Tall, white, popular, vulnerable, and afraid

My palms started to sweat and my bare feet went cold as the plane began its descent toward Jakarta last night. Cliche signs of nervousness, I know, but these reactions actually took place as I headed towad a city I've never been, by myself, late at night, in a foreign country with no plans and nowhere to stay.

I wished the Indonesian studies professor who originally sat next to me before switching seats so a family could sit together was still by my side. The woman to my right seemed friendly, but she spoke zero English, and I had some questions.

I was a bit worried about accessing the country, but the new Visa upon arrival process was a breeze, for the most part. I found it strange that they asked the $25 be paid in U.S. dollars. Ironically, all this American had were Australian dollars, and not enough of them. I held up the line digging for change until the woman informed me I could pay for my Visa with my Visa.

Aside from the long line, customs was also nothing to worry about. As I inched up in line, however, I found myself staring at the ATM, hoping the nightmare of my card not working in Australia would not happen again. Had I not learned my lesson the first time? I had too much time to think about it, and it began to haunt me. I tried to take my mind off it by looking around at the advertisements. The sign directly to my right read something like, "Drug trafficking equals execution in Indonesia." Even this heightened my nerves, and I wouldn't know how to traffic drugs if I wanted to.

I declared no drugs, weapons, and DVDs (I don't know why this was a concern, but when I read this on the customs sheet I decided to leave the handful of movies I had in my bag in the seat pocket in front of me on the plane. I don't recalling reading anything about DVDS leading to the death penalty, but I wasn't about to take any risks).

I dashed toward the ATM, which inhaled my card on the first try. So I decided to take out $300,000. If this seems like a high figure and more than I should have in my account, that's because it is -- 300,000 rupiah equates to $34 the woman at the exchange counter informed me. It appeared I would be playing with Monopoly money. It was time to exit the airport and enter Indonesia.

For the following 15 minutes, I was in hell. Part of me felt like a celebrity for the attention I got. Part of me felt like a new prisoner entering the yard for the first time. I was Timothy Robbins, and the Jakarta taxi drivers were Morgan Freeman and company chanting "fresh fish" as the tall, vulnerable white kid with his whole life in his bags walked down cab row.

"Where you go?"...."I give you good deal."...."150,000 to Jalan Jaksa." (As if I had any clue how much that was. Could 150,000 buy me Baltic? Park Place?)

I don't intend to be racist, but it should be noted that I was the only white person in sight and I was at least six inches taller than anyone around. Apparantly the other half dozen Europeans and Australians on my flight had done something stupid like make prior arrangements as they cruised away in their hotel shuttle buses and rental cars.

To keep the prison analogy going, one relentless driver tried to make me his bitch. He walked at my side, telling me anything he thought I might want to hear. I was asking for nothing. I hadn't even made it out of the airport, and I felt like the most popular guy in the country of 220,000,000 people.

I mumbled my excuses. "I, ah, uh, just need to make some phone calls first."

"Calls are cheaper outside. I show you."

"I, um, was thinking of just getting some food first."

"I show you good place. Airport food too expensive."

Finally I just turned a cold shoulder, heading toward the A&W and Dunkin Donuts, pretending to read their menus. My stalker went away, but not far. I saw him out of the corner of my eye waiting for round two. To my discomfort, the layout of the airport forced me to pass back by the driver.

"I'm sorry sir, but I do not want a ride. I was told by a friend to take Blue Bird taxi only, and that's what I'm going to do."

Apparently honestly is the best policy, because this was my first true answer, and the man unattached himself from my hip.

But the game of fending off evil taxi drivers was only just beginning. To be fair, they were just doing their job. It was my ignorance and lack of confidence that made me vulnerable and defensive. It wasn't their fault. It was mine in a way.

Had I not been told by a former university professor of mine who now lives in Indonesia, along with the guide books and even an informational video on the Qantas flight that took me to Jakarta to use Blue Bird taxis, I think I would have hopped in with any cab driver. They just wanted my money. Right? What else could happen? I was intimidated enough not to find out.

"You need ride?" the voices continued. Yes I did, but no I didn't.

"Going to Jalan Jaksa?" Yes I was, but not with you.

For some of the rookie drivers, a head shake was enough of a deterrent. For some of the veterans, I had to use more clever tactics. I could feel my mental toughness thickening. Drivers were coming at me and bouncing off from me right and left. All I wanted to do was get the hell away from the people who were trying their best to get me the hell away. Confusing, I know.

I felt like an attractive girl wearing a skimpy outfit in a towny bar. I felt like I should be signing autographs with all the attention I was receiving. But no one bought me a drink or handed me a pen.

One driver managed to break through my shield. I pulled the, "I only take Blue Bird when I come to Indonesia" card (A twist of the truth since I have never been to Indonesia). He fired back with, "Ahh, yes, Blue Bird."

This did not confirm he represented the company, but I followed him to a counter anyway. "You see, Blue Bird," he said as six of his partners in crime looked on. There were no other customers at the counter. No signs read Blue Bird.

"It doesn't say Blue Bird anywhere. All you have is a blue sign," I said.

"Similar," he said.

