An Important Place to Someone

Posted byrandy@letters-to-rachel.memorialPosted inAdrift in the World, Along the WayTags:, , , , , , , , ,

Dearest Rachel –

We don’t get a lot of time today in Lombok – well, in fairness, we rarely get much time in any destination that we visit; just the one day we get there and leave. It is one of the drawbacks of cruising – if you find something that particularly draws your interest (and you no doubt will!), you don’t get a lot more time to follow that white rabbit wherever it goes. You have to be back on the ship at a certain time, and that’s it. It’s why you and I were often among the last to return to the ship – and almost inevitably the last members of the family to do so when we were with them. It was an expected thing, almost a running joke, but could you blame us?

But Lombok is particularly problematic in that regard. It’s one thing to only have a single day to make one’s way about a city; if you start at seven or eight in the morning, at least by five or six in the evening, you’ll be tired enough to acknowledge you’ll have had your fill of the place. Here, we’re barely pulling into the harbor by one-thirty in the afternoon; how much time does that give us, really? We have to leave in six or seven hours at most, and we still have to be cleared to disembark.

On our way out of the terminal, we are absolutely swarmed by people on our right hand and left, offering to take us on one tour or another, or to one hotel or another. I am suddenly quite grateful for having decided to sign up for a shore excursion through the ship, because at least I can have faith that RCL is working with someone reputable. I have no faith that I would’ve been able to negotiate my way through this madhouse on my own.  You might’ve done all right with this, but you’ve told me about experiences you and your folks have had on previous trips (that one ’taxi’ ride in Jamaica comes to mind, and this might’ve brought back a few flashbacks.

It’s rather a pity that, in our haste both to get on the buses, and to avoid the crowd of touts, we miss the booth just outside the terminal selling various local wares.  To be fair, the pity is more for the vendors ourselves; we’ll probably do better in town, but it is a shame that they’re blocked from most passenger traffic by the obnoxious crush of people eager to sell us on one trip or another around the island.  Then again, maybe I’m the only one put off by it all.

Our guide informs us that we are in the middle of Ramadhan – and yes, it would seem that they spell it with that additional ‘h,’ for whatever reason; the spellchecker is angrily pointing out “that’s not how it’s spelled,” but who am I to correct those who actually observe the holy month? With 75% of the island’s population being Muslim, the vast majority of people are observing a fast during the day; no eating, no drinking and (curiously specified by the guide) no smoking.  At least, not during the daylight hours; once the sun goes down, it seems one can do these things again (and a good thing, too, as no water in a hot place like Indonesia seems like a supremely Bad Idea)

There are no factories in Lombok – it’s too small, according to our guide (four million people is “too small,” imagine that!  I guess, when compared to Bali and, in particular, Java, it would be considered such).  As such, what goods that are made here are made by hand – and, I suspect, the items available for sale at the mall – will have been imported from one other island or another, thereby making them less of a bargain than they might be. Then again, this sort of thing is hard to predict; witness New Zealand meat prices, or the fact that you don’t buy Lego in Denmark.

The road to the capital of Mataram is littered with rice fields; the guide talks about a certain pudding made with brown sugar and coconut that we ought to try. Not being a big fan of rice pudding in general, I wonder if the day of fasting is getting to him. On the other hand, when in Indonesia, I probably ought to try the local fare.
Further in, our guide draws our attention to development of tiny houses being built by the government in what might be considered an effort to create the ‘Indonesian dream.’ They can be obtained for 200 million rupiah, which, if memory serves, comes to just thirteen grand, when converted into U.S. currency.  Not too shabby, if you want to live here, I suppose.  It still feels like the middle of nowhere, even if we are closing in on the border of Mataram at this point.
Then again, it doesn’t take long before we get to this roundabout; the ‘middle of nowhere’ becomes ‘somewhere’ rather quickly around here.

Our first stop by the “old town” port of Ampenan is a little odd.  There is no port to speak of here anymore; I suspect it may have been all but destroyed during the war, and since then, left to its fate.  For all that it is said that certain “third world” (which technically means countries neither affiliated with the capitalist West – the “first world” – nor the Communist bloc – the “second world”) nations have developed infrastructure that would put ours to shame, a walk through here, while picturesque, reminds one why the term is associated with poverty and squalor.  So much here seems ramshackle and jerry-rigged, with plastic signs faded of color, where they remain at all. Storefronts here don’t have windows so much as cinder blocks and corrugated metal 

I can see why they would want us here, to contribute to the local economy.  At the same time, there’s a feeling like we couldn’t even if we wanted to, as none of us hold any local currency.

