Flat Tire

Last week, Mona and I were still in major jetlag--up at 2:30 a.m., crashing at 4 p.m. The benefit of jetlag to this extreme is that you have plenty of quiet time to think.

Indonesia loves commotion and noise. From the time the cock crows to the last evening call to prayer, the tropical days are filled with horns and vendors from the street, small engines revving in each yard, and speakers blaring from the mosque. But at 3 a.m., nothing stirs. Blessed silence.

One such morning, Mona and I scurried to town on our moped for breakfast (a rare treat for us since Mona's a night owl). After sipping soto (chicken soup), we found our rear tire flat to the tarmac. A street merchant told me a small tire patch stall sat just down the road, so Mona squatted on a bench on the corner while I scooted down the half kilometer.

Staying put, Mona was hailed by every passing vehicle, including bikes, mopeds, over-stuffed vans, and rikshaws: "Buy this," "Give me something to eat," "Give me money," "Ride in my vehicle," "Hey, Baby," "Look, Mom. A white girl!"

More than once she had to wave people on to avoid grid lock. "White Woman Causes Traffic Jam" the headline would read.