Down and Out in Makassar
Makassar, Sulawesi, January 4th 2006
I woke up with a start. It was 3:30 am and I’d overslept the alarm.
Everything was ready to go, so I quickly stuffed my wet towel on top of the backpack and closed it. Sweeping the room one last time and seeing nothing amiss, I hurried down the gloomy corridor in my socks. The guy from reception came up to me when I slipped into my flip-flops at the bottom on the staircase (a quick feel had confirmed that my boots were still wet from the monsoon rains—within and without).
“Ah, you’re ready! You need to catch the ship!”
It gave me a warm glow that he was making sure I got up in time, even though the hostel—in a dark alley close to the harbour—was somewhat impersonal, to say the least. I smiled and bade him good-bye, then hurriedly stepped out into the street. I was late. There wasn’t time to worry about getting mugged or otherwise dither.
The street was almost deserted. A few lone revellers passed by, nodding when they made eye contact. Once past the container port and through the gate to the passenger terminal, all that changed. I could see the milling crowds from afar. Again, it looked as if an exodus was in progress, but I took heart. There would be plenty of room for everyone and their households on the ship. But where was the ship? It was now almost 4am.
I turned around to ask at the police post, only to find it deserted. So was the information counter inside the bustling hall. Somebody mentioned a departure time of six. That made sense— perhaps four o’clock was the check-in time. Still, it would help if the ship was there, as it would take a while for everyone to board.
I put down my backpack next to a family group and tried to stretch out on the smooth, warm tiles, but I couldn’t relax. Besides, dozing off would not be advisable. So I sat down on some stairs for a smoke, a few steps away from the sleepers.
Time passed. Eventually, the family upped their belongings and left, perhaps to enquire when the ship was due. I took a last swig from my can and made to get up, when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Excuse me?”
I turned around and stared at him irritatedly for a moment. Just some bloke trying to make a pass, or perhaps wanting to practice his English. But if it was the latter, no further word passed his lips.
“Yeah?”
He just smiled, so—annoyed—I turned around to leave.
There was a hole in space where the backpack had been.
A similar hole formed in my mind. All I could think of was: the plastic bag with my provisions is still there. And: no way….
Thoughts trickled into my head at the speed of leaves floating down a brook.
The hall was now almost deserted. There was some activity near the counters at the far end, but there was no way that anyone could have moved the backpack that far. Yet, the distinctive red pack was nowhere to be seen.
Upstairs!
I broke through my fugue and stormed up the stairs, three at a time, spinning around to confront the thief, should he be huddling in a corner.
There was absolutely no-one there.
By now, whoever was still hiding out downstairs would have gone.
Idiot.
A red fog rose behind my eyes. Without further thought or care, I ran towards the gate, screaming at the top of my lungs. It wasn’t the moment to remember the phrases that dealt with theft from my language books. Consequently, I arrived at the gate red in the face, eyes rolling and hands waving frantically, bellowing something in English. The guards looked on for a while, bemused.
“Polisi!” I screamed at last.
“Police not here.”
The police post in front of the gate was still deserted.
I conveyed the rest in sign language and at the gesture for ‘backpack’, at least one of the guards nodded, pointed at a nearby scooter and made the sign for ‘driving away’.
“And you haven’t stopped them?” I screeched.
That drew blank looks and one or two lifted shoulders. Not their jobs. How were they to know?
The police station, I eventually found out, was further down the road. “But closed. Until seven.”
Closed? The Makassar harbour police? On the night of a passenger ship departing? With a terrorist alert in place? WTF?
I shook my head. Impossible. Stupid guards.
Incensed at their incompetence, I took off along the road, mind reeling. It can’t be, it can’t be! This doesn’t happen to me!
A taxi pulled up next to me.
“Polisi?” I pointed ahead. The driver nodded and made a gesture for me to get in. The last I needed to deal with, right then, were touts.
“Go away, I’ll walk. I have no money!”
That was a lie. But the driver didn’t leave. “Get in, I take you free. Are you crazy, walking here?”
I looked around for a moment. It was after 4 am, in the harbour. Yeah, I was crazy. I got in the cab and sheepishly fumbled for some cash. As we drew up in front of the police station, the driver waved his hand dismissively.
“Keep it! I want to help.”
I stood there open-mouthed as two cops approached from the brightly-lit station. It was busy enough. So there, stupid guards!
In reception, I stammered that my backpack had been stolen, that I was glad to be there, that the nice driver had taken me for free…
“What, no money?”
“No, I have money, but the driver—”
They had understood. For about ten minutes, the amazing free taxi ride was the chief topic of conversation. Only after I started crying, did we return to the topic of the stolen backpack. By then, the few officers with a slight grasp of English had been joined by about a dozen of their colleagues, who all wanted to hear the story, translating back-and-forth.
“Look!” I shouted, lowering my voice again as I pulled out my language guide. “I can explain—” I frantically leaved through to the section about the police station, but before I got there, one of the cops snatched the book out of my hand.
“Ah!”
Before long, about five of them were poring over the book, intently looking at the pages, but it wasn’t at the right section. When I finally managed to show them, they continued to pore, pointing out the phrases, all thoughts about me forgotten.
At around this time, reality caught up with me and I suddenly felt very dizzy. And empty, as if the breath had been knocked out of me.
