Get your kicks on Java's northen coast 'Route 66'

Get your kicks on Java's northen coast 'Route 66'

By John Aglionby

THE longest rollercoaster ride at Fantasy World in North Jakarta lasts barely a minute. The thrills are many and, thankfully, the spills are very few. However for those brave, or perhaps foolhardy, enough to want more spills than thrills there is an alternative very close at hand.

That is to drive along the north coast of Java, Indonesia's version of Route 66. The 500-kilometer trip to Semarang sounds innocuous enough, particularly while purring along the smooth toll road to Cikampek at more than 100 kilometers per hour.

But that is just the calm before the storm, the haul to the top of the rollercoaster before the first heart-stopping plunge.

And what a plunge it is. At the first corner after coming off the toll road my driver, Budi, decided there was enough of a gap to overtake two double-trailer trucks before the oncoming bus' headlights became imprinted on our windshield.

My right foot automatically went for an imaginary brake pedal to say no. But there was no response. With the Kijang's engine groaning at the strain and his body hunched over the steering wheel, Budi urged the car on, talking to it as a jockey would to a racehorse.

We made it. Just. And the next maneuver and the one after that. "If you don't take advantage of even a quarter of an opportunity it'll take forever to get there," was Budi's defense of his driving strategy.

After a couple of hours of this real-life amusement arcade of a journey, where one cannot just put another coin in the slot to get going again after a crash, I realized he was right.

The slowest vehicles on the road are the hundreds and hundreds of trucks shifting cattle, timber, cement and anything else you'd care to mention from one end of Java to the other. It would be perfectly possible to just sit behind one and turn up safe and sound at the other end.

But it would take days. Therefore, at the risk of casting a modicum of discretion aside, I told Budi to use a touch of valor.

Indonesia's bus drivers, however, clearly have difficulty knowing when a touch of valor becomes complete madness. Many of them seem to have little use for the accelerator pedal, once they have put it flat to the floor, that is.

For them the trip is not a rollercoaster but more of a slalom race, weaving in and out of the vehicles that happen to be in their way. And as with skiers hurtling down a mountain, one or two of the gates get hit.

I lost count of the number of wrecks I saw. One would have thought these burned shells of once proud-looking vehicles would act as monuments, a reminder that arriving half an hour later is better than not arriving at all.

Oh no. If anything it seems to be the opposite. The wrecks of the dead seem to goad the living into attempting even madder feats of daring-do.

Unlike skiers, the buses do not travel alone. Tailgating is all the rage, as if it were safer to travel in a group than by oneself. And there is nothing other roadusers can do than accommodate the whims of these maniacs.

On more than one occasion I was jolted from a fitful doze as Budi slammed on the brakes. Coming toward us was a procession of buses, overtaking a slower convoy of trucks that had the temerity to delay them.

It seems the first law of the road is that size is everything. Buses are bigger than Kijangs so Kijangs, despite having the right of way, have to give way to buses.

Even when buses are not bearing down on one, high speeds are often impossible because of the state of the road. Rarely more than one lane in each direction, the highway at times becomes remarkably like a railway in that there are grooves where the surface has subsided under the weight of the traffic.

Despite all these impediments I arrived in one piece, although I had missed enough heartbeats to last a lifetime. And I got home safely as well. But I am not a cat and I do not have nine lives. So I think next time I will fly.