One bus, 200 km, 20 seats, 32 people, 3 babies, one chicken, eight 50 kg bags of miniature onions, countless personal belongings, 3 packages to deliver en route, 13 inches of leg room, one official rest stop, 11 hours & 46 minutes.
The Lonely Planet travel guidebook describes the bus journey from Labuanbajo to Bajawa on Flores as "seemingly interminable." They weren't far off the mark.
The bus circled the small port "city" of Labuanbajo to pick-up passengers starting at 6:00am. I boarded around 6:12. The seat I was initially directed to had no legroom, just a huge bag of onions where my legs would normally go if the seats were being used as intended by the manufacturer. I had to sit cross-legged, all rolled up into a ball. After about 5 minutes, I knew that this would not be acceptable for the, what I thought would be, 9 hour journey. I schemed to change seats, trading mine for one of the few without this onion problem. I settled for a spot in the furthest back seat with just enough leg room to fit my legs if sitting perfectly upright. For once in my life I was glad I never grew to the 5'8" I optimistically reported on my driver's license at age 16.
As we bumped along the pothole ridden "Trans Flores Highway," with some portions rivaling San Francisco's world famous curvy Lombard street with its hairpin turns, nausea kicked in despite the medication I had the foresight to consume. A veteran motion sickness victim, I tried to sleep knowing it would help pass time and suppress the urge to vomit. I dozed.
Unfortunately, the relaxation necessary to escape the hell that my stomach was experiencing created a new problem - slowly sinking into slumber my legs ground into the seat in front of me, applying pressure on my knees as well as digging my bum into the less-than-cushioned seat. Crazy pain kept me lucid and I battled the curves one by one, trying to get what little fresh air was available as the passengers puffed away at cigarettes around me.
The passing scenery was stunning - lush jungle hillsides and volcanic peaks in every direction. The clucking of a chicken in a cardboard box in front of me added to the ambiance. This was traveling: pain, beauty, perseverance and poultry.
Every once in a while we'd stop long enough for the driver to take a leak by the roadside or to chat with someone passing by, but we never got off ourselves (with the exception of the men and boys who rode standing in the doorway hanging off the side of the bus) for fear of being left ruthlessly behind. My bum was asleep and my legs locked into uncomfortable paralysis. I prayed for a rest stop.
My prayers were answered when we came across an overturned truck in the road. Cutting a corner too close, it seemed to have toppled over the side landing head first onto the road below. Huge bags of rice were everywhere. The local village had all come to look. Some sat on the hillside and others on the overturned truck itself. They sold bananas to passer byers and watched the mayhem as other vehicles encountered the mess. Our bus stopped.
If the truck had been a few feet further into the center we could have been stuck for a day or more (a million miles from nowhere, mind you). As it were, we all disembarked as the bus maneuvered between the wreckage and the rocky roadside risking our luggage rather than our lives. I stretched my knees, sorry for the truck driver and his load, but grateful for my lucky ligaments.
We continued on and soon reached flatter and straighter terrain, crossing through rice fields with a jetting mountainous backdrop. My knees still hurt, but I stood up now and again (to the extent the short ceiling would allow), stretching my legs and subjecting myself to the woman seated next to me's comments about how "strong" I was while pointing to my decidedly un-Asian thighs.
Seven hours into the journey we stopped for lunch and a "1-hour" break. The local food was tasty. The bathroom was rank. The driver was impatient and we boarded again after about 30 minutes.The journey continued - stopping here and there to drop things off, pick things up, chat to other drivers about the road ahead. I periodically dozed but when awake kept my mind occupied with questions like why a "www.gemini.com" decal was placed prominently across the from windshield when I had been unable to find a working computer/Internet connection since arriving on Flores or pondering how tough the chicken meat was going to be after hours of constant stress flapping around its small box wrapped in string.
The sun setting, we pulled into the Bajawa bus terminal (a large flat dirt area). A man climbed to the top of the bus and started untying the mountain of luggage. Another started unloading the onions and other contents of the bus's interior. I grabbed my bag and hopped into a bemo (Indonesian minibus) to the center of town. They blasted Bob Marley for the duration of the 5 minute ride. I checked into a guest house, closed my door, laid down, took a breath and thought about what a truly great journey it was.
