INSANE IN THE
MEMBRANE
RUN! RUN! RUN!
Of all the madcap and looney Spanish festivals, the festival of San Fermin is probably the craziest, the most famous, and the one your travel insurance company won’t cover you for.
Every year, in the midst of the searing Spanish summer, thousands of party goers, tourists and thrill seekers descend upon the small city of Pamplona, and in those seven days of pandemonium, sweep through the streets like a stampede, leaving a thousand tonnes of garbage in its wake.
Although the festival in recent years has simply come to be known as the “running of the bulls”, there is actually a religious tradition behind the event. The festival celebrates the martyrdom of San Fermin, Pamplona’s first bishop and fervent gospel preacher, with some historical accounts1 recording that the unfortunate Saint was tied to an angry bull, and dragged to his death through the streets of the city.
Michelle and I arrived at Pamplona the day before the manic opening ceremony (the Chupinazo) of the festival, which is held on the 6th of July every year. Held at the Plaza Consistorial in front of the City Hall, the event draws huge crowds dressed in white clothes and a red sash (the traditional festival outfit), with each person carrying a red scarf (panuelo). We dressed accordingly, and arrived an hour before the start of the event. By then the drinking, the singing and the spraying of sangria had already begun, and the noise decibels were rising by the minute.
Thankfully we had arranged to watch the ceremony unfold before us from the safety of an apartment on the fourth-storey of a building that faced the City Hall, and thank god we did. As we counted down to noon, more and more people just kept on coming, and the crowd continued to build, until we could not even see an inch of the cobblestone below us. It was such a tight squeeze that waistlines were trimmed, everybody grew a few inches in height, and D-Cups became A-Cups. With so little space in between, everyone became friends with benefits, and shared the benefits freely around.
As we continued to watch the crowd grow, the splashing of sangria became even more gratuitous, and it did not take long for the sea of white to be transformed to a mass of pink, although there were also a few blue faces in the crowd gasping for air. Nobody on the ground was spared, and yet nobody seemed to care.
At the stroke of noon, we heard an announcement boom from the loudspeakers, “Pamploneses, Pamplonesas, Viva San Fermin! Gora San Fermin! (People of Pamplona, long live San Fermin!)”. Upon hearing this, the crowd responded with cries of “viva!” and “gora!” and raised their panuelos in tribute. The mayor of the city then launched a rocket into the sky to mark the start of the festivities. Even more sangria was sprayed all over the square, and the crowd became even wilder, even sweatier, and even more soaked. A bigger crush ensued when a marching band cut its way through the crowd, and as temperatures rose on the ground, the crowd yelled for the residents and those on the balconies to pour water on them. Some gladly obliged, sending showers of blessings down to the party-goers below.
After the end of the event, we waited until some of the crowd had dispersed before we dared to emerge from the apartment, making our way back to our hotel by treading gingerly across the sticky sangria and vomit-soaked cobblestones littered with crushed plastic and broken glass.
That night, we returned to the plaza to participate in the Toro de Fuego. Organised specially every night for children, a local runner carrying a paper-mache bull runs through the streets, spewing fireworks as adults and children scamper gleefully to avoid the sparks. It was chaotic and crazy as the “bull” ran up and down the alleys. Children were screaming, adults were screaming (even louder) and sparks were flying. We were pushed and shoved and we pushed and shoved in return. We jumped right into the action and ran with the crowds as the “bull” approached, and clung to the walls as the “bull” passed and the spray of sparks flew all around us. It was all a bit mad, even juvenile, but it was way better than trying to avoid the charge of a live one-tonne bull with razor-sharp horns.
The next morning, we made our way bright and early to the bull-ring to witness the first bull-run of the festival. Although we were not on the running circuit, we were able to follow the progress of the whole run as there were large TV screens all around the ring. As the bulls were released, the whole crowd roared, but barely three minutes later the first runners had run into the ring, looking sheepish as the bulls were nowhere in sight. The main group of runners soon followed them, with the bulls hot on their heels. Yet, as the bulls entered the ring, they ran straight across to the other side of the arena and exited into an enclosed pen without as much as a bow, a wave, a snort, or a curtsy to the crowd. For all the hype that the event created, the bulls were too few, the route was too short, and the ending was a whimper.
