This morning's check-out procedure was yet another example of Indonesian efficiency. Though we'd asked for the bill before breakfast it didn't appear until we began to walk out the door in disgust with their inattentiveness. \"The computer printer is *rusak,*\" was the excuse du jour. We got into Andy's favorite form of transportation and headed for the port once we'd sorted out our obligation to the hotel. The *angguna* was the logical choice for us; riding in Surabaya did not appeal to me at all. The smog and traffic made me feel more awful while walking around; I couldn't imagine riding in it.
Arriving at the ferry terminal we were immediately swarmed by folks wanting to help us, but none was able to tell us from where or at what time the boat left. They were able to ask the traditional six questions that everyone always asks. I am very close to being able to answer all of them in Indonesian at this point. They are: 1. Where are you from? ```{=html} ``` 1. Where are you going? 2. How long have you been in Indonesia? 3. Where did you come from today? 4. Are you married? 5. How old are you?
( 7. How much did you pay for your bikes? Is sometimes asked by a few crass individuals.) We joked about inventing new answers to them each time. Andy even told someone that we were Japanese once. They very seriously commented \"oh, Japanese, I see.\" Once we boarded the twelve-cent ferry we were surprised by how many asked us \"Where are you going?\" while on a ferry to Madura. It seemed obvious to us. Our supposed twenty-minute ferry ride turned into a fifty-minute ferry ride as we stood in the harbor waiting for a place to dock. I wondered if our boat, more rust than steel, would actually survive the journey.
If it didn't I was not looking forward to a swim in the absolutely filthy harbor. Large chunks of debris clunked against the boat as the morning sun began to bake us. Finally we docked and the adventure began. As soon as we rode onto the pier it was obvious that we were dealing with a different breed than the Javanese. The Madurese are loud! The laughed and jeered at us as we entered the town. Many using their traditional greeting \"Wh-oy!\" Maybe it is a greeting, perhaps something else, we never managed to get a translation of it. It could likely mean, \"you are a psycho\", judging from the puzzled looks we got from the Madurans as we passed them on the road.
Some would just stop in their paths and stare blankly at us. Still others couldn't even cope with our presence and would simply look away. Clearly they are not as sophisticated as the Javanese. In port we stopped at a Maduran 7-11, bought a couple of bottles of water and paid what the shopkeep demanded. As we were pedaling off the woman's neighbor had managed to convince her that she should have fleeced the *buleh-buleh* and they shouted after us that we should stop and pay them more. We did not run back and give her more money, but did have a good laugh at how they might improve their bargaining tactics.
Andy immediately found that he had more difficulty communicating with the Madurese. Few spoke proper Bahasa Indonesia. On top of that it was just hard to think it was so hot. Sweat poured off of us as we ogled the unusual roofs of the houses. Influenced by the island's bull racing pastime, many houses had high pitched tiled tops with bullhorns at the peaks. Though seemingly a simple people, they were very friendly, more so than the reserved Javanese. Riding along the marshy shoreline everyone yelled \"Wh-oy,\" often almost startling me off of my bike. As we came to villages the channels that joined the inland waterways with the sea were choked with colorfully painted fishing canoes.
Also well trafficked were the centers of each village. So filled with traffic of all sorts it was hard to get our bikes through \--much less the big busses, becaks, bemos and foot traffic bearing huge loads. An especially big village, Blega, was where we arrived at lunchtime. It was so ugly we nicknamed it Blecha. Instead of lunching we had a little snack while chatting (think of the six questions in English) with a lad who introduced himself as \"Sam\". He tried his best on us, using slang like \"catchyah later,\" as we parted. Huge black clouds began to collect over the center of the island and we raced along a busy road, hoping to beat the sure-to-come rain.
We finally arrived in a busy village just as the clouds were the most pregnant. Feeling an overwhelming sense of brotherhood we rode down the main street in the company of an enormous swarm of school children on their way home. Parking our bikes under the awning at a *warung* (a little restaurant) the sky dumped its load. Tasty goat sate over white rice went down easily as we waited out the storm. We had to leave the restaurant quickly after eating. Both of us were desperately in need of relieving ourselves and neither of us could figure out how to use the toilet at the *warung*.
Usually you find a squat-toilet in a *kamar kecil* (bathroom). There seemed to be none in theirs, which mysteriously had a staircase that led to a mini-mosque upstairs. The closest thing to a toilet was a well in the center of the room that was so deep I felt like I was looking into the center of the earth when gazing down into it. Though tempted, I decided to hold it rather than peeing into the well. After lunch we went in search of ice cream. On our way I found myself asking the question: where had all the bicyclists we had seen earlier gone?
As we slurped our quickly melting treat a parking mafia dude tried to shake us down for one thousand rupiah for our bikes. We laughed, thinking it outrageous. So did the shopkeeper who chased him off. We zipped down the road dodging traffic, rejuvenated from our little rest. A little scary moment on the road made me consider what I'd do if we had a medical emergency here in Indonesia. Thankfully I didn't have to exercise my strategy. We'd planned to spend the night at the \"beach\". Arriving in Camplong many adjectives came to mind for a description of the muddy stretch of sand, none of them appealing.
Just past the oil storage tanks and distribution center lay our swampy motel. Our bungalow's plumbing dumped on the ground underneath the wooden shack, providing a perfect breeding place for the mosquitoes that would be our company at dinner and in bed that night. Before dinner we washed our bikes and then walked through town. Strolling post-adolescent fruit saleswomen offered us more tropical pleasure than a rambutan. Returning to the hotel we found that the evening would deliver more entertainment than we'd know what to do with. It was hard to tell whether the wailing from the mosque or the hotel's [karaoke](../../mnt/user-data/audio/karaoke.wav) bar was more offensive.
Both went non-stop until close to midnight.