Indonesia

Indonesia One of the first Boeing 747s with winglets ever delivered is that of the French UTA, which picks us up in Singapore and takes us to the capital, Jakarta. As soon as we arrive, Michela and I have trouble collecting our luggage, and then we have ourselves driven by taxi into the centre where the hostel we're looking for is more or less located; you see, the taxi driver doesn't know where this place is. So we get out and take a tuk-tuk, the bee of Thailand so to speak, which takes us to a private house, which isn't a hostel but indeed a lodging house. The owner, who doesn't seem to me a poor woman, rents out a couple of rooms; whoever has many wants more, in fact she always wants more. Anyway, it suits us fine; we use the villa as if we were relatives. The next day, without bulky luggage with us, we go into the centre as far as block B, by bus.

Here the public buses don't stop at the stops; you catch them on the fly. It slows down, almost to a stop but doesn't stop: a dynamic system to save time. In fact every city bus has a person who catches clients on the fly, that is, hanging on to the entrance door on one side; he grabs the passenger getting on by the arm and pulls him inside. Getting off is much simpler: one hop and everyone gets down. And all this in the middle of the traffic. Incredible. By the way, Jakarta, for me, is another city that has ended up like Bangkok and Cairo in my black book. Never again. And this is because of the smog and the chaotic, stressful traffic without rules. 17,508 is the number of islands of this immense archipelago, or rather, let's take one off since Timor gained its independence.

We take our Indonesian rupiah to pay for a sandwich in that sort of McDonald's, and then we have a wander round the big shopping centre. Here they sell everything, even stuffed toads, and for the first time I see yellow watermelons. The curiosity to taste one is too much, so I buy one. The taste is identical to the red ones. And since I'm crazy about watermelon, I enjoy it with pleasure. I keep a couple of seeds, which I stick with adhesive tape and send on a postcard to my friend Giuseppe of Cappella di Casalmaggiore, who grows them. Later we try the experience of catching the bus on the fly again, but we're young, it's almost a bit of fun; with the old folk, though, you see scenes you wouldn't believe: someone pushing them on from behind, another pulling them in.

I wonder, has nobody ever fallen? Well! Our day in the city has filled our clothes with smog, so we decide to spend the next day relaxing at home all day. Enough of Jakarta. Finally the day comes to take the taxi to the airport, and even though the flight is in the evening, we go there six hours early. Unfortunately, though, they didn't check us in straight away and we had to spend four hours in a very ugly entrance hall; beyond customs, though, it's a whole other matter. Finally our big French beast lands and we're very happy to board. Bye