Heifers (young bulls), with their horns capped, were then released into the ring. As they ran around, some of the runners darted for cover, whilst the more courageous ones attempted to taunt the bulls. It seemed like fun and games, but occasionally, the bulls would toss a runner up into the air and on to the ground, and then I would cheer. Safety marshalls would then intervene and herd the bulls away, so that the only injuries sustained were bruised egos and bruised backsides.
We then headed back to the Plaza Consistorial after the last heifer had been shepherded out of the ring, where a crowd had gathered for the Comparsa Gigantesy Cabezudos. This was a parade of giants figures that represented kings and queens from different parts of the world. Accompanied by their royal guards and servants, which were made up of big-headed figures, the giants danced in the square, and then made their way towards the Catedral de Santa Maria. As each of the giants stood at more than four metres in height, we made sure we did not get anywhere close to them, just in case the handlers had stolen one too many sips of sangria before they started the parade.
That evening, we went back to the bull-ring to witness our first bull fight. Critics of the event have labelled it cruel, whilst proponents say that it is better for a bull to take its chances, and meet its fate in the ring rather than in an abattoir. There is even a standing joke that the testicles of the bulls killed in battle are served as a delicacy in some of the restaurants in the city. When the testicles are smaller than normal, then you clearly know which side had won.
We tried to keep an open mind and consider the arguments from both sides, but what we witnessed was terribly one-sided. First, a matador would come into the ring and taunt the bull with a red cloth (muleta). After the bull is a little distracted, picadors on horseback would enter and use lances to pierce the back and the neck of the bull. As if that wasn’t bad enough, more matadors on foot would then come into the ring and taunt the bull from all directions, engaging in a dangerous variation of pin the tail on the donkey. Only in this version, the matators pin colourful darts called banderillas on the bulls back and neck, causing even more blood loss and muscle movement. They would then take turns to wear down and exhaust the bull, frequently running in circles and causing the poor animal to get dizzy. The main matador would then make his entrance with fanfare to take on the bull in a one-on-one showdown. With a dramatic display of arrogance and pompousness, the main matadors would challenge the bulls to charge at them, feeding off the cries of “ole” from the crowd each time they fling the red cloth (muleta) over the bulls. Once the bulls were completely exhausted, the matadors would use a sword and attempt to pierce it cleanly straight down the animals back, (hopefully) delivering a death blow. How on earth is this not animal cruelty?
Six bulls were brought out for the fights. In every battle, the main matador won. But in some cases, they did not manage to deliver a clean death blow, and executioners had to come in to stab the animal to death. In one of the fights, a bull even managed to gore one of the matadors and flung him to the ground, drawing an immediate response from the other matadors as they jumped into action to distract the bull, whilst the medical team rushed to him. He escaped injury but his modesty was not spared, for one of the unfortunate consequences of being flung was a wardrobe malfunction. Not to be humiliated, he came back into the ring to finish the job, but achieved the reverse effect of exposing his family jewels, which sparkled as brightly as the other bling on his costume for everyone in attendance to gawk at.
Each time a bull fell, the crowd stood up and gave applause. We initially thought that the applause was for the main matador, but as the event wore on, we realised that the clapping was actually for the victim, and it did not cease until each carcass had been pulled out of the ring. Notwithstanding the gesture of respect shown to the animals, we vowed this was going to be the last time we attended such bull fights. We were definitely not the only ones that felt that way, as some people had left during the interval.
The next morning, we witnessed the second bull-run, this time, from the safety of a balcony along the route. The balcony was located just above an area on the route known as Dead Man’s Corner, so named as it is a sharp bend, and many bulls (and runners!) have slipped and fallen during many previous runs.
