I began the journey back in 1997 at the end of a stay in Bali, with a short ferry ride across the Strait of Bali in the port city of Banyuwangi on the eastern end of Java. From there I took the business class train seats with aircraft-style line and plastic-board meal service, the capital of East Java Surabaya. Then forward in Yogyakarta in economy class, with its wooden benches and animated makeshift food stalls; and finally to Jakarta by business class, on upholstered seats cooled oscillation wall fans.
The trip, lasting two days with a stop in Yogyakarta, was pleasantly uneventful, with plenty of time for reading and admiring the rice fields. But for me, at that time, the primary benefit is that trains do not take off and land.
In the economy class leg of the trip, it was always a surprise to be moving at all, since most of the time was spent arrested in sidings to allow priority over classes elevated trains to overtake us. trolleys economy class in those days were full to bursting with activity. They were like mobile markets, with resounding suppliers streaming and aisles, selling snacks and drinks and souvenirs.
The passengers sitting everywhere, as did their luggage, mainly of cardboard boxes tied stacks and rolled mats. The animals also abound, especially in my car. Including a goat, which teetered and tottered down the aisle while looking moody. Virtually everyone smoked string, even the goat, a problem mitigated by the windows being wide open to the wheels banging.
I could avoid this discomfort by flying, railway enthusiasm aside. However, there was a critical reason why I chose to go by train, or more precisely not to go by air. This was my stomach.
In India, it is called Delhi Belly, so here it must be Bali Belly. All expatriates unless they exclusively eat in hygienic hotel restaurants is hit with it. Street food is not refrigerated. It is not protected in the heat. Flies like. I came from a fried rice dish bought from a street vendor in Jakarta. I was new in the tropics. I was easy prey for the abundance of unknown bacteria and prosperous. For the next three days, I could not wander far as 1/32 sprint sink and for several months after the smell of fried rice was traumatic.
The next time a bug belly hit me, I was in a plane taxiing Garuda Indonesia at Soekarno-Hatta International Airport in Jakarta. We were about to take off for Singapore, where I went every two months just to go straight to renew my Indonesian-on-arrival tourist visa. We were strapped into our seats, fully guaranteed for takeoff, the plane waiting for the track file. It was not the ideal time for an assault bowel problems.
He came suddenly, like a hammer. Within moments, I am in a constriction of agony. I began to wince, my white-knuckled fingers clawing at the ends of the armrests. I broke into a cold sweat, stiff, prayed to God, writhing, breathing deeply as a woman in labor. I focused on nothing evacuate foolishly let my body. I suppose that anyone watching would have interpreted my action as an intense fear of flying rather than an intense fear of crapping.
A decision was needed quickly as I squirmed and gritted my seat cushion for dear life. I decided that no way could I let my inner surrender. Besides having no change of clothes for the streets of Singapore, a city known for its strict social regulations which you can probably be sentenced to a fine of $ 500 to smell like feces, it would be unbearably humiliating and unpleasant. They might have to lower the plane's oxygen masks.
Despite my crazy imagination - I saw myself being the culprit in a future episode of Air Crash - Herculean muscle and mind control allowed me to survive the ascent the plane, eyes fixed on aviation safety belt illuminated sign, begging to extinguish. The moment he did, I pulled my seatbelt and rushed down the aisle yet inclined, alarming some passengers to be horrified by the sight of two children walking in front of me, about to occupy two toilets.
Does the kitchen have beyond some suitable container by hand? Would I do until then? But I managed to barge between children without giving them too many bruises and reach my destination with what can only be described, in all honesty, as the largest relief blessed in my life.
And so back to the economy crowded train. No strapping. No taking off and landing. No restrictions whatsoever on the use of the hole in the ground that passed for a toilet. Food from cheap street I ate last night could make his damnedest. I was a free man. Unshackled. And it was with a simple laugh that I jumped from my seat, jumped on cardboard boxes, pop-frogged the surly goat, skirted around some cages, sending a couple of screaming roosters and went to the bathroom. It was locked.