"What are we going to do?" Adik wails.
"Well," I say, blowing my nose, "my guess is we're going to have to walk until we can find a taxi." But, instead of getting up from the bench, I lean forward and massage my aching temples. The only thing worse than having a head cold is having a head cold in tropical heat. All I want is my bed, my Canadian bed in my old apartment, with all it's superfluous pillows, flannel covered goose down duvet and inconsistent radiator heat clanking beside it.
I try to will my aching joints into motion but just as I'm about to stand a black SUV pulls up outside the gate. A fat, balding man with thick glasses and walks towards us carrying his over sized briefcase with both hands. I remain seated hoping he works here, hoping he will sell us a ticket across the sea.
"Hello," I nod at him.
"Hello," he answers walking past me and staring at his watch.
He pulls out his keys and starts unlocking the door. Adik looks at me questioningly so I say, "We're trying to get ferry tickets to Flores?"
The man takes his keys out of the lock and he and Adik begin an exhange in Bahasa Indonesian that I can only imagine would translate as:
"What did that crazy bule just say?"
"Oh, just ignore her, she's madder than a hatter. Thinks there should be a ferry to Flores over the Christmas holiday when everyone is traveling."
(Both tilt their heads to the side and laugh)
"Well, that's not going to happen. I have to make a phone call, then we'll explain, four or five times so she thinks that we think she's very stupid and crazy, that there's no ferries until January 10th."
Each time they do I say, "Then I guess we'll have to go to the airport," but they just begin all over again emphasizing that there are no ferries as though I'm still interested in these non-existent vessels. After the fifth time, as if to solidify my growing fears that I've gone down the rabbit hole, Adik asks, "So? What do you want to do?"
Scream, I think, but out loud I say as calmly as I can through my blocked sinuses, "It seems we'll have to go to the airport."
The man locks the door again and tells us he will give us a ride to where we'll be able to get a taxi. We follow him back to his SUV where his wife and kids, ten year old fraternal twins, are waiting for him. As we drive they and Adik begin to chatter while I stare out the window. It's not until I can no longer understand the exchange of pleasantries that I realize I have been following an entire conversation in Bahasa!
"So where are you from?"
"I'm from Java, she's from Canada?"
"We're from Java too!" (Of course you are, I think, everyone's from Java)
"Really? What part of Java?"
"Jakarta."
"Oh, we were just in Jakarta."
"What for?"
"We're just traveling around, backpacking."
"Really? Where to?"
"We started in Batam, flew to Jakarta, stayed in Bandung, visited the Baduy then Jogja, Malang and Banyuwangi."
"Wow, that's quite a trip. and she's from Canada? That's really far away? What's she doing here?"
"She's a teacher."
And so on. It isn't a fascinating conversation, and I am in no position mentally or linguistically to join in but I understand it. By the time we get back to civilization the family has decided to take us all the way to the airport, which is a huge blessing and does a lot to lift my flagging spirits.
Adik and I spend the next two hours running from airline ticket window to airline ticket window trying to get out of Bali. When we finally find a flight to Labuan Bajo, we have to start all over again trying to find a flight back to Jakarta because I have vetoed Adik's plan for ground travel back. It will take too long and mean spending New Year's Eve on a bus. Not happening.
By the time we leave the airport I am utterly exhausted but I'm back in high spirits. I can and will get off this island. We'll soon be moving again.
In the evening we go out for dinner and stop for drinks on the way home. I spend the evening flirting with an Australian surfer dude across the bar whose not even pretending anymore to be watching the soccer match. A short energetic Indonesian man greets my mark and, as annoyed as I am that he's distracting my source of amusement, he soon becomes my entertainment. He's so lively and animated, I can't stop watching him. Just as they're about to call it an evening, Stacy wonders out loud where we might get fireworks for New Year's so I call him over.
"You seem," I say, "to be the sort of fellow who would know where we could find fireworks for New Years."
"Me?" he says with a thick Australian accent, "I haven't been in Bali for New Years in over ten years. What am I crazy? Want to get blown to bits? Ka-boom!" he says, adding more exploding sounds for effect. I laugh and he pulls up a chair.
His name is Winston, like the cigarettes. He has a mass of raven curls tumbling round his head and the shifty, darting eyes of a hustler. I know I shouldn't give him more than a minute of my time but I've always gotten on well with shady characters and I like his quick wit, dry humour and somewhat dubious tales of real estate investment and surfing. He's a tattoo artist, "but I only do the ladies" (this makes me laugh) he's throwing a New Year's bash in his shop, we have to come. When I ask him if he knows a good Indian restaurant he says, "You want Indian food. I'll take you. No, seriously, tomorrow night. I'll pick you up at six."
"I'm leaving for Flores in the morning," I say, grateful for the escape and the excuse.
"For 'ow long?"
"Five days."
"Okay, when you get back then."
I smile. Ten years ago he's exactly the sort of trouble I'd have gotten myself into, but tonight I am far too old and far too tired to even consider it. Instead I get up to leave and say, "I'm sure we'll stop by your party New Years Eve."
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