It happened again on our watch, as one of the lead bulls charged into the barricade, then gored a runner, before running on ahead. Some bulls got separated from the main group, causing them to be flustered and disoriented. They then charged randomly at the runners and on-lookers, creating mayhem and panic all around. The organisers then quickly released another set of bulls to attempt to lead the disoriented ones back on track, and eventually all the bulls completed the course. The run that morning made history as one of the most dangerous runs on record. There was a grand total of six gorings, which had reporters hyperventilating over the story. This made for great conversation amongst the spectators, although not so much for the medical staff. By contrast, in most runs there are usually no gorings, and most injuries (if any) are from people falling over and getting trampled on.
Truth be told, as the voices of animal activists become louder and louder, I am uncertain for how much longer the San Fermin festival would continue to be held, or held in its traditional format. Every year, before the festival begins, members of the People for Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) stage gory protests in Pamplona to highlight the plight of the animals. Commonly, fake animal blood is spilled or smeared over the protestors’ bodies, as they walk through the streets carrying banners with slogans that encourage people to stop the killings and end the cruel festival traditions. Someday, I believe their voices will be heard, and we will see some changes to the festival. In the meantime, come for the party, come for the sangria, but don’t come for the killings. Ole!
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1 There are some historical accounts that dispute this and claim it was Fermin’s master Saturninus who was the person tied to the bull.
SHIN PADS NOT INCLUDED
If you check the Spanish dictionary, there is no translation for the English word “safety”. Ask a Spanish person for the equivalent meaning and they will probably return the phrase “trata de no moirir”, which if literally translated means, “try not to die.” Actually, I made that up, but there is definitely an element of truth in it.
The Spanish will find a reason to celebrate anything, and every one of their celebrations must be an “over-the-top”, “I’m braver than you”, “look Ma, no hands” kind of event – even if it means burning down the city during Las Fallas in Valencia, getting gored by bulls during San Fermin in Pamplona, being drowned by tomato juice during La Tomatina in Bunol, or getting overdosed on rioja during San Vino in the town of Haro.
If you need further proof that safety is not in their vocabulary, take part in a Correfoc.
Correfoc, which means ‘fire-run,’ is a type of activity where people dressed as devils and other monstrous creatures arm themselves with pitchforks laden with fireworks and run through the town or city, setting them off in the crowd – sparks, whistles, explosions and all. It is not a festival on its own, but usually part of wider celebrations of the Catalan identity, held on various dates throughout the year in the villages, towns and cities in Catalonia.
It was the day of our arrival in Barcelona, when we got our baptism of fire, and our first Correfoc experience in a village about an hour away. But before we gathered at the square for the opening scene, we were issued old jackets by our guide, who instilled as much confidence as a drunken pilot on an aircraft intercom when he told us, “these should be enough to protect you, but try not to catch fire.”
After several announcements in Spanish, the show began, and performers swirling fireballs marched onto the stage. This was followed by some song and dance acts, before a group dressed as devils took centre-stage, their pitchforks laden with little arrow-like firework rockets attached to the top. More commentary followed, before we were carried by the crowd as it surged forward and formed up around the devils.
As the rockets were lit and raised, all hell broke loose. The rockets spun on an axis and sent sparks flying in all directions in an umbrella-like pattern. Some of the crowd screamed and ran away from the spray, whilst others ran towards the devils, getting up close to them, taking “shelter” under the umbrella of sparks. Not knowing where to go and what to do, we were pushed and shoved around by the crowd for the first few minutes, before the devils broke away from the square and started running through the various street arteries that led off in different directions, thinning the crowd at the square.
We started to follow one group of devils. Some of the street lamps had been intentionally turned off, and as it got more smoky, the whole village became like an urban warzone – people were screaming and running; rattling sounds like machine gun fire were reverberating all around; the rockets were whistling like incoming artillery shells; and every now and then, what sounded like flashbangs would go off, stunning those in close proximity. It was as if the armies of Hades had invaded, with the French in support, and they had come to take away those who had missed their last confession.
