Standing by the open door, the ground seemed a long way down. Our car, the last one on the train, came to a stop a bit short of the platform. I was in the Jogjakarta train station, less than 100 meters away from the hotel I selected during the ride here. I hesitated for a moment, yet after 36 hours of travel, I was not about to let a vertical drop stand in the way to a long-awaited rest. I tightened the backpack straps, and utilizing my Alpine skills, climbed down and helped Adi to follow. Now, with the rest of the passengers, we waited for the train to move on, so we could cross the tracks into town. This short pause was long enough for the man beside me to start a conversation. I answered the obligatory "Where are you from?" and in response to my counter-question, I learned that he lives in Jakarta and came to visit his parents for the weekend. Without any prompting, he added that the school holiday has begun today, and all the hotels in Jogja, are full.
'Impossible.' I thought as the train left and I eagerly led the way to "our" hotel.
We entered the lobby just in time to see a French couple, which we met on the train, receive the news that "Very sorry, we are full". It was the same answer in our second choice, the higher-priced neighboring hotel. I consulted Lonely Planet again, and entered the backpackers lodging quarter to continue our search. We searched several hostels only to find the same situation. Our paths crossed the French couple again, as they were still looking too. Many other backpackers, all with the same indigo-colored book in hand were frantically searching for the same non-existent vacancies. Often, we had to stand sideways, our backpacks tight against the alley walls to let them shuffle by. In the afternoon sun, the alleys were hot and humid and we started feeling the effects. I lost track of time. Adi was sweating profusely, and looked tired and unfocused. To bolster her spirit, or perhaps mine, I reminded Adi of our past Asian experience. There, we learned that hotels not mentioned in the "Bible" are just as comfortable, yet rarely fully booked. Adi, nodded wearily, and to her credit, did not remind me that back in Seoul, she asked me to make a hotel reservation. The change in strategy did not improve the results. Soon, we learned a new word in Bahsa: Penuh. Posted at the entrance to most hotels and guest houses, it conserved our waning energies by saving the effort of entering the lobby, only to hear "Very sorry, we are full." I cannot clearly recall at what point we were joined by an escort, who offered to take us to a hotel with a vacancy. As was my habit, and despite the situation, I thanked him, relatively graciously, and proceeded to ignore him. He quietly followed as we made our way.
"You don't trust me," he reminded me gently from time to time, "but all the hotels are full"
"Thank you," I replied and hurried on to the next hotel.
Afternoons are short in the tropics, and as evening approached, the need to find shelter became more pressing. Darting across the narrow alleys, made me feel like a caged mouse, and Adi seemed to be in a daze. I turned to our patient escort, and consented to see his hotel. Now our guide, he led us through some even narrower alleys, where, if I was in better condition, I would have enjoyed watching village life unfold, yet now, the scene hardly captured my eye.
The second-floor room at Hotel Harum was worse than my low expectations. Several of Lonely Planet's favorite adjectives such as scuzzy, dingy, and dumpy, here, came alive. I managed to catch Adi's blurry eyes, thanked the proprietor, and returned to the alleys.
It was getting dark. I was getting tired. I could only imagine how Adi was feeling, yet she kept walking without a word of complaint. There was another Lonely Planet listing a bit further down the road. I suggested we go there. All she could do is nod her agreement.
"You don't trust me, so we will go there," said our escort, without a hint of insult in his voice, "but it is also full."
He was right, of course. As we walked the darkening alleys, the inhabitants sitting on door-steps and window sills exchanged pleasantries with our guide. They seemed to occupy another dimension, a relaxed world, where shadows moved in slow motion. One of the shadows offered our guide new information about a vacancy. We walked to this new location only to find a room worse than the one we left behind.
"Why don't you take Harum tonight," suggested our guide, "and tomorrow look for another place. I know a place available tomorrow."
To a caged mouse, any logic makes sense. The option of going to a business-class hotel just a few minutes away, did not penetrate my fading consciousness. We hurried to see tomorrow's accommodations. Adi, usually a quick decision maker, was even quicker than usual. She liked the place, and with hope of a better tomorrow, we hurried back to Harum. It was 6 pm and totally dark when we returned to the hotel. The upstairs room was already taken, and we took the one next to the lobby TV. The windowless room was small, dimly lit and smelled strange. The narrow foam mattress was too soft, and the tiny ventilator struggled unsuccessfully to make a difference. We took a cold shower and collapsed into a coma. Around 11pm we woke up, decided not to go out, and despite the light and sounds coming through the opening above the door, we slept soundly until dawn. This room was promptly named, and will remain in our memories as "The Prison"
In the light of the new day, we left the prison, and with inside information from a friendly travel agent, booked a pleasant room in a hostel highly recommended by Lonely Planet. The hotel has a small pool and waterfall, which provide a cool spot to sit and write blog entries. I am still amazed that to this day, not once, did Adi mention the fact that my reply to her request to make a reservation was something like "Real nomads don't make reservations." One day, with a lot more meditation practice, I hope to achieve her composure.