For all those observations, I still find myself the last one back to the bus parked at the edge of what feels like Ampenan’s center square; it seems that, in re-tracing my steps, I went a block too far back, and had to double back a second time.  You would’ve been both amused and pleased, I’d like to think.

We stop by the Islamic Center – not just a mosque, but also (I understand) an educational facility – as advertised on the tour documentation.  No doubt, it’s a beautiful place, well-built and maintained (unlike the buildings of Ampenan), but as we are non-Muslim, we are not allowed further in than the courtyard.  I would rather question the point of the stop, to be honest, that having been said.
Meanwhile, as I make my way back to the bus, several touts surround me and those with me doing likewise.  I wonder what the Prophet (peace be to his name) would think of those crowding around the building made sacred to his god and turning it into a place of commerce; would he be as likely to chase them away with a whip of cords? Or would he be approving, as long as the money flowed? Is it sacrilegious to be curious about such things?
It’s a half-hour further drive to the Epicentrum Mall – or so our guide tells us.  But we’re in front of it in less than ten minutes; maybe he was thinking to account for traffic?  In which case, I’ll at least give him credit for planning for the worst-case scenario.
I’m also not sure what to make about a mall that has a metal detector you need to pass through in order to get in. I could see people making jokes about this being common in America, but what’s going on here in Indonesia?

To be quite honest, the interior of the mall is little different from the ones back at home. And I’m not sure I really got a bargain on the suitcase, but I did get a suitcase, and that’s what’s important, because I’ve purchased enough stuff (and will continue to do so) to fill it.

As if to prove that, I spend a good thirty or forty minutes going through the bargain clothes on the second floor.  I keep wandering away from the suitcase I’ve already bought as I pursue one thing and other, with varying degrees of success.  Shirts are no problem, for myself and for Daniel, but when I spot a display of jeans (particularly black ones), I’m dismayed to find so few with a waist I can wear, even after losing so much weight.  When I do find a pair with a thirty-eight inch waist, I pick it up and hold it against mine, only for it to unroll to the point that several inches of it are on the floor.  It’s so ridiculous, I can’t help but laugh.  But there it is; I’m not overweight, I’m under tall.

Once I settle on my purchases, I’m handed off from clerk to clerk four or five times before I wind up at the counter to pay for them. Maybe that way, they all get a little bit of credit, and commission, for the sale.  

At this point, I have barely half an hour before I have to be back at the bus.  I don’t know if I’ll have time to grab anything to eat – and I certainly doubt I’d have time to film it.  It occurs to me that I might need more sunscreen for tomorrow’s excursion, and try to find a pharmacy.  I don’t find one, but I do find a mobile phone mount to use as a tripod back in the room.  I’ve been looking for one of these since Honolulu, so… yay?

So I’ve done my share to pump money back into the local economy – although I guess the profit on what I paid for the suitcase is going to Ace Hardware, of all places.  And if I have to go back to the ship to eat, so be it.  I’m not going to starve in the meantime.

However, despite making it back to the bus with a few minutes to spare, we aren’t going anywhere just yet.  Our guide isn’t sure whether we’re all here – and a seat with stuff on it would seem to suggest he’s right – but after doing several headcounts and coming up with the thirty-five he expects to find, we head out some fifteen minutes late.

Which doesn’t bother me too much, as for a while, there’s still plenty to take in; the crowds of motorbikes that surround the bus in rush hour traffic, the sight of shopping alleys off of the main street as we pass by, the sound of the imams calling the faithful to prayer as the sun sets.

Ah yes, the setting of the sun.  It’s at this point that we are now outside of Mataram, and wending our way through the virtual shantytowns of rural Lombok.  There are very few lights here, and the ones that are seem woefully insufficient to banish the darkness of night – apart from the occasional gas station or convenience store, and even those grow fewer and further between as we make our way to the harbor terminal.  I don’t have pictures of this long stretch of driving, because there’s really not much to photograph to begin with.

All at once, though, there are streetlights every fifty meters or so, at which point, we’re suddenly at the terminal again, and it’s time to part with our guide and the island he calls home; even after having worked in Bali and Jakarta during his career, this is where he prefers to be, if for no other reason than it is where his friends and family are. Look, home is an important place to be, no matter what it might seem like to an outsider. Whatever I have to say is about here is immaterial, it is important to someone, and that’s what matters.

And with that having been said, I need to get ready for our next stop soon enough. So keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.

Published by randy@letters-to-rachel.memorial

I am Rachel's husband. Was. I'm still trying to deal with it. I probably always will be.

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