Don’t be stupid, I scolded myself. It’s just a lousy backpack. You still have the moneybelt: passport, most of the cash, debit card, ticket. Imagine the fun and games if that had gone. Imagine getting to Jakarta with… I shook my head to clear the thought. The backpack is nothing. Just…stuff.
So why did I take it so hard? I almost felt violated. There was the offence, the sheer rage. There was the loss of all my creature comforts. The home on my back. Toiletries, toys, my camera—even the Lonely Planet guide had gone. It was heavy as a brick, so I’d packed it away and exchanged it for the travellogue I was reading. And the Palm PDA with my NaNoWriMo novel on it (thankfully backed up by email).
Suddenly, I began to tremble. There was no way to deal with this rationally. Not that it mattered, since none of the cops made any attempt to do so. Still berating myself for being silly, I was overcome by a panic attack, the first in a long time. It wouldn’t be until it happened again that I realised what it was.
I sunk onto the floor and raised my hands to my face. Colour drained from my surroundings. Slowly, I sprawled onto the tiles, the voices sounding very distant. I was aware of being lifted, one of my flip-flops dropping from my foot. Someone put me on a row of chairs, another shoved something under my legs.
I’m not unconscious! Gods, this could be messy….
Try as I might, I couldn’t move. I did not actually try to open my eyes; I didn’t really want to see. I didn’t care anymore; this was happening to somebody else.
I don’t know for how long I lay there, but faint light seeped through the windows when I finally focussed on the lone guard sitting across from me. He got up and bellowed for the others.
This time, they gave me space. I was shivering. Someone wrapped me in a jacket and a blanket, asking whether I was cold. The guys may have been somewhat scatter-brained, but they were nice.
Dawn broke. The features outside, seen through the open door, resolved in a grey mist which gradually brightened. And then, the senior officers walked in. I checked my watch. It was dot on seven.
The chief and his deputy who saw me in their office took a polite interest in the events of the night, but at least they got straight down to the case. I described my backpack and its contents as best I could, then—almost relieved—returned to reception. On the way there it occurred to me that I had absolutely no idea where to go next. I asked a stupid question.
“Has the ship gone?”
“The ship? Ah, Awu! No, not yet arrived.”
Not yet arrived? It was four hours late.
I made to hurry back to the harbour, but the cop shook his head. “No rush. Not due yet. We don’t know when.”
Taking a deep breath, it occurred to me that I hadn’t received a copy of the police report for the insurance. I turned back around to the reception and the report was solemnly prepared in triplicate, stamped and signed by both the chief and his deputy.
I had to wait for a while in the corridor and when I finally got up to leave, a friendly cop stepped up to me. “Why don’t you wait here?”
“I need to use the internet.” This was crazy, but the café wasn’t far from the harbour, it would take a while for all the people to board even if the ship arrived in the meantime, and this time I would pay for the taxi ride.
“Come back here. We’ll know when the ship arrives. Have a shower, some tea.”
That sounded like a good idea. The gesture of kindness calmed me down. Everything would be alright, after all.
The dusty road outside the Harbour Police was deserted, so I started the long trudge past the freight terminals and the seedy bars into town. I walked with my head down, not looking at anyone, still feeling slightly weird, as if reality had shifted. Unnaturally light, without my backpack. Naked.
The walk cleared my head. I stepped into a department store and bought a pair of shorts, a T-shirt and (badly-fitting) underpants. At least I had belongings again. Fresh clothes to change into after my shower.
I found the internet café, typed out a hasty blog entry and contacted the insurance. I was no longer isolated. My family and friends (and the insurance) knew what had happened.
I rushed to wave down a taxi and returned to the police station. The shift had changed. I couldn’t find the friendly cop anywhere.
“What do you want?”
“My bag was stolen—”
“Do you want to report a theft? Another one?” The receptionist, one of the seven o’clock crowd, was still the same.
“No, the same. I came back to…one of your colleagues said—”
He narrowed his eyes.
Stupid! I actually felt my face flush.
“Never mind. Is the Awu—er, has it arrived?”
He shook his head. “Check at the harbour!”
The passenger terminal was almost next to the town at the very end of that long, dusty road. Throat parched, I hurried it down nevertheless, as fast as I could, the uncomprehending stares of the officers burning on my neck.
The terminal building was once again teeming like an anthill. I waited for twenty minutes for a pee in the overflowing squat toilets, then regarded the dripping water tap with distaste. Then I remembered that my purification tabs had been in the backpack.
This was why I didn’t turn away the guy who walked up to me with a basket of water bottles back in the terminal. I paid the inflated price without comment. Visibly pleased, he asked where I was going.
“Awu,” I said. The ship had arrived by now, about to dock—eight hours late—and the crowd was slowly mobilising. “Maumere.”
He smiled through gaping teeth and pointed at another exit—at another ship that was approaching the dock. “That is the Awu. That,” he pointed at the front, “is the …., for Surabaya.” [I’m afraid I’ve lost my notes, have to get back to it]
Had I not bought the water, I might have ended up on the wrong ship.
But isn’t it typical? You wait all night and a day, and then two come along at once.
Tags: Indonesia, Makassar, SE Asia, Travel, Travel tales, Tag Index
Denni
January 8th, 2010 at 09:46
[…] like chatting and would be an easy target for any thief. Unlikely though that was (this isn’t Makassar), I couldn’t take any chances. I have also found that—even at my ripe old […]