TRANSIT: bemo to Labuhan Lombok, ferry to island of Sumbawa, then bemo to Sumbawa Besar

Sumbawa Besar: For such a small town, they had a ridiculous number of bemos, with someone shouting, “Hello, where you going?” every 30 seconds. We did have a hard time finding a hotel room, however. There was a convention of PAN, the political party of Muslim leader Amien Rais, in town, and we talked to several of the delegates. Sumbawa is a pretty unexciting city—the only attraction is the wooden palace of the former sultanate and the climate is hot and dry.

The next day we tried to catch a bemo to a town called Air Bari, which we knew nothing about other than we could head out to an island named Pulau Moyo from there. After more than an hour of discussion with people outside the local market, we realized we had missed the last bemo of the day. Some men on motorcycles were suggesting we hire them. At first, I thought there was no way we could get on their bikes with our packs, but we each ended up riding on the back of a bike with our packs on our backs, trying not to get pulled back by the weight. It was terribly unsafe and it was a little uncomfortable—thank God it was only 9 km. The road eventually became a dirt track with numerous sections either rocky or washed out—it was certainly impassable in the rainy season. We ended up way off the beaten path, in a remote fishing village on the northern coast of Sumbawa. Air Bari had one tiny dirt road along the coast, with a hodgepodge row of houses on wooden stilts, some brightly colored. One of the motorcycle drivers invited us into his house and advised us on the price of a boat to the island and accommodation there.

Our home for the next two nights was a national park lodge that had obviously seen better days—describing it as spartan would be charitable. Our rooms were in the main wooden structure; there were other wood and concrete structures but they looked like they hadn’t been used in years, overgrown with weeds filled with leaves and sticks. Even the Indonesian flag that flew from a pole on the beach was ripped in half. We had just got settled when a group of Indonesian tourists arrived. They turned out to be a newly married couple with some of their family members who invited us down to the beach for a picnic. They turned out to be extremely friendly and generous, as they didn’t eat any of their food but kept insisting that we stuff ourselves with their homemade cakes, all the while telling us what an honor it was to meet Westerners. After taking a picture with us for their scrapbook, they left for the mainland, but not before giving us four large coconuts and insisting we stay with them on our next visit to Indonesia. It all happened so quickly and was such a bizarre episode that we were left wondering if that had really just happened—the only evidence were the four coconuts that proved to be quite a Godsend.

Suddenly being the only people for miles around (at least on the southern part of the island), we began our own version of Robinson Crusoe, Swiss Family Robinson, Gilligan’s Island and Survivor. (“On the next Survivor, Tray kills a giant cockroach!”) Since we ended up not brining enough food, we made use of the coconuts. After much effort, I cut through the outer shell with my knife and we drank the milk with a straw Tracy had brought. Then, in our most primordial manner, we crushed the coconut on the concrete until it broke open, allowing us to supplement our meager meal with its flesh.

The night turned out to be horrendous. First, a pole on my mosquito tent broke. Then, I discovered a line of army ants going right into my bed frame after one bit me on the face. When I would finally overcome thoughts of machete-wielding men bursting through the unlocked door and fall asleep, the unearthly squeal of wild pigs kept waking me. The next morning’s snorkel made up for the night from hell at least; I saw a white tip shark, a blue spotted stingray, a lionfish and several clownfish on an anemone.

The bemo heading back to Sumbawa Besar was full, so Todd and I rode up on the roof, next to big sacks of fish oozing fish oil, while holding tightly to the roof rack for the bone-jarring ride back. (I ended up with a sore on my bum.) We caught a bus to Bima on the Eastern coast. The trip was spectacular as we wound our way over and through the rugged terrain of the island’s weathered volcanic ridges. The only problem was that I had to pee about two hours into the ride and it took me the next two hours to convey this to the driver. He finally pulled over after I kept pointing to my willy and telling him I was going to make a big mess on the seat when I peed my pants.

 

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