Because of the lack of street lighting, we kept bumping and knocking into planter boxes, potted plants and rubbish bins. I nearly fell over twice after running into dark coloured benches. After running through several streets, my shins were hurting and God only knows what else, or even whom, we had stepped on, or trampled, as we fumbled our way around the carnage, like survivors of World War Z. At some points, it was so pitch black that we needed to put our hands out in front of us as we ran, and it was probably a miracle we didn’t end up molesting anyone.
On some streets, the organisers had set up curtains of sparks coming from strings of fireworks tied to trees and lamp posts, to create the analogy that they were entrances to the underworld. Yet people were gleefully running back and forth through them, as if Hell was having an open house with Lucifer as the tour guide, and the people who were coming back from Hell apparently liked what they saw.
At several points and especially at traffic junctions, the devils would stand their ground, raise their pitchforks and make a rallying cry. The crowd would then circle them, dancing under the umbrella of flying sparks. Initially we tried to stay clear of the devils and the sparks, but eventually, as we found our courage and realised we were more fire-resistant than we thought, we joined the circles and joined in the party.
We lost track of time and got lost in the village, wandering around aimlessly in the dark alleys, until somehow we found our way back to the square. By now the “war” had been reduced to the occasional skirmish, but as the revellers returned, there was time for one last hurrah, as a mass of fireworks affixed onto paper-mache characters lit up the square again, and brought the event to its fiery finale.
All in all, it was, quite literally, one hell of a party, and our ears were still ringing when we returned to our hotel that night. Oddly, for an event that had the potential to burn the village down, and to whip up the crowd to a frenzy singing endless choruses of “the roof is on fire!”, I do not recall seeing a single fire engine or ambulance on standby. Whatever the case, if you’re thinking of taking part in a Correfoc, make sure to bring your shin pads!
WHAT A LOAD OF BULL!
In some parts of Western Sumatra, certain rural communities still hold fast to traditions that would raise the eyebrows and pique the curiosity of many foreigners. One such tradition is the annual “Pacu Jawi”, which translates to “cow race” in the local language. This is a traditional bull run organized by farmers annually to celebrate the year’s rice harvest. Instead of racing on dirt tracks or tarred roads, the races are held in fully flooded padi fields, with jockeys racing pairs of bulls joined together by a wooden contraption on which they attempt to balance, with nothing to hold on to but the tails of the animals. Naturally, the families of the jockeys are not too impressed with their laundry duties after the event.
The event is rotated through the districts, and each village that hosts a race does so for four consecutive weekends, before passing the baton to the next village. The calendar of events is fluid and often dependent on several factors, primarily whether there had been enough rain to fill the padi fields, whether there are other competing events, and whether the visibility extends beyond your outstretched hand1.
We planned our attendance at this event through a knowledgeable local guide, who recommended us to spend our first night in Bukittinggi, the second largest city in West Sumatra. We would then travel to the race arena the next day – a village in Batusangkar Tanah Datar, about 50 kilometres (or a 90-minute drive) away.
We flew into Padang Airport and en-route to Bukittinggi, we stopped by the Anai Waterfall and washed our faces with the water to bring us luck, and to hopefully recover all the monies donated to the Singapore Pools lottery. Driving through the countryside, we also passed by several small towns and a couple of traditional Minangkabau houses, characterized by their unique roofs inspired by the horns of the bull.
We arrived in Bukittingi in time to watch a traditional Minangkabau cultural performance, but before that we had to endure a half-hour anxious wait not for the performers, but for the rest of the audience to turn up! This is because the show only goes on if and when there are at least ten people to cheer the performers on, and to pay the entrance fee. Thankfully, we made up the magic number (only just!) that night, and were treated to a variety of performances including the “Tari Piring”, the most famous dance in Minangkabau. In the impressive finale, the dancers jumped about and shifted their feet on broken plates, and one guy even picked up the shards and rubbed them on his body in a scrubbing motion. Yet none of them sustained any cuts or injuries. Had I been bold enough to try the same thing, I would have probably been mummified.
