Riding The Iron Pigeon
Created | Updated Apr 24, 2002
According to the self-righteous gurus at The Lonely Planet guide, the weather in Ambon is different from the rest of Indonesia. When the endless monsoon rain starts to get you down this pleasant 'Spice Island', colonised by the Dutch many centuries ago, is only a few days away by ferry. That journey, never to be repeated, is another story altogether. What is important to us is that the 'different weather system' that allows Ambon to enjoy clear blue skies and sunshine during the European winter is as mythical as Prester John's fabulous kingdom which so many early explorers sought in vain.
After six weeks of overcrowded wooden buses with goats on the roof, rain, damp bed sheets, rain, being wet and dishevelled as we wander the ruins of age-old empires jostled by other western 'travellers', and rain, we need a holiday. Sunshine, tranquillity, and golden beaches beckon. Like the adventurers of old we followed rumours of a better place, only to find ourselves stranded in the pissing rain on an island that didn't have a single restaurant or bar.
During the occasional moments when the sun broke out we would venture into the town, or to the old fort that kept the natives at bay, and cross paths around the puddles with other disconsolate tourists - lonesome couples and parties of hardy Germans, all hardly speaking to each other after a week or more of enforced togetherness and a diet of fish served up by their hosts. Fish, fish, and more fish. Always cooked the same way by hoteliers who have colluded together to ensure that meals always come with the room and there is nowhere else to eat.
We exist in isolation, staring at our neighbours from our rain swept verandah - across the river that is the street. Bali, a tourist ghetto weeks before, is a dream now. Our Christmas idyll pales in comparison to the bright lights and sophistication of the place we fled in search of simplicity. Now we reminisce wistfully about that heavenly Mexican restaurant where we used to watch the rain all day, while sipping cocktails and reading the Wall Street Journal.
Waiting for the next fish we contemplate the thousands of miles between us and the New Years bash the night after tomorrow. The next ferry is due next week. Probably. Visions of the ferry trip, if the ferry ever comes, float through our minds and suddenly - as if by magic - we find ourselves sloshing down the street to the Merpati office.
Merpati - 'pigeon' - is the Indonesian domestic airline, little brother to Garuda - the legendary eagle that gave it's name to the national carrier. Their office is a large airy room on the 'high street', staffed by a lone fellow with thinning hair and a toothy smile who welcomes us with tea and sympathy. We explain that we want to go back to Bali. He pulls a school exercise book out a drawer and, turning to a page with today's date on it, runs his finger down a list of names. Sorry, no seats today, but tomorrow is possible.
He writes our names in the book and we're booked onto a flight to Ujung Padang. Sorry, it's not possible to book a connecting flight. We have to do that when we arrive there. Visions of the flooding in Sulawesi float through my mind, but we persevere, and proffer a credit card in payment.
So sorry, cash only.
This is not as easy as I would like, and we have to break into the big traveller's cheques, necessitating a lot of change which comes from a shoe box in a cupboard in a corner. He pads over in bare feet and counts the money back to us, peering over his half moon glasses as he ensures that we get all the old disreputable bank notes. As I'm feverishly stuffing wads of tattered paper into various pockets he enquires as to where we're staying and offers to pick us up in the morning at nine. Transport to the airport, half a mile away, is part of the deal and all we have to do is wait on the porch. Great, I think, and savour the anticipation of departure while he prepares our tickets.
Except that tickets are not part of the deal, and neither are receipts. We're on island time now and he explains breezily that people don't bother with that kind of thing here . After putting the book away he ushers us to the door and waves us off with a cheery 'see you tomorrow'.
We wade away, not daring to speak the unspoken thoughts we're both having about people who get ripped off while travelling overseas because they're too trusting.
The next morning we're up bright and early, as is the wind. Eating our breakfast fish on the verandah while we wait to be picked up we notice that the trees are bent over, and the rain is flying along the street instead of just falling down like it's supposed to. It'll be fine, I tell myself, they're professionals. And then the bemo arrives.
