Long Minutes and Lost Hours in Indonesia

The bus stops on a winding road as the sun begins its careful descent behind the hills. On public buses, frequent stops are common. Bathroom break on the side of the road? The succulent smell of freshly cooked corn? Bags of just-picked fruits? Picking people up? Dropping packages off? For anything and everything. Nearing the end of a ten hour journey on this roller coaster-like “highway”, I figure the stop is related to the empty bottles now rolling along the bottom of our dusty, squeaking bus.

By now I’m used to this, to long hours in transit, to even longer hours waiting. Having spent the past three months traveling by public means, I can safely and easily say I’ve spent over 250 hours in transport or waiting for it. “Rubber time” they say, the minutes stretching to hours and the answer “sebentar lagi” (in a bit) when you ask about anything relating to time. I look out the window and let the cool breeze of our current location rush over me. The beauty of Golden Hour grows closer; soon everything will be painted in warm tones as the sun’s finger-like rays reach out one last time before saying goodnight.

The air is quiet; for once the bus isn’t pumping out dance music at insane volumes with a bus-shaking bass. It’s taken a while but I’m trying to appreciate each minute as it comes, not live in the previous one or the expectation of the next. To travel here is to come to terms with the idea that time isn’t money, time is flexible and there’s plenty of it. To rush, to be rushed, to become impatient is laughable.

A passenger steps back on the bus; he’s now got three chickens by the leg, they dangle looking confused. I look out the windows wondering where they came from; no shops, no houses. Before I come to any conclusions, the bus lurches and we’re off again.

The colors of the sky saturate and bleed vibrantly. I watch through the trees, the mountains in the distance look like they were cut out from the sky, their darker forms in stark contrast to the sun’s show.

The bus slows to another stop in front of two men sitting atop carefully bundled branches. The driver jumps out to inspect as his helper climbs the bus, preparing to receive whatever is picked out. A few words are had before bundles are lifted up and strapped down. Two women watch the transaction as they chat, picking grey hairs out of each other’s manes. The bus jolts again and the village streams by. Children push tires with sticks, such a simple form of entertainment extracting such utter enjoyment as teeth bare through huge grins. With far less television, no laptops, or videogames, no Hollywood movies telling them what the world should be, I envision their imaginations run deep, in vivid colors and without limits.

The air grows warmer as we descend from the hills; we sweep around bends, honking our way around motorbikes and other cars. Across from a soccer field we stop to refuel the bus’s thirsty belly. It’s Sunday and the entire town is out. Little boys in brightly colored uniforms run around the field as vendors sell tasty goods. The bell of the meatball soup cart rings, the ice cream man strolls by, kids eat fried treats on sticks with fingers covered in sauce, dripping to the ground.

A loud click signals a full tank and the engine revs, the road winds, ascending again toward a higher altitude. Before the sky fades to its deep dramatic blue, we pass through another small village. Groups of girls walk toward the river with buckets and towels in tow, preparing for their nightly bath. Others walk with towel-wrapped heads in the other direction, giggling. Little boys run through the riverbed, turning routine to game.

I sit back and take stock; my legs ache from cramped positioning, my back from the seat, my head from nodding off and then slamming into the window on a sharp turn. The hours are long and uncomfortable, my time in Indonesia has been difficult and often fraught with frustration but its forced me to learn that time doesn’t always need to be measured and marked by numbers. Communal bonds, laughter, it’s how you use your time that defines each day.

The cool air spills over my face. I try not to enumerate my day by how far I’ve gone or how fast, but what I’m able to take from the in-between. It’s about the slow moments and glimpsing life as it’s lived in another small part of the world.

Forget the numbers, embrace the long minutes and those lost hours.

I stretch my arms, checking my watch but no longer caring what I see.

About the Author: Jillian Gotfredson grew up in Kansas City, Missouri and have had the privilege of exploring parts of Central America, South America, and Southeast Asia. I spent 6 months working in Australia to fund my current adventure: 4 months in Indonesia.

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