Travel sites warn women against the obvious dangers of traveling alone, particularly in developing countries. No racial discussions are meant here – simply, people who look different in a relatively homogeneous population are easily noticed, as often happens with dark skinned people in Eastern Europe and light skinned people in South Asia.
Despite keeping a low profile, my appearance gave me away in Asia. It is occasional to see a white man in Southeast Asia, but a woman on her own raises eyebrows. As I sat in cafes in Indonesia, people did double takes. Strolling with my Indonesian colleagues, I was trailed by children asking to practice speaking English with me. Because all light-skinned people are Anglophones, right? Merchants targeted and grabbed me. Not content with studying only me, Indonesians stared at my American colleague (of Southeast Asian origin), wondering why he was with a western-looking girl.
As my colleagues and I (14 American women) waded through the crowds of India, passerby’s everywhere openly videotaped us, which we all found infuriating. Groups of men asked each of us to take photos with them, while we absolutely refused. On the Great Wall, Chinese tourists did the same. Due to attracting attention in unfamiliar territory, the rule of thumb is to stay in a group (and clearly keep a low profile). Everyone knows that. But on my final day in Indonesia, I ventured out unaccompanied.
My last tour of Jakarta began with the Central Cathedral. After admiring the majestic edifice, I turned across the street to the Central Mosque – all that stood in my way was a 6-lane street of non-stop cars. Unfortunately, traffic rules are not refined in Jakarta. The drivers plowed through at 45 mph, not once stopping for the glaring red traffic lights, all the while yelling indistinguishable words at me as I tried to cross. In the face of the incessant barrage of cars, I gave up and hailed a taxi.
My next stop was the old harbor Sunda Kelapa, a fascinating maritime site in city outskirts, refreshingly away from crowds. Stuck in traffic for 1 hour, my driver smiled apologetically as I begged him through Google Translate to find detours. Unfortunately, in Jakarta, there are about 5 major streets that all cars jam into daily for hours.
Finally arriving at the port, I was surprised to pay money to an armed officer who was guarding the entrance. As this was a secluded area, I planned to ask my driver to wait inside 20 minutes as I looked around, and then drive me back to town – a foolproof plan to explore and have a ride back. Upon arriving inside the port, my car was stopped by a man claiming to be the official tour guide of the harbor. He eagerly beckoned me out of the car, while speaking in Bahasa to my driver. Before I had a chance to communicate with him, the man ushered my driver away, and the car pulled out and left.
There goes my only ride back to town.
Alarmed, I demanded an explanation, but the guide gave me his business card, stating that he takes care of all the visitors at the port. He showed me the “tourism office,” a locked shady cabin, then invited me inside to meet his colleague there who would provide me with information. Suspicious, I declined, as he called for his friend to open the tourist office door. When the pushy man put his hands on my arm and back to drag me inside, my panic grew and I protested that I only wanted to see the port. Fortunately, his “friend” was not available at the moment.
Repulsed by the man’s behavior, I looked around the port for ways to ditch him without appearing afraid. The harbor inside seemed deserted, except for isolated groups of fishermen idling around boats. Intuition, or paranoia warned against walking around here by myself. Unfortunately, with limited options, I needed the tour guide if I were to explore this place.
With intense caution, I turned again to the aggressive guide to negotiate a simple exploration of the port. Instead he shocked me with offers to take me around the harbor and entire city on his motorcycle for $80. I was dismayed as I realized what was happening. The unbelievable individual would not entertain a short WALKING tour of the harbor for a reasonable price. Flustered and refusing to be hustled any longer, I finally told him off and began walking around the private harbor on my own in the smoldering heat, the offensive man seething behind me.
The schooners were exquisite, a banquet for any water or ship fanatic. Watching the daily maritime activity in the port was worth braving the traffic for. However, I did not make it very far before the gaze of the fishermen groups became noticeably uncomfortable. After progressing past more rows of ships, I decided against going further. I exited the port past the saluting guard (who I realized was in cahoots with the tour guide to extract money from unsuspecting visitors). But my biggest dilemma became how to get back home.
Hustled and stranded alone outside the harbor, 2 hours from town, on the side of a busy street, I found myself unsuccessfully attempting to hail a ride in 90-degree heat to the shouts of amused men driving by. A taxi driver going past motioned to me from his window to telephone a taxi. My thoughts filled with dread as I was fresh out of data and didn’t have the taxi number. Trying to keep calm in the midst of the heat, traffic, dust, failing technology, and yelling drivers, I remembered spotting a rickshaw station nearby.
I approached the group of tiny parked vehicles, the elderly drivers chatting to pass time while waiting for customers. One obliged when I asked for a ride back to town. Speaking no English, we negotiated the price for the rickshaw ride by typing price numbers on my cell phone. He predictably offered me an exuberant price by local standards.
Negotiating is all about power. And I had none left, they saw it– a white, female, solo traveler stuck with no way to get home or ask for help. I conceded among murmurs between the drivers, and then heard the confirmation of their mocking laughter as I stepped inside the metal box on wheels – a ripped off, desperate passenger.
The driver took me through city detours into slums. Main streets hide what is behind the neat facades of shiny buildings. Back roads showed children hanging around poor homes, women going about daily work, people feeding chickens, etc. It was an exciting drive as I looked around. Rickshaws are a thrill ride without safety precautions. The 40-minute ride was filled with the smell of benzene mixed with wind beating my face to the sound of rickety screeches of the wheels. My driver expertly navigated shortcuts while surrounding cyclists moved in unison within inches down the narrow streets.
Having been swindled, I still would have awarded my elderly rickshaw driver a generous tip (had I enough bills left) for bringing me back to town alive and well. The trip from the city center to my lodging was another 1 hour taxi ride away through congested traffic in the evening.
Arriving in my room exhausted, I reflected on the apprehensive possibilities and unexpected turn of events for today’s hapless adventure. Thankfully, I was able to rickshaw my way out of that one with minimal damage, except for my wallet and pride. After that last day in Indonesia, I learned a few lessons and finally felt ready to leave the country. For the first time, I was glad to be on a return flight home, even a 16-hour one.
K-squared 