The Dangers and Joys of My Mio

Ah, nothing is quite like the feeling of racing through traffic, fighting for the right to wait at a stoplight first, only to be cut off by a motorbike swerving in from the left at the last minute to take your coveted position in the traffic-standstill line-up. Right before I left for Bali, I got my Indonesian driver’s license. No, this doesn’t involve a test; rather it involves paying someone to deliver a ready-made driver’s license to your door. Of course, right? This is Indonesia after all. Actually, it cost a little over thirty dollars, which is not a bad price to pay for almost certain death or dismemberment. I joke. A little.

Today I went to the hospital with a friend, who wanted to visit his former elementary school classmate of 32 years old. He had gotten in a motorbike accident--an event that probably occurs more frequently than one might imagine. Just the other day I witnessed a motorbike speed past a becak (a traditional bicycle buggy thingamajigger), and knock it over, leaving the driver sprawled out in rush-hour traffic, as other motorcyclists scrambled out of the way to avoid running him over. Then he promptly got up, left his becak in the middle of the road, and began running down the street after the offending motorcyclists, much to my amazement, because after all, it was still rush hour traffic. And it wasn’t very likely that a man on foot is going to catch a speeding motorcyclist anyway. I had to make a right turn though, so I never really saw how it all played out.

Anyway, so the hospital was a real wake-up call to me. I am not really all that comfortable in any hospital, which I think is pretty normal for people not used to dealing with illness and death. But this particular rumah sakit was appalling. It was just like the temporary hospitals you see in war-time movies, with rudimentary-looking stretchers, and rows of hospital beds lined up against the walls, with no privacy for individuals, and each one filled with terrible looking injuries. A man with a bandage over his eye; a man with one leg and a rough bandage over the stump, etc. There were so many of them, all I really wanted to do was leave, but we hadn’t yet found our particular person we were visiting. Finally we located him; he was a cheerful guy and reminded me of every Indonesian surfer I have ever met. I’m not sure exactly how the details of his particular accident, but his right foot was very swollen, and he must have had an operation to remove part of his bone, (his femur?) because his right leg was about six inches shorter than his left leg.

That story told, I love riding my motorbike. It’s an automatic, so it’s just about the easiest thing to drive around, but it also has a good enough engine to drive straight up a mountain carrying two people. It makes getting research done so much easier because it gives me that edge of independence I have been craving since I arrived. I also discovered that when it comes to being on the road, I’m a bit of a control freak…I love being in charge of getting somewhere, rather than just being a passenger. And the thrill of being able to get to my destination point without getting lost on the confusing streets of Bandung is undeniable. Today I cut my driving time down between Margahayu Raya and the DT pesantren from one hour to 35 minutes. Although going fast on the flyover did make feel like I was going to blow away. I used to laugh to when my fifth grade teacher was so afraid to go over bridges that she had sometimes had to call my mom to drive her across the river. I think I understand it a little now, especially with the wind rushing past and threatening to steer you off course. So I’ve decided not to go above 60 km/h on that part of the journey.

One of the other things that I find highly entertaining is the ferocity of my thoughts towards the other drivers as I zigzag my way through traffic, trying to avoid incoming buses, motorbikes going the wrong way on a one-way road, and the like. In most situations, my thoughts are pretty benevolent, but behind the wheel of the motorbike, I surprise myself with the unuttered phrases journeying through my mind, directed at unsuspecting drivers on the road. But it does keep me on the edge, observant, ready for the quickly changing road conditions.

And when I’m driving with someone else around behind me, I find myself borrowing Grandpa Bob’s coined phrase, my favorite woodturning teacher from Hurley… “It’s your turn to pray."