The Indonesian Art of Living Dangerously

Posted by John

Mothers and lawyers in the United States both constantly fret that something awful is about to happen. The mothers buy sturdier bicycle helmets, the lawyers insert more provisos into the contract—all to prevent the unforeseen from becoming the unthinkable. Living in the risk-averse climate that our mothers and attorneys have made, Americans tread gingerly and refer to the actuarial tables in our heads.

Indonesians, meanwhile, operate according to a more carefree calculus. They do not cower from the worst-case scenarios that preoccupy our thoughts. Roads burst at the seams with aspiring Evil Knevils, motorcyclists as young as 10 who maneuver their machines through surging streams of traffic. The lack of a helmet does not deter their daredevilry. Often, families of four pile onto a single motorcycle, children wedged between mothers and fathers.

Four-wheel vehicles come with their own dangers. Seatbelts are a rare species, glimpsed occasionally in taxis. During my many knuckle-whitening hours on buses that dart around packs of motorcycles, my mind races to those occasional U.S. news stories about buses falling off some improbably steep ravine. Senior citizens careen off a cliff on their way back from the casinos; a bus carrying a Scranton Little League baseball team wanders over the median and into oncoming traffic. These types of transportation pitfalls seem imminently plausible at several points along the course of an average Indonesian road trip. Ralph Nader, Indonesia is calling you. To my eyes, it’s unsafe at any speed.


You won’t necessarily avoid danger by staying off the road, either. The sidewalk, when you can find one, isn’t much better. Chasms yawn across concrete or brick paths on almost every block (see above for an example near our guesthouse) and manhole covers remain perpetually doffed without warning signs or protective barriers. As lax as some U.S. municipalities can be, I can’t see any of them accepting the perilous status quo that prevails in Surabaya.

Even on sidewalks, the natural ambulatory environment in the United States, the pedestrian’s right of way remains a foreign concept. At any moment, you might be bowled over by a motorcycle whose driver has decided to take to the sidewalk after wearing of the wait to make a turn. Vendors also appear to have priority over pedestrians—many set up shop over the full span of the sidewalk. People seem to accept that anyone who actually wants to use the sidewalk for walking will have to wade out into traffic instead. In addition, repair shops set up their operations right along the roadside, blowtorches sparking not far from your footsteps as someone welds a rearview mirror to a motorcycle (clipped, no doubt, in one of the many close calls that occur when Indonesian drivers allow such little margin for error).

When you do find a stretch of sidewalk that appears to offer safe passage, this concrete oasis can vanish as quickly as it appeared. When one sidewalk evaporated halfway across a bridge, I had to scamper across five lanes of traffic just to make it to my destination. Like George Costanza in “Seinfeld,” Danielle likens it to a real-life version of the Frogger video game.

Striking a blow for pedestrians’ rights, Indonesians have developed a custom where a person extends his arm out from his waist to signal that he’s going to cross even when there’s no crosswalk and traffic is moving at a steady clip. It strikes me as a regally imperious gesture, but curiously drivers here accept it with equanimity.

Once you get past the roads and into buildings, you notice that cities either pass very lax zoning codes or do very little to enforce them. Shacks abound, and many are not linked up to the city’s sewage systems, with rivers serving as a source for water and repository for trash. On major streets, decaying buildings are left to crumble rather than face the wrecking ball. This aspect of public safety—leaving concrete houses of cards standing—confounds me in a country where earthquakes are a regular occurrence.

Then there’s the urban wildlife. Inadequate sewer systems serve as mosquito breeding grounds, and several of these little disease vectors set up camp each night in our otherwise clean room. Dinners at one of our favorite outdoor cafes are interrupted when rats scurry under the nearby propane tank. And numerous chickens have taken up residence in the city, including the one that pecked at Danielle’s feet during her interview this morning in someone’s living room.

The longer you stay in Indonesia, however, the more you accept risks that you’d never contemplate taking in the United States. For instance, I’ve become more adept at that little flick of the wrist pedestrians use to stop oncoming traffic. Back in Berkeley, I’d scoff at the notion of riding without a seatbelt to the corner grocery store. But here I travel across hundreds of miles of Java with only the protection Providence provides. And my own mother won’t be pleased to read this, but I took my first motorcycle rides last weekend during our visit to the Majapahit temples at Trowulan. If we wanted to see these artifacts from Indonesian history, there was simply no other choice. And, as most risk-accepting Indonesians would have expected, I survived without a scratch. Still, I’m hoping not to make it a habit.

Nothing better illustrates Indonesians’ more cavalier approach to cheating death than their passion for cigarettes. Society frowns on alcohol here, so nicotine fills the void as the socially sanctioned drug. While 40 years of Surgeon Generals’ warnings have made public smoking anathema in the United States, entering into a restaurant in Indonesia takes on the feel of walking into a Dashiell Hammett detective story. Smoke envelops every table, and after an hour my lungs cry out for a reprieve. Some time in one of Al Capone’s speakeasies would feel like a breath of fresh air after a few minutes in an Indonesian cafe.

Danielle has often said my decision to come to Indonesia has meant that we could spend four more months together than we otherwise could. Of course, the tons of second-hand smoke we’re inhaling are bound to subtract at least six to 12 months from our time together when it’s all said and done. But live for today, as Indonesians would say.