The next morning, we briefly explored the town before heading out to Tanah Datar, stopping at the iconic clock tower in the town centre, plus the viewpoint for the Sianok Canyon, for a panoramic view of the deep valley. Just before turning off to the host village, our guide made a quick stop to show us the Pagaruyung Palace, the royal residence of the former Pagaruyung Kingdom. It was built in traditional style but on a larger scale compared to a common house. The original palace was built entirely from timber, but was unfortunately destroyed by fire. The current structure was faithfully restored using a mix of concrete and wood.
“Pacu Jawi” is an event usually attended only by the locals, but there is now a growing interest amongst foreigners searching for authentic local festivities to partake in. When we arrived, our guide left the car some distance away and led us down some unmarked muddy paths towards the arena. There were no signage or facilities, and we had to walk in a sort of zigzag manner to avoid stepping on bulls**t along the way. Despite my best efforts to avoid soiling my feet and sandals, I received my initiation to the event as I walked pass the rear end of a seemingly innocuous bull, leaving my wife in stitches, and my pants redesigned in camouflage print. I should have known that bull was up to no good, because if I draw a parallel, it is usually the most innocent looking ones that are the guilty parties when a silent stinker is released in a crowded elevator! In any case, I made a mental note of what the bull looked like and swore I would get my revenge.
We were greeted by traditional Minangnese music blaring from several loudspeakers at the main festival area. Next to the flooded paddy field where the races were to take place, there were various stalls selling hats, sunglasses, party balloons and street food. The pitch was about half the size of a soccer field, and other than a flimsy wooden fence along one of its sides, there were no safety features, no barriers between the bulls and the crowd, no signs of any medical staff or an ambulance, and thankfully, no insurance salesmen either. There were also no grandstands, podiums, VIP lounges, corporate boxes or even concrete structures, and we were able to get up close to the real action uninhibited.
The locals had mostly taken up positions along the sides of the field and behind it, whilst the highly insured tourists (most of whom sported long telephoto lenses), took up the positions on a dry bund around ten metres in front of the edge of the flooded field.
There was a loud cheer when the first pair of bulls were brought into the field. They were young calves, and despite the efforts of several men to bring them under control, they managed to break free, and some kids gleefully gave chase. With even greater difficulty, the first pair of adult bulls were then led onto the field and hooked up together. Once they were ready, the jockey stepped in and held on to both of the bulls’ tails. This was the cue for the bulls to set off, and as they hurtled through the paddy field with their cow bells ringing, their strong kicks sent mud spraying in all directions, but mostly onto the jockey.
We were frantically taking our money shots as the animals careened towards us, and as they jumped over the bund, the line of tourists parted like the Red Sea. The locals would then spring into action, pulling at the animals’ tails and distracting them away from us with wild swinging motions.
We lost count of how many races took place throughout the afternoon. Each race was usually over in less than a minute, but there was plenty of comedy and chaos. In a textbook case, the bulls would start running close together but then pull apart in opposite directions, and the jockey would be stretched, arms and legs apart to the extreme, in what the locals have come to term the “Superman’ pose. However, this was either a wildly inaccurate description, or they were surely describing the wrong superhero. I have always known Superman to fly with his arms extended straight out in front of him, and his legs joined together – a pose he probably adopts for better aerodynamism, and to protect him from unsuspecting attacks from the rear. Instead, the pose should have been called “the rack”, as it had more in common with how criminals and enemies were tortured in medieval Europe, using large rectangular wooden contraptions with rollers on both ends, to pull the limbs away from the body.
To further add to the madness of the event, the jockeys would often bite the bulls’ tails to make them run faster. Now, even if we ignore the obvious issue of animal cruelty, surely those actions would have raised hygiene alarms? Because as far as I know, bulls don’t wipe…
In some cases, the bulls would break free from the jockey and run amok, causing temporary mayhem, but they were always brought under control quickly. Despite the supposed laissez-faire state of affairs, we never felt unsafe as the locals were always watching out for us and were quick to spring into action if there was any potential danger.
