‘Yes, yes, Ibu, we are safe and well, kami aman dan semua baik,’ I assured her. She warned us to be careful when we were in Banyuwangi, ‘You are not in Bali, people will be different, take care.’ She seemed more anxious for us than it seemed she should be. Perhaps she was only being motherly with us. I can understand that, being dadly quite often myself with anyone even slightly younger than me. I told her not to worry, and asked her how she was, and if there was any news about her husband. ‘He is alright. No surgery till maybe I get back to the States. He will wait.’

Busy street in Banyuwangi

The couple who were driving us didn’t speak English, and so I asked Ibu if she knew who these people were. ‘They are relatives of Ali, the one who Moda works for in the States, his wife is their sister.’ I knew that Moda’s wife was from Banyuwangi, from a Muslim family there, but I didn’t expect that she would involve her relatives to help us. ‘They will take you to a place where you can call Yudhie’s cousin to pick you up.’ Only later, when I had returned to the States and talked to Ibu, did I learn that she had contacted her in-laws and asked them to take care of us while we were in Banyuwangi.

Large mosque in Banyuwangi

After they picked us up, they told Yudhie that we were first going to go to their house in Banyuwangi town, and wanted us to meet some of their kin. Yudhie could also call his cousin from there, to arrange a rendezvous, so we could go to the village. At the house we were presented to several people, parents, sisters, brothers, cousins. One of the sisters, a young woman, knew some English and we talked, and I also taught her some English usage that she didn’t know. She was so excited and told me, ‘I will never forget you!’ People started arriving home from prayers at the mosque, and we were introduced to them.

Banyuwangi pasar

Soon, a young man turned up who would become our English-speaking chaperone. He was one of the Ali brothers. All three brothers have the first name Ali, but each is known by a second name. This young man, twenty-six years old, was Azan. He started talking to us in English, hesitatingly at first, and apologized for his poor command of the language. As it turned out, his English was quite good, and he and I had many talks together. I could tell that he was just itching to talk to someone who was from the outside world. It seemed all of them were, but most couldn’t because of the language barrier.

Our driver and his wife

After meeting many members of the family and having refreshments, our driver and his wife reappeared. Their place was just next door on the same lane. Everyone in this family seemed to live almost on the same block. We thanked our new friends and loaded ourselves back into the car. Azan came with us. Yudhie had made contact with his cousin Mir, to meet us at such-and-such a place on the edge of town. This was something like an American strip mall, a small gas station at one end of the ‘u’ and many small shops all around a central parking lot. There was a warung offering refreshments.

‘Would you like a drink?’ Azan asked us. ‘Sure,’ I said, ‘what do they have?’ ‘Various kinds of iced drinks. Would you like to try an es campur?’ I had no idea what that could be, but I didn’t want to refuse to try something new, even though it was an iced drink, something the guide books had warned tourists against. Once again, as in the village in Sumatera, I just said ‘yes’ and accepted what was offered, seeing how Azan and Yudhie didn’t have a problem with it. ‘If it doesn’t kill them, it won’t kill me,’ I thought to myself. How foolish it all looks in retrospect.

Es campur
(pronounced Ace CHOMP-poor)

Wow! What a different kind of drink, if it can be called a drink at all! I think this was the first time that I had such a drink in Yndonesia. First of all, it was white because of condensed milk. Then it had ice cubes in it. Then there were different colors and flavors of small cubes of stiff jelly. Then chunks of white bread, and bits of orange, pineapple and other fruits. I couldn’t believe it when I came upon the kidney beans and the kernels of sweet corn. ‘Oh my gosh! What is this stuff?!’ I thought but didn’t say out loud. ‘How do you like it?’ I was asked. ‘Oh, it’s quite delicious, enak sekali.’ And I wasn’t lying.

Yudhie's cousin, Mir

The weather was somewhat drizzly on and off, and as we waited for Mir, I began to wonder how exactly we would be carried to the village. Did he understand that there were two of us? Would he come by motorcycle with a friend? We couldn’t both ride behind him on the same cycle. I’m not a native, but a hefty bulé weighing in at 80 kilos. He wasn’t showing up as we expected, so Yudhie called him again. ‘He says he’s almost here.’ That conversation happen two or three times. Finally, here comes Mir on his motorcycle. He drives right up to us, gets off and then everyone but me gets into a conversation.

As the huddle began to break up, I called out to Yudhie, ‘What are we doing?’ mostly out of concern that Mir had come alone with a single motorcycle. ‘There is some problem with the motorcycle that has to be fixed. Azan is going to stay with the cycle and see to repairs, and Mir will come with us in the car to show us the way to the village. Azan will follow after he gets the cycle fixed. They will stay in touch by cell phone, so he knows where we went.’ I was amazed how smoothly and friendly the process of problem solving took place, especially between people of different faiths who had only just met.

Mir, along with all of Yudhie’s relatives, are Christians belonging to the Javanese Reformed church. The family that was helping us, Azan and the couple who was driving us to the village, are Muslims. Yet I never saw anything pass between them that would betray any hint of animosity. I had read, now I saw for myself, that the people’s bond to each other as members of the Javanese race is stronger than the religious ties. Yudhie had told me about a concept when he was still a college student—gotong royong—that means something like mutual help or spontaneous response to joint action. Sounds good to me.

So, we waved goodbye to Azan and drove off, following Mir’s directions. Soon we were outside the town of Banyuwangi heading south. The roads here were better than those we encountered in Sumatera, but still had some treacherous potholes. At one point we came up behind a van that was stuck in an enormous mud hole, spinning its wheels. We stopped the car and all of us men put our muscle behind the stuck vehicle and it broke free. The driver thanked us, and drove off. Now it was our turn to avoid the mud hole. Luckily, our car was the land rover type and by carefully skirting the danger, we escaped.

But down the road another problem presented itself. Our driver was noticeably bothered by something. I was sandwiched in the back seat between Mir and Yudhie, and the driver and Mir were talking about something. He stopped the car and pulled over to the shoulder of the road—actually on the grassy side of it. The two of them were inspecting the left rear wheel. It wasn’t exactly a flat tire, though it did look a little flat. Suddenly I noticed what they were looking at. The lug nuts—there were only four out of six!—were not all the same, and one of them was so loose you could turn it by hand.

The driver got out a jack and tried to raise the car up to straighten the rim and retighten the lug nuts. He couldn’t seem to find the right place to position the jack. I was out there with them, and I got down on my back and slid under the car to find the right place. The little notch I’m used to seeing on American cars wasn’t there. Finally, he found the right spot, raised the car and tried to reposition the wheel and tighten it down. I noticed that after trying to help them and ‘getting my hands dirty’ there was a different rapport between me and the other men. Maybe even my attempt at gotong royong opened a door that might’ve remained closed.

Yndonesian people are very smart and resourceful, and they know when something needs to be attended to. They don’t just give up and hope for the best. After a few miles, our driver turned off the road at what must have been a mechanic’s, though it looked just like a little shed to me, filled with men and boys. We all got out and watched as a young man serviced not only the problem wheel but checked and attended to all four of them. I noticed that his tools were mismatched but he made the best use of them and got the job done. Now we were ready to brave the country roads again.

Next… At home in Siliragung