The Motorcycle Diary: Stories from Pujut, Praya Barat, and Praya Barat Daya
Now I am more observant in taking distance from the human crowd. Silence or rather give yourself time completely to get to know every corner of the region I live in. By riding a motorbike, seeing, meeting, and sometimes stopping at stalls owned by residents just to chat and order coffee. Long and funny conversations, occasionally sad I often meet with people. Especially old sellers. They complain about various life problems: endless debts; shop buyers who are always quiet; the problem of illness they suffer
Since the beginning of 2021, I have been more diligent in going down every street to spend time alone. Giving time to myself is something I do regularly. That way I am free to see the human way of life. Observe, chat warmly, then write. One of the unforgettable experiences was when I went to Bumbang beach in the Gunung Tunak Nature Park area. I saw a 9-year-old girl lying on the bed. He looked sad, his eyes staring far away to the end of Bumbang beach with a view of cages belonging to fishermen. Once, he sat down and slept with an orange cat in his arms.
I approached him, a little surprised at my sudden presence. But his warm gaze made it easier for us to tell stories. He was friendly and open even though he occasionally lowered his head when I asked about whom he was waiting for in berugak.
“Why alone?” I started the conversation; he was silent only a slight smile.
“I am waiting for mom and dad” he replied shortly.
“Where did your mom and dad go? “I asked without looking into his eyes
She points far off the coast.
I looked away, looking in the direction of the little girl’s forefinger. I saw old men and women busy sorting and cleaning the seaweed they just got. Some people around Bumbang Beach are fishermen. When night falls, they will go to the middle of the sea to break their cages so that they look beautiful like glowing fireflies.
“What class?” I asked briefly.
He was silent, looking down and just shaking his head.
I’m getting confused. I paused for a moment as our conversation froze. I took a deep breath and looked at the end of the beach flanked by two beautiful hills. The beach is beautifully quiet and very suitable for anyone who wants to enjoy the silence.
A few moments later, came pentol seller was sheltering. That morning the rain washed the earth. People are looking for shelter, including pentol sellers. In berugak lived three of us; me, the little girl, and the bulb seller.
“Hi little girl, want a pentol? “My offer to her
He was silent, just looking into my eyes wistfully. I don’t know, I don’t know what’s hidden behind those dark eyes. He remained silent, without saying yes or saying no. A poor little girl. I muttered.
“Sir, wrap pentol 5 thousand rupiahs,” I said to the seller. Then I took out 20 thousand rupiahs to the seller” I said briefly and immediately put my bike towards the hill steady.
In the days after that, I always took time on weekends to race my motorbike around every corner of the Pujut, West Praya, and Southwest Praya regions. I do not know, what I want to look for, but certainly, by racing my own motorcycle, I am more free and free to stop anywhere, so as to blend in with the surrounding community and the many lessons I learned. About life, about how to deal with problems, about the story of an elderly but still strong grandmother herding her Buffalo in the corner of Southwest Praya.
That day, at 9 am. I woke up in a mess of thoughts. All night I stayed up until dawn just to finish the novel Jack Kerouac ‘On the Road ‘ in that part of the novel I marked a quote that I thought was interesting:
“I woke up when the sun started to turn red; and it was a different time in my life, the strangest moment of all when I didn’t know who I was. I was away from home, haunted and tired of travel, in a cheap hotel room I had never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, the creak of the hotel’s old wood, the footsteps up, and all the sad sounds, and I looked up at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t I didn’t know who I was for about fifteen odd seconds.”
There’s always something interesting about every book I read. I remember Jack Kerouac last night. I’ve been dreaming for quite a long time. For a long time, I felt like I was losing myself. Battered beaten bitter memories. It’s a shame to live in such a broken world.
Then I went to the bathroom to wash my face. A moment later I went to the kitchen, brewing coffee to calm my nervous mind that attacked for a while. For about 30 minutes I sat in my room doing nothing. Just sitting and looking at the piles of books that are getting dull. I had a little coffee left, then I pushed it to a pulp.
At 10 a.m., I drove my car to the Southwest. There’s no plan. Just following what I was thinking at the time. In one village, I saw an elderly grandmother who was herding Buffaloes. I stopped for a moment on the side of the road, saw her just sitting in a hut on the edge of the road, and let her buffalo walk in the uncultivated rice field area. Her body was disheveled, her hair dull and white, her face sad and tired. I didn’t know what I was going to ask her. I cringed a little at the sight of her. What’s she looking for? Live old but still strong herding buffalo. Are there no quiet old days for her? The questions took turns filling my head.
I parked my bike on the side of the road. The road is narrow and in some parts, there are small and large holes. A moment later the P plate Alphard car drove from Sekotong and made some parts of my clothes splashed with puddles after the rain last night. I swear, but who’s listening? Just being there alone. Looking at the vast expanse of rice fields, the trees grow green, smell the smell of wet soil after the rain, and see a bunch of cotton-like clouds that are being blown by the wind like waving from a distance.
