Ubud is a small town with narrow roads which are often choked with vehicles. There is no public transport apart from the ubiquitous bemos. Taxis have not penetrated the town as yet. Some visitors rent motor scooters or bicycles; the bolder ones lease cars. Many, however, are at the mercy of the local transport mafia.
"Trrransporrrt?" is the eternal, maddening chorus as one negotiates the dangerous sidewalks of Monkey Forest Road. "Trrransporrrt? Trrransporrrt?" chirp idle groups of young men hanging out at street corners or sitting in rows in the shade. "Trrransporrt? Trrransporrt? Trrransporrt?" hustle the operators on the main street. Anyone who has a motorcycle, car or van or knows someone who does is in the transport business. Lucky ones might make a couple of dollars a day in these quiet times. But it’s something to do in a town with few tourists and fewer jobs.
The rolling Rs are reminiscent of my Glaswegan-born grandmother but the resemblance ends there. The Ubud boys sport dreadlocks, blond streaks, tattoos, body piercing and funky T shirts. They chain-smoke Marlboros and strum guitars. They are ubiquitous -- except when you actually need to be driven somewhere. Then they magically melt away. This phenomenon becomes evident around dark, when their priorities shift to getting home for dinner, attending a temple ceremony or seducing a sunburned Australian lass. Just when you need a lift to a remote restaurant or to bypass the hell hounds on the way to your hotel, there is not a set of wheels for hire in town.
I came to Bali with the firm intention of not driving. During my 10 years in Singapore I had managed to avoid getting behind the wheel at all, abetted by cheap taxis and a good public transport system. When I visited Ubud, I knew I could get just about anywhere for a dollar. But gradually, as I morphed from a tourist to a resident, I began to understand local economics. That five-minute drive cost the equivalent of half a day’s wage for a salaried driver, or about what a pembantu made in a day. My house at that time was a mile from the centre of Ubud -- not a comfortable walk hauling groceries in the heat past packs of unsocialized dogs. After a week of social and gustatory isolation I finally gave in and leased a battered Suzuki. I arranged for a driver three days a week, and the rest of the time the car gathered dust in the parking lot next to my house.
The arrangement with the driver worked well for a few weeks. Made spoke good English, knew where things were and how to get things done. I could send him to town to do my photocopying, mail letters, deliver things and buy groceries. He was personable, reliable, fixed the car and kept meticulous accounts. Of course it was too good to last. Just as I was getting smug, Made got sick and disappeared to his village.
I could avoid the issue no longer. It had been a decade since I’d last driven, and I couldn’t have chosen a more challenging arena to re-enter the fray. It felt odd to be in the driver’s seat again. I turned the key and the engine started. Instinctively my feet found clutch, brake and gas pedal and my hand located the gears. I was off.
Very slowly I inched up the rough driveway and turned onto the main road. It was only 2 lanes wide but there was plenty of action. Handcarts selling noodles, bicycle vendors, school children in dusty uniforms, stray dogs with alarming cases of mange, big piles of sand, stacks of bamboo and holes big enough to swallow a wheelbarrow. And that wasn’t even counting the traffic. I tiptoed along in second gear as far as the store. Actually, it hadn’t been too bad.
I persevered in the days that followed, learning to deal with motorcycles peeling off in all directions, including those headed directly toward me in my own lane. Some drivers wore helmets to avoid fines, but it was considered effete to actually fasten the chin strap. Drivers chatted animatedly to their passengers over their shoulders. Young men in full temple gear steered their motorbikes with one hand while smoking and checking the messages on their hand phones with the other. Then there were the hand carts lurching along my narrow lane, piles of sand and rocks dumped randomly across half the road for future building projects, large and dangerous holes in the road, meandering children and dogs and suicidal road menders.
It was worse at night. For some reason, many motorcyclists considered it undesirable to use headlights, and cyclists never had them at all. Oncoming traffic remained a mystery until it was within a few metres. Was that single light coming up fast a motorcycle or a jeep with one headlight burned out? Was the pair of lights speeding along two motorbikes or a truck? Perhaps that darker shadow ahead of me was an unlit motorbike driven by a father in full ceremonial gear clutching a baby with his spare hand while his wife rode side-saddle behind him with a tall tower of offerings on her head. Or was it a dog or an unmarked pile of boulders on the road? There was never a dull moment.Gradually I became braver. The day I executed a U turn in the middle of Jalan Hanoman in heavy traffic was a breakthrough -- tourist buses, trucks and motorbikes all waited patiently while I completed this maneuver. I realized then that anarchy was actually expected. Things were easier after that. Now I charge around town in third and even fourth gear, executing sharp 3-point turns and reversing stylishly down narrow lanes. I have been known to drive as far as Sanur.
Now the same transport guys who used to nag me every day have become old buddies. When I’m stuck in a traffic jam in town, a familiar face will sometimes appear at my window. "Dari mana, Ibu Kat?" inquires a dreadlocked, tattooed Balinese, and complains about the traffic.