A bemo is a sort of taxi-bus, which may follow a set route or be available for charter. In theory it carries maybe ten people but, like many things in poorer countries, its actual carrying capacity is determined by human ingenuity and endurance. This particular bemo had a pyramid on its roof created by stacking rucksacks until there was no more room and wrapping the resulting sculpture in a tarpaulin. It was also, of course, crammed full of people and their combined breaths had condensed on the insides of the windows, rendering them opaque. The only places you could see the bemo's contents were in the numerous spots where faces were pressed against the windows, making it look like the bus was full of severed heads.
This apparition lurched to a halt in an enormous puddle, throwing a fountain of water into the air that completed the amazing vision, and the chap from the office erupted out of the door brandishing an enormous multi-coloured umbrella that he used to shelter us ineffectually from the driving rain while our bags joined the tottering pile on the roof. Crammed into the bemo we joined the sea of smiling, slightly desperate, faces as this surreal spectacle splashed around the town, collecting several other bemused couples and groups, before eventually disgorging at the airport - a picturesque tin shack surrounded by palm trees.
After restoring life to squished limbs we had to unload and carry our own bags because the bemo crew had rushed into the terminal building to 'change caps' and become airport staff. I hauled my rucksack onto the counter and it was taken into custody, and weighed, by the same person who had loaded it onto the bemo half an hour before. Our friend from the office was there again too, his umbrella folded against the wall, and still nothing on his feet to explain how he ever came to have a shoe box to keep his money in.
Nobody was surprised to learn that baggage allowances were much reduced on domestic flights, and nobody had a ticket so there was no written source of reference. Bad-temperedly we all started fiddling in pockets and wallets to pay for our 'excess baggage', I silently daring the barefoot wonder to refuse some of the tattered notes he had foisted on me the day before. He tutted, and asked for some better, but wisely chose not to push his luck and then it was time for him to go out and greet the aeroplanes.
There were two of them, each with about ten seats, and they dropped out of the low clouds a few minutes apart. The first one made a practise landing, skimming a few feet above the runway at full power while he determined that he would be able to get in and out safely if he elected to come back and put his wheels on the ground. Decision made, his partner disappeared below the tops of the trees that obscured our view of the runway, and a few minutes later both were waiting on the tarmac for us to board.
Each kept one engine running, to provide power that would start the other one as there were no facilities at this remote outpost. Consequently we had to climb in through a door that was a few scant feet from a roaring propeller, which lifted pools of standing water from the ground and blew them over us as we approached.
Passengers were called by name (from the school exercise book) and escorted out by our friend to whichever aircraft he deemed appropriate. Deafened by the roar of the engine, blinded by the spray which was naturally flying up under the big multi-coloured umbrella, I finally struggled through the door and took my seat ahead of the lavatory - which contained a brace of unhappy looking chickens. Suddenly I heard shouting from the doorway and looked around to see Merpati's man in Ambon gesticulating wildly at the guy on the other side of the aisle from me. He was waved off the aircraft and a moment later I saw him climb through the door of the other one, parked nearby. Then it was time for off.
We had a steward on board who, after exchanging some paperwork with umbrella-man, heaved the door closed and picked up a pile of small cardboard boxes that were wedged next to the chickens in the toilet. These were our in-flight meals, fish and rice, and were handed out without any ceremony before the aircraft began moving. Job done, the steward sat in the jump seat between the pilots and didn't take any further notice of the passengers for the rest of the flight. This was probably a wise move, there was no shortage of white knuckles on that flight and some people were not in the best of moods.
Starting the second engine was uneventful and we quickly taxied to the end of the runway for a very exhilarating take-off. Apart from the violently gusting wind, which rocks the aircraft considerably on the ground, the first thing you notice is that the runway slopes downhill into the bay. The second is that rising out of the bay, dead ahead, is a volcano with a steady stream of smoke coming out of the top. Before you have time to process this information the engines are at full throttle and the aeroplane seems to be running as hard as it can down the hill towards the water and the volcano.
You lurch and bump along while out of the window the palm trees, which are threshing around anyway, seem to be leaning back to compensate for your sloping course. Finally the wheels come unstuck and, almost immediately, the pilot starts a turn to the right to avoid becoming another statistic. Our last sight of Ambon was peering up at the top of the volcano through my neighbour's porthole, as we climbed thankfully towards the clouds. And then all was obscured by clouds and we were on our way back to 'civilisation'. Marvellous.