Besides providing entertainment for the spectators, the real purpose of the race was for farmers to showcase their bulls to potential buyers. Bulls that ran the fastest and straightest would command the highest prices, and those that were speed and directionally challenged risked ending up as “rendang lembu” (dry beef stew) the next day.
Although the races were repetitive, we stayed on until the end. As we got more familiar and less giddied by the races, we started to notice other things – such as an old man patiently teaching his grandson how to harness a bull, and later, negotiations between some farmers over a couple of bulls. Despite language barriers and obviously sticking out from the crowd, the locals never made us feel out of place – they would egg us to take interesting shots, point us to something we missed, give us a helping hand when we got stuck in the mud, and most importantly, lead us to the taps to wash off the grime.
At the end of the event, we left the village with mud-stained clothes and headed towards Padang, where we stayed a night before catching our flight home. It was a short trip but we left with a bucketful of memories and a sense of gratitude to the villagers, who had graciously welcomed us with open arms and shared a slice of their wonderful tradition with us. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go prepare some rendang lembu…
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1 The region suffers annually from thick haze generated by mass burning of plantation land and forest cover.
HAVE SIREN WILL TRAVEL
As road users, one of our first lessons that we learn is that emergency vehicles always have the right of way. This is a very critical lesson, one that can be the difference between life and death, nabbing or losing a getaway suspect, or, as I found out during my trip to Eastern Java, the difference of approximately two hours of a seven-hour journey.
Together with a good friend of mine, Michelle and I had just spent five days in the region. Our journey commenced in Surabaya, Indonesia’s second largest city. On our arrival, we were introduced to our driver by our confident guide, who also happened to be the owner of the travel agency we had booked with. He proudly proclaimed as we got into the car; “This is my best driver, so you will be well taken care of!” At that point I wasn’t sure if he had borrowed that phrase from the customer service 101 manual, but over the next few days we found no reason to dispute the claim, as we made our way safely but speedily between our destinations, through paved roads with mostly only one lane on either side. This obviously required some regular cutting across road dividers (where they existed) to overtake some slower vehicles, but to his credit, I did not recall being on the wrong side of an adrenaline rush, staring down the rapidly-approaching headlights of an oncoming vehicle.
On the trip, we received showers of blessings under the sacred waters of the Madikaripura Waterfall; shivered in the cold as we waited for the sun to rise at King Kong Hill so that we could get our Instagram-worthy photos of Mount Bromo; climbed up and down into the Ijen Volcanic Crater in near pitch darkness to witness the blue flames burning inside; and got our photo high with front row seats at the flamboyant Jember Fashion Carnival, which was just a riot of colours and ostentatious costumes, some of which were at least ten feet tall and probably cost some adult trees (and maybe some animals) their lives.
When the festival was over, we bade farewell to our guide in Jember, as he moved on to Bali, whilst we headed back to Surabaya to catch our flight home the next day. We were told to expect at least a seven-hour journey due to traffic, but we did not even make it out of the city when we got stuck on the main street leading to the northbound motorway. Now, one can reasonably expect traffic to be slow moving when leaving a crowded event, but the primary cause of this this jam were elevated levels of male testosterone at a junction where five roads converged. We reached the said junction after an hour, and right in front of us was a five-way sandwich.
Nobody wanted to cede, everybody kept inching forward, and the safety distance between cars had dropped to approximately one inch with car horns blowing like an unfinished symphony. Amidst the chaos, stood a self-appointed conductor of the symphony – his arms flailing like a madman, yelling instructions to a runaway orchestra that had probably been distributed the wrong score.
We eventually broke free of the junction and on to the main motorway. We had picked up our speed but we were still hitting various bottlenecks and slowing down at certain points. I put on my eyeshades, plugged in my earphones, and leaned my head back in anticipation of further delays getting to Surabaya. The seven-hours we were told to expect was starting to look like eight or nine and it was probably a good idea to get some shuteye, so that the time would pass faster.
