The legendary island destination of Bali is, if not the place to be in Indonesia (I know people who’ve traveled around Java and swear that it’s the most interesting place on earth), the place I most want to be right now.  Gorgeous beaches.  Tropical (and thankfully dormant) volcanoes.  Lush, verdant inlands that just pulse with eastern spirituality.

In the midst of a massive collection of crowded islands — 17,508, to be precise — containing the largest Muslim population on earth, the relatively small (compared to sister islands Java and Lombok) Bali practices a unique form of Hinduism appropriately called “Balinese.”  It features a perfect blend of wild, frolicsome coastlines, and ultra-serene meditative environments within the island’s heart, making the whole package an ideal tourist destination.  Hell, it accounted for one third of Elizabeth Gilbert‘s Eat, Pray, Love (and 100% of the “Love”).  Only the terrorist bombings of 2002 and 2005 mar its reputation, though the US removed its dire travel warnings as of 2008.

Into Jakarta

Unfortunately, the discount flights I chose required overnight layovers both heading to and away from Bali in Indonesia’s populace capital city of Jakarta.  Two non-consecutive nights in a city isn’t nearly enough time to pass judgement upon a place, but Jakarta is probably the least pleasant city I have ever passed through.  My first visit in Jakarta, upon entering the country, was made infinitely better by a brief visit with my friends Jim and Liz; I’d met them the year prior in Patagonia, and they’d since taken up residency as teachers at a high-end American school here.  One of the finest things about long-term traveling is ever growing list of amazing people around the world to catch up with in their homeland (or in this case, adopted homeland).

Muslim women in dark burqas line the dimly streets, crying as we drive by, their arms locked in place reaching out like crooked tree branches, wordlessly begging for money.  It’s explained to me later that they are unmarried, and likely too old or undesirable to  find a husband now, though they’re simultaneously incapable of self-sufficience.  The streets aren’t lit nearly enough as we drive by suspicious characters standing in place in the shadows, peering into my cab.  A McDonald’s, seemingly out of place in this part of Jakarta, casts a golden glow on the area and proclaims “beef prosperity” on its exterior sign.  And suddenly, we pull through two large gates — double security — and it feels as though the car has mythically crossed the border into an entirely different reality.

Here, houses unmarred by graffiti have green, well-manicured lawns with flowers and the occasional piece of lawn furniture.  Windows lack thick metal bars over them, so common on buildings outside the gates.  Are those tennis courts?  The school where Jim and Liz teach is prestigious, and safety is clearly a primary concern for their foreign teachers.  I’m among the first to find out big news that had arrived almost concurrently with me: Liz is officially pregnant.  We toast to their good luck and share travel and life stories from the time spent since last we saw each other.

My stay is short, unfortunately.  They’ve got a nice house, complete with a local husband and wife team that live in a room adjacent to their garage and serve as their cook and housekeeper — another boon of working at their school.  It’s almost enticing enough to encourage me to get a Masters in education.  They leave before I wake but, consummate hosts that they are, arrangements were made with both their chef and their driver for my convenience.  After a large breakfast of pancakes and fresh fruit, I’m taken directly to the airport.  I may not get the best vibe from this city, but it certainly has its  pockets of comfort.

Out of Jakarta

Cut to one week later and I’m back in Jakarta, relaxed and somehow even tanner than before, with less than twelve hours to go before my flight returns me to the life of a mild-mannered software professor in Chongqing.  Dirty and exhausted, and now with a bulky, extra duffel bag purchased just to carry all of the knickknacks I’d picked up along this trip, it’s imperative that I find a place to stay.  But where?  The overpriced (even for Indonesia) airport hotel is filled to capacity.  Hopping in a cab, we have no luck at two other spots before finding a third that’s willing to take me in.

An employee takes me up the stairs — the elevator is broken, and I feel quite certain that it has always been so — to a small room on the fourth floor.  He opens the door for me and immediately flips the light switch, which proves to be a futile gesture as the room stays cloaked in darkness.  Shrugging it off, he crosses the room and turns on a more effective table lamp on the other side of the bed, illuminating a mammoth-sized cockroach that sits, antennae gyrating wildly, on my pillow of all places.  It must be a comfortable pillow.

“Ahhhhh!” I exclaim.  He can’t understand English anyway, so it’s not like a more descript explanation would’ve served any purpose.

“Ahh?” he asks.  I know you see the cockroach, fucker.  Don’t play dumb.

“Roach there!” I say, pointing.  ”Monster fucking roach!”

“Oh!” he says, suddenly aware of what is causing my discomfort.  He swoops in and swats the mouse-sized insect toward the doorway, where it rebounds off of the door, dazed, and flops gracelessly onto a spot on the floor just barely within the confines of my room.  Stepping forward swiftly, he kicks it with his right foot, which again sends it bouncing up against the open door before following up with his left foot as though tracking a soccer ball, knocking it safely into the hallway.  He looks up at me with a large, satisfied grin upon his face.  All done.

“Good enough, I guess…” I say, shrugging off the pyrrhic victory.  After he leaves, I grab the pillow and consider removing its casing before I notice the sickly yellow mass that resides within it.  With no other options, I flip the pillow over and collapse down onto the coarse, fetid pallet in exhaustion.

I wake and it’s still dark out, with only the softest, ash-gray hint of dawn brightening the lone window, filling the room with soft shadows and hard silhouettes.  Now significantly into my thirties, I have apparently reached a point, physiologically, where it is impossible for my bladder to make it through an entire night.  This personal detail is only important as a lead-in to explain why I am awake in time to discover a small cat, glowing eyes forever burnt into my memory as fodder for a legion of future nightmares, perched upon my bundle of belongings in the corner, mere feet — it’s a very small room — from where I sleep.

Wait.  Not a cat.

“Ahhhhh!” I repeat again, groggier this time but possibly conveying a greater sense of revulsion.

My exclamation sends the rat running into the bathroom, but I remain in bed, frozen and nauseated, for several moments before building up enough drive to switch the bedside lamp on.  Shivering with revulsion, I slowly creep off the bed, checking first carefully under the bed to make sure no other distinctly unwelcome guests (snakes?  spiders?  OJ Simpson?) are currently residing in my room.

I lean into the bathroom, keeping my feet firmly entrenched outside of it as I turn the light on and stretch my head inside.  It’s a small bathroom, and I can immediately see both that the rat is gone, and what was most likely his escape route.  Shuddering, I reach back into the main room for my duffel bag of souvenirs and drag it into the bathroom, pressing it flat against the wall to block a single small hole where the floor and wall meet.  I close the door to the bathroom and lay back down before grimacing as my bladder reminds me why I woke up in the first place.

Cautiously opening the bathroom door, I return to the scene of the crime, though my bag is thus far succeeding in separating me from Jakarta’s lively animal kingdom.  Back in bed, I close my eyes and pretend to sleep, but I fool no one.  Least of all, myself.

Seven AM, and I’m waiting outside on the front step for the shuttle to take me out of here, never to return.  I will not say with assurance that Jakarta does not have its charms; simply that I was unable to discover them during my short stay.  I’m too tired to be startled as a rat — my roommate? — nonchalantly darts out from under the steps right between my legs, making his way into a cluster of large bushes growing next to the hotel.

No, I don’t think I like Jakarta very much.