Mister! Mister!
I rent a scooter to drive around the island. It belongs to the owner of the hotel, and he lets me have it for a day. I ask about insurance, and the front desk clerk gives me a card with the hotel’s phone number.
“-If something happens, just call us!”
I decide to drive very carefully.
I turn out of the driveway and tell myself “Keep to the left. Keep to the left.”
Mister! Mister!!
After a few kilometers I have to stop and take off the helmet. It’s too small, and my head is aching all the way down to my jaw.
Now helmet-less, I decide to drive *very* carefully. Keep to the left. Keep to the left.
Mister! Mister!!
Except for an Australian guy on the plane coming over here, I haven’t seen any other Westerners on this island. I’m surprised, as I always seem to find some other intrepid tourists.
Keep to the left. Keep to the left. Mister! Mister!!
The road is excellent as I make my way up the coast. The ocean, the jungle, the volcano looming over it all. I set a 30 kph speed limit for myself, and stick to it.
About every 200 meters or so, I hear MISTER, MISTER!! People smile and wave. Visitors must be very rare here. I smile back while telling myself KEEP TO THE LEFT, KEEP TO THE LEFT!!!
I head to the beach that the guidebook recommend. It’s not all that. But to the left is a walkway following the water. Around the bend is a sheltered cove, with coral sand and crystal clear water. Blue boats rest on the surface. There are half a dozen simple cafes, but only one is open. The guy makes me a sweet coffee.
I’m the only customer until a local man shows up for his daily swim. He says it gets busy on the weekends.
Back on the road, I continue to a crater lake, squeezed in between the still active volcano cone and the sea. Again, some coffee shops, but only one is open. I’m the only visitor.
It’s a sheer drop from the crater rim to the lake. One can supposedly hike down if one is so inclined. But as the guidebook uses the words “crocodile” and “infested” in the same sentence when describing the lake, I am not inclined.
I get back on the bike, telling myself to keep left, smiling at the endless stream of people yelling Mister! Mister!! Unfortunately, that word seems to conclude their knowledge of the English language.
The road snakes through the greenery. Nutmeg is laid out to dry by the roadside. Kids in uniforms are walking home from school. MISTER!!!
Keep to the left!
I stop for lunch at another empty restaurant. There’s a beach AND a swimming pool, and I curse myself for not bringing a towel. Hopefully, the ocean will be there tomorrow too.
Back at the hotel, I return the scooter and pay the agreed amount ($12). I go to my room and just as I’m about to step into the shower, the front desk clerk knocks on my door.
“-We thought you wanted the scooter for a full day, but as you returned it so early I want to give you some money back.”
He hands me $4.
After the shower, I spread myself on the bed and let the conditioned air caress my body. I doze off, voices echoing in my mind… Mister! Mister!!
The next day I cross over to the main island of Halmahera.
We leave the port running on 4 out of 5 engines. Repairs are done, and sparkplugs changed, on the fly. The noise is deafening.
The boat is one of those tin-can deathtraps with only one exit aft. The few life jackets are kept all the way in the front. I’ve managed to get a seat right next to the engines, and will be breathing fumes for the next hour. A cheap price to pay for not being potentially drowned like a cat.
The young man sitting across from me has a Christian cross around his neck. There was severe sectarian violence here some years ago, with many people killed and churches burned to the ground. I guess this man being able to display his faith openly is a sign that things are better now.
Another man I meet tells me how his family was forced to flee into the jungle during the clashes, when people came after them with machetes. He was 9. Others fled in rickety boats and drowned.
Whether it’s atheists being murdered in Bangladesh or so called honor killings taking place in Sweden, religion is claiming lives in every country I visit.
One of the boatsmen lights a cigarette while straddling a large can of gasoline. That’s right, you only live once!
We arrive safely at the town of Jailolo on Halmahera, the largest of the North Maluku Islands. The guidebook has barely any information on this place, so I’ll be traveling on intuition.
The hotel I find is a mess, and the staff thoroughly uninterested. So much for intuition. But due to my sunny disposition, I make friends with a guy on the street who helps me arrange transport for the next day to the other side of the island; a winding trip on narrow roads through lush villages.
I see no poverty here, no beggars, no people in rags. I’m told this is because of the close-knit social structures where families take care of each other.
Of course, the flip side of this “closeness” is that anyone not fitting in becomes an outcast. One woman I talk to says she became an unwed mother after having had a affair with an Australian man. She had to have her sister adopt the child, because a child raised by a single mother is not allowed to go to school.
One can imagine that a lot of these “misfits” end up moving to the big cities where they will face poverty and worse.
During the hottest part of the following day, I walk up to the small resort where I’m planning to stay for a few days. It’s right on the beach of a calm bay, surrounded by palm trees and full of orchids. I haven’t made a reservation, but when the owner sees me approaching she comes out.
“-A room? Of course we have a room for you. But first let me make you a fresh fruit smoothie. A welcome drink!”
I sit down.
And relax.