True. The man had a point. His company's sign was blue, and the company I was looking for had the word 'blue' in its name. I shook my head, laughing at this point, and walked back outside to the looks of seven defeated faces. As I walked away, I cracked my knuckles and clenched my fists, preparing for the worst. I felt like I had already offended half the country before really even getting anywhere. Of course, nothing happened, and finally, I saw a Blue Bird taxi backing up into its nest.

I tried to act confident, asking the driver how much to Jalan Jaksa, as if I wasn't going with him no matter what figure he threw out, and as if I knew how many thousands of rupiah equalled a rip off. He said he had a meter to count the way, but likely 110,000. As he handed me a business card and a complaint card (something discomforting to receive prior to starting the ride) another man began to put my big bag into the trunk. I don't dare let go of my smaller bag, which contains the essentials. A few seconds into the drive, I realized I hadn't actually witnessed my backpack make it safely into the taxi. It would be another half hour before I could confirm its presence.

My driver spoke a bit of broken English, just enough to have a few minutes of conversation before entering awkward silence. He taught me a few lines of Indonesian, and said he really liked the signer Bryan Adams after learning my name.

"Yeah, Summer of '69" I said.

"Huh?"

"A song....Bryan Ad....nevermind."

I didn't see anything out the window that made me want to hop on a flight back home, nor did I see anything that convinced me to buy a house in Jakarta. It looked like, well, a city. Cars, lights, businesses, American fast food chains. Before my trip, I told people I didn't know what to expect of Indonesia, and here I was, looking at the to-be-expected.

Jakarta did not hide the fact that Indonesia is the world's fourth most populated country. Couples on motorcycles squeezed through thick traffic. Street vendors dotted the sides of the roads, dangerously close to the moving vehicles.

The driver had heard of the hostel I was looking for, but he had to roll down his window to ask an 11-year-old kid where it was. Ironically, after trying my hardest to avoid taxi drivers, I was not ready to leave the comfort of the cab as we pulled up to my destination. As I went to pay the driver, I recalled the meter reading only 90,000, but when he asked for 110,000, I gladly whipped out my Monopoly money. I tried to do the conversion in my head. It was a bit more than $11 for the half-hour ride. Not bad.

As I walked toward the hostel, no one hassled me like I imagined they might. I walked undisturbed into the Hotel Tator lobby. I hadn't seen a white face since customs. There were cats roaming around everywhere and the smell of unfamiliar foods dancing through the air. I was officially on the other side of the world.

The unfriendly man at the counter said he had a room for the exact same price I paid for my cab ride. I asked to see the room first, and he agreed, tossing the key to room 301 to another 11-year-old boy who raced up the stairs ahead of me. With 100-plus pounds of bags strapped to me, I couldn't keep up, but eventually met him two flights up. Upon turning on the light, I saw something dark and quick dart under the bed across the tiled floor. I assumed it was a cockroach. The boy appeared unfazed by this, so I acted as if I was also fine with the presence of my potential tiny roommate.

I noticed that two beds were placed together. I asked the boy if there would be someone else sleeping in the room (rule number one when staying in hostels: never assume anything). He nodded his head yes, but I was not convinced any owner in his right mind would expect two strangers to sleep side-by-side. Luckily, it turned out the boy didn't know English anyway, and I would be staying by myself. When I confirmed with the man at the counter that the door to my room locked, I signed up for one night, tossed him a wad of monopoly money and headed back upstairs. I found it a bit strange that I hadn't seen any other guests yet.

I threw my stuff down, washed my face, and tried to hide my smelly armpits with some body spray (it must have been about 90 degrees in the air-conditioned room I paid 20,000 extra for).

My room did not include hot water. Just a showerhead in the middle of the bathroom with no tub or enclosed area. There was, however, a bucket. I turned down a chance to take my first bucket shower, deciding it was highly unlikely I would meet my future wife on a street supposedly crawling with transvestites according to my brief research. Why Jalan Jaksa is known as the backpackers district of Jakarta is beyond me, but it has been recommended as the place to be for young travelers.

I roamed the street for 20 minutes. I did not meet my future wife, or future half wife, half husband, and I saw no sign of any other backpackers. A few happy locals waved in my direction, but I remained an introvert for the time being. I was content with keeping to myself for the remainder of the evening. Since I didn't want to leave my valuables in the room, I was carrying my small backpack with me. With tired shoulders, drooping eyelids, and a lack of amusement with anything going on around me, I headed back to my room to call it a night.

Arriving in unfamiliar destinations at night is something I would prefer to avoid. I would give the city a fair chance in the morning. I crossed my fingers that nothing would crawl on me in my sleep, and that I would fall into a deep slumber without trouble. I just wanted it to be morning. A few car horns and a bit of laughter fought to keep me awake, but I eventually won the battle.

The fact that I was in a plain, hot, bug-infested hotel room in Jakarta, Indonesia, by myself made me feel alive. This is a word I use to describe a mixture between excited and scared as hell. I thought of Leonardo DiCaprio's character in The Beach and the scene in the Bangkok hostel when the crazy guy breaks through the screen next door to talk to him, telling him about an unimaginable paradise island.

This did not happen to me. No one broke into my room. Not even a cockroach made its presence known. The next thing I remembered was waking naturally to a hot Jakarta morning. It was time to explore.