On my own, I can enjoy it all. Get closer to nature, and talk to yourself more. And more meaningful dirty land in every village that I passed. It’s dirty here, a pile of buffalo dung. In the other corner, there is the luxury and glitter of the lights. A few moments later, I drove my motorcycle through a road I didn’t know. There are no road signs that stretch. Only paths with heaps of Earth in some places litter the road. This pile of soil and gravel is carried by the flow of rainwater from the top of the hill.
At 1 pm, my motorbike was still driving, looking for a road to the big road until finally I reached Kabol village and asked the local residents, for directions to Darek village. With a hint from a citizen, I cornered to the left of the road. If I think on this trail only a motorcycle can pass it. On the way for several kilometers I saw a young man who was still strapping under the heat because of the heat under a tree near the Pengga Dam, he was herding buffalo in the grasslands east of the dam. I just passed this road, beautiful. Very beautiful. Green rice fields are irrigated by water from the Penga Dam.
After an hour of traveling at a speed of 30 kilometers per hour, I can feel the wind caressing my body every trip. Intense heat is certain, but there is always something cooling. The weather at the end of the year is unpredictable. Suddenly the clouds began to blacken ready to spit out billions of water that fell to Earth. Without feeling it, I reached the village of Darek. I put my bike as tight as possible because then the heavy rain will fall. On the side of the bypass road, I found a small stall where shelter fits. I ordered a cup of black coffee with some fried food as a snack. It started raining, the coffee was ready, and the fritters were served on plates. I looked at the shop owner’s mother, her face warm and earthy. It was a slight smile that made me stop by his stall. It started raining heavily. it all came together in my vision: the rain, the roar of the motor, the splashes of rain, and the sound of the stall owner’s mother frying bananas.
The next day things were still the same. Everyone is busy with their own routines. Security guards are busy struggling with security in some of the places they work. The teacher lectures his student about ideals and about the ideal world. The lecturers are still locked in academic feudalistic culture. Some people talk like experts on social media. Officials still continue to cultivate the image on the television screen. In the corner of the place on Kuta Beach Mandalika, the bustle of human noise mengempung from all directions. The roar of racing motorcycles is ready to compete quickly amid the cheers of the audience. Nothing new under the sun.
Here is my inner corner there is a very quiet place. No annoying noise. There was no hissing sound, the murmurs of people milling about. Silence. Very quiet. That’s where I found myself. If I felt sad I would go visit that quiet corner of myself. It becomes a kind of self-healing place when feeling lonely.
In the afternoon, the sun seems earthy. It was sunny like it wouldn’t rain that afternoon. With alacrity, I grabbed the key to my motorbike and took it toward Selong Belanak Beach. Riding a motorcycle at a normal speed of 40 kilometers per hour made me feel a gust of wind after entering the rice field area on the roadside. 30 minutes passed, and at the T-Junction Village Selong Belanak direction motorbike, I switch to the left. I do not know what in my head to keep tracing every corner of the road towards Semeti Beach, Telawas Beach, Mawun Beach, are Guling to Kuta Mandalika Beach.
Along the way, I was amazed by the view. The rows of arid and barren hills are now very beautiful and green. I feel like I’m walking through a Swiss village. Beautiful, undeniable. My bike continued to drive through Hill after Hill with a beautiful view of the Beach from a distance.
But the development by dredging the hill occurred in several locations, the big investors will never be able to stand still to see the beauty of nature. In his mind, there is only money and investment but ignores the harmony of nature that is a close friend of the people there. Hotels, restaurants, villas, and the like are now mushrooming on the hill. I do not know what to say. Perhaps capitalism and environmental destruction will never cease to exist. The destruction of nature, the cutting down of trees, the dredging of land, and the pollution of rivers are the actions of an increasingly violent capitalist system.
Even more than that I saw some hills in the dredge run out, bare, and only looked heavy equipment around the hill. Why does the beautiful always go hand in hand with the dirty? Yes the miners, do not know the impact of actions that dredge the hill.
For a moment I stopped, looking at some bare hills with a grimace of heart. That afternoon the weather was very nice. Shady, but like being in the world of different sides of the world. To my right is a shattered world. To my left is a harmonious world, how man coexists with nature. Beautiful hills lined with large trees grow into a life-support community.
In the end, this is life. The ideal world we hope for exists only in wishful thinking. But we are unlikely to fully accept the world we live in in a state of muted decay. When that happens, how can we create something new in our lives?
I just try to continue to embrace everything in this world under any circumstances. I used to curse this state of myself, but it was only for a moment. I once spent an entire night writing a story for a girl I loved, but she was gone. I once gave, taking all year for a woman, but she did not appreciate it. I was once loved but I was insensitive. I once made someone cry because of what I did. I used to spend all night loving the smiles of the girls in the coffee shop.
I’ll never see them again and of course, this is the world with all its paradoxes. Yes, I accept it as the unity of life that I meet. Shortly after the Reverie subsided, I drove my motorcycle to Kuta Beach Mandalika. I decided to stop at the minimarket and buy coffee while looking at the crowd, people and the noise of vehicles answering each other around me.