My time in Indonesia has expired. Unlike milk, it didn't begin to gradually smell putrid. Nope, not like that at all. Instead, it turned from happy to rotten in a matter of minutes. Before going into that, I'd like to write a little preface about how nice my final days were on Gili Trawangan.
First of all, the dive resort I was working for, named Lutwala Dive, is amazing. It is beautiful, has a great pool, it's clean, has an incredible view, is situated away from all the noise and tourists, and has very friendly staff. I truly enjoyed showing up to work every morning because I felt incredibly welcome and there was always someone to talk to.
Before finishing, I certified my two divemaster candidates named Francois and Audrey. Audrey finished up first and went out to Bali to begin the instructor course right away. Francois, who started later, was on a much more serious time crunch. I worked with him every day for just over 2 weeks and on my last full day on the island, we finished. That night was spent at the Irish bar celebrating the completion of the course. Needless to say, Francois probably forgot what he was celebrating by the time he went to sleep (I exaggerate).
By 10:30 the next morning, I had been to Lutwala Dive twice, signed all the divemaster paperwork, sent a couple emails, printed off tickets, paid my ferry ticket, finished packing, said goodbye to friends, sold my bike, and bought a few pieces of bread before getting onto the boat. The last boat leaving Gili Trawangan departed at 11:00 and I was on it. 3 hours later when I arrived at the airport, security informed me that I was too early to check in for my 9:45pm flight. I knew I would have to wait that long, but I was hoping that waiting would not involve schlepping luggage everywhere. This is when I realized how great an idea it was not to sell the guitar. My guitar skills are quite far from being able to play in a public space for money and my vocal ability is even worse (I'm my hardest critic, but anyone hearing me would agree I can't do it for money). However, when it comes to playing for myself just for passing the time, I'm a musical wizard. No, it's not that it sounds any better when I'm playing for myself. It is just a matter of how I connect with the sounds that come out.
6 hours pass with the sun already setting. By now, it's time to check in. The first problem to throw off my systematic and fluid journey through the airport was a woman corralling passengers through to the check-in counter. “Sorry sir, the guitar has to be checked.” Arguing quickly proved hopeless and I easily caved, being forced to pay $6 to have my $16 guitar wrapped in bubble wrap. Having this issue sorted out, I proceeded once again to check-in.
The friendly face behind the counter greeted me with a convincing smile as if to say “hello sir, I really like my job and I want to make your journey pleasant.” She was clothed in a standard green uniform with a matching hat and shiny lapel pin that glinted in the dim fluorescent lights above. My actions and answers preceded her predictable commands and questions. Everything was textbook form. Then we got to the luggage. (Marcus, perhaps this is the island's way of trying to get back at me for leaving.)
As it turns out, Jet Star, a proud partner of Qantas, has this policy. You are able to take sports luggage on the plane without a problem. Scuba gear listed under sports luggage includes bcd, fins, mask, snorkel, regulator, knife, weights, and even tanks. However, if you take these things in a bag to check in on a Jet Star flight, you will quickly find out that you cannot take anything else with you at all. The max limit is 20kg no matter what kind of luggage you have. You see, I have 20kg of sports luggage. I also have about 20kg of everything else (books, clothes, shoes, toiletries, chargers, etc). Jet Star's policy is that for every additional kilo, you pay 20 Australian dollars. After some arguing and talking to a supervisor, it turned out that it's actually 23 US dollars on an international flight. Isn't that convenient.
The poor girl in the uniform was clearly feeling helpless as her smile turned to genuine concern while she watched this bubbly lone American traveler turn into a rather upset, insistent, and panicked customer. Several times I made sure to tell her that my anger and shock was not being taken out on her at all and was certain to make it clear that she was doing nothing wrong while at the same time trying to get her to solve the problem. She was a puppet, almost completely helpless in my dilemma that was taking control of my temper. $570 was the total: more than I paid for the ticket. When I asked about canceling the flight and booking another one (listen, desperation was setting in and I needed to take serious action), she fetched me a phone number of the Jet Star office.
I kindly took my bags to abandon my stake at the counter in front of the dazed employee and retreat to an empty post. With shaky hands I dropped my bags and pulled out my phone. The first number I dialed was not the one she gave me: it was my father's cell phone. At 7:30am EST on a Thursday, my parents are probably already at work but Dad usually has his cell with him. I tried every combination of +001, +01, +1, 001, 01, and 1 preceding the phone number, but nothing worked. I frantically tried the same for my mother's cell and my dad's office (3 of the only 5 numbers I have memorized). I tried calling the number she gave me and no one picked up. One more round of every possible number to reach home and one last effort to call the office proved in vain. I was on my own. My life lines have been used up. I had to pull myself together and face the bureaucratic corporation alone.
Ripping my bags open, I pulled out another backpack and began stuffing it with anything heavy I could find. I was taking one of the employee's good ideas: take 10kg out of my bags and take it as carry-on. Most of the passengers on the flight had already checked in so I didn't have to wait to speak to her again. Heaving my bags onto the scale one last time showed that I was about 12kg over the limit and the face between the recently pressed jacket and matching green hat showed no signs of reassurance. Her disapproving and worried face brought panic back into mine. At this point, the only thing I could do short of making a scene was make it look like I planned to make a scene. The area that I was pacing widened, the tension in my hands went up, the amount of times I rubbed my face and pulled my hair increased, and the feeling of worry and panic was radiating from my body. The next thing I know is that there was a different supervisor than before standing next to my friend in green asking me questions about my luggage and before I knew it, my bags were on the conveyor toward the plane with no fee. I got a stern threat not to tell anyone [until after leaving the Auckland airport] that I had more than 20kg or else she would be in huge trouble. I thanked her a few dozen times and went on my way. If there's anything I learned from that experience, it would be that pretending to get ready to cause a scene is very effective.
During the Bali-Sydney leg of the trip, an infection broke out on my foot and while I was practically skipping onto the plane, I was forced to limp off of it. A quick purchase of band-aids and ointment were made but it would be 2 more days until seeing a proper doctor. By now, my foot is feeling much better.
Auckland is great, the people I'm staying with are wonderful, and I'm looking forward to my adventures ahead. I haven't decided whether or not to take my laptop with me (remember I can't use the battery). If I don't, I'll make sure to update every once in a while. I'll certainly take lots of photos! As always, thanks for reading and I hope you are excited about what's to come not only in this blog but also in your own lives. Take care!
