Jolting through Bali in a “beamