2:45 P.M. Our little group climbs aboard the bus. I’m given the front seat possibly as a sign of respect for my age, possibly because I’m the only foreigner on the bus, possibly because it has the least legroom. Just as we’re about to depart, an old man climbs aboard clutching his two chickens tied together by their legs. Well, I’ve made my peace with bird flu worries so our new addition is welcomed as far as I’m concerned. He has a good laugh when he sees me scrunched up in the front seat.
2:50 P.M. We pull off the road into a dusty parking lot in front of a small bengkel. Pak John and the boy get out and pump up the tires. I lean out the window and watch the operation, giving my sign of approval when they’ve finished. Everyone laughs. At least, I’m providing some amusement for my fellow passengers; they’ll all have a good story to tell the family at home this afternoon. It’s a lovely day with clear blue skies, and I’m looking forward to the drive along the coast.
3:50 P.M. We reach Maluk after an uneventful journey. No one threw up, and I had a few more bananas from the high school girl who giggled each time she offered me one. Pak John drives each person to their home. As they get down from the van, they wave good-bye. Lovely folks – one of the many reasons why I’m still in Indonesia after 17 years. Pak John pulls up at the bus stop in Maluk and tells me it’s time to get down. He apologizes for not being able to take me home. Just as I’m about to answer, he jumps out on to the road and flags down an old man on a 125cc Honda. Where are you going Pak? he asks. Sekongkang. Alhamdulillah, Pak John exclaims, just where my friend here is going. Can he come with you? The old man takes in this request as if it was an everyday occurrence. He motions for me to get on the back. The only problem is that he has two chickens tied across the back of the motorbike. Hmm, must be chicken day. Could you hold these? he asks. I try to match his nonchalance with a casual nod. I grab hold of the chickens, shake Pak John’s hand while he whispers in my ear, Just give him a few thousand rupiahs for petrol. Sure thing, I reply. Thanks for the entertainment. He laughs and climbs back in his van and drives off. My new driver, Pak Ali, tells me to hang on as we climb the hills that separate Maluk and Sekongkang. They’re actually quite steep, and the Honda struggles to climb the steepest incline, but we make it. The chickens in my hand are surprisingly docile; I can’t imagine my hyperactive chickens taking this type of journey so calmly.
4:20 P.M. I’m about to ask Pak Ali to pull over at the gate to my house, but he’s already in the process of crossing the road to do so. I give him a quizzical look as I get off the motorbike. I’ve seen you at school board meetings, he says. You’re the American Muslim schoolteacher, Dr. Sulaiman. Hmm, nothing like village life for maintaining anonymity. I remember living in an apartment building in Berkeley once for a year and never knowing my neighbors’ names. I pull a 10 thousand rupiah note out of my shirt pocket and hand it to him. He shakes his head. We’re neighbors, he says. For cigarettes, I suggest. He takes the note with a nod and drives off down the road. My gardener opens the gate. Where did you meet Pak Ali? Fredi asks. In Maluk. Do you know him? Sure, his wife gave your wife a goat last year as a present for giving her some medicine for her arthritis. Ahh, my wife the village witch doctor strikes again. As I enter the yard, Dave and May, my two dogs come running up to greet me. Back at The Farm once again.
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