Then, completely out of the blue, I felt a sudden jerk in my seat equivalent to the force of 4Gs that sent us sliding horizontally across the cushion and almost activated the side airbags. The car started to accelerate aggressively as if loaded with rocket fuel causing our bodies to snap backwards, our teeth and gums to show, and our eyes to bulge out. I pulled down my eyeshades to see what was happening, and found that the driver had pulled out and started to tail a convoy of three police cars. With sirens blazing, the police cars were speeding along the one lane motorway, frequently cutting across to the oncoming lane, and traffic was slowing down or stopping to allow the convoy to pass and overtake, as we followed like happy campers in tow.
I tried to look ahead to see what the three police cars were pursuing, or why they had their sirens wailing, but there was no indication that they were chasing anything, or anyone. To be honest, I was not even sure they were real police cars. I say this because when I was living in the Philippines, my company driver had somehow or rather managed to acquire a siren, which he would conveniently attach to the top of the car when we got into traffic jams or when we needed to cut across restricted areas.
In any case, we were now Very Important Persons with not one, not two, but three security escorts back to Surabaya. I looked behind and noticed another car had also followed suit and was tailgating us. Altogether the convoy of five cars were whizzing along, aided in part by road marshals at some junctions. At the rate we were going, the land speed record between Jember and Surabaya was probably about to be broken.
For at least an hour, our driver kept up the pace and never took his foot off the accelerator. Other cars had the same idea but he made sure there was no gap for the others to cut in. We had covered an amazing amount of distance and were fast approaching Probolinggo, which was roughly the halfway point between Jember and Surabaya. We had not taken our dinner yet but who had time to stop for a meal when we had three police cars personally chaperoning us all the way to our hotel in Surabaya? (We could only hope!)
As we entered Probolinggo, I checked Google Maps, which forecasted around two-and-a-half hours more to Surabaya. “Ha!” I said to Michelle and my friend, “I think we will get there in half the time at this rate!” All that we were missing at that point was more legroom, a glass of champagne, and some caviar and crackers.
We were feeling invincible, but just as I put down my mobile phone, disaster struck. The three police cars suddenly slowed down, and to our horror, turned into a police station, leaving us in a mild state of panic and regret, and to carry on the journey by ourselves.
Having been abandoned by our escorts, we started to think of a place to stop for dinner. Since we had become common folk again, and having probably cleared the worst of the traffic between Jember and Surabaya, it was probably a good time to start thinking about filling our tummies. We were discussing this with our driver when he abruptly cut us off, and swung the car out again, this time, latching on to the back of a speeding ambulance. From being Very Important People we became Good Samaritans, keeping the pace behind the life-saving vehicle, following it to the nearest hospital in case they needed an extra pair of hands. Like inseparable twins we stuck to the back of the ambulance as it headed in the direction of Surabaya. Our stomachs were beginning to growl from the neglect, but time was of the essence, and we had a duty to keep up with the ambulance!
We did not have to escort it for long though, for twenty minutes later, it turned off the main road, and we let out another huge sigh. Since leaving Jember, it had been a joyride, but there was still around an-hour-and-a-half to Surabaya. I thought to myself that surely our luck had run out, but barely five minutes later, another police car overtook us, and our driver pulled out yet again. Yippee!
We followed the police car into the outskirts of Surabaya, and just as our paths diverged, our driver made a pit stop to answer the call of nature, and we took the opportunity to get out and stretch our legs. From there, it took us another half an hour to get to our hotel. Discounting the traffic jam we encountered getting out of Jember city, it had taken us just a little more than five hours to get to Surabaya, all thanks to the dynamo of a driver behind the wheel. We showed our appreciation with a generous tip for him, and after checking in, ordered room service to celebrate.
Needless to say, we gave the tour a big thumbs up and a great review on Trip Advisor. Not only did our guide assign us his best and most street-smart driver, he had also arranged our complimentary escort by the police and emergency service staff, who systematically cleared the way for us and made our holiday that much sweeter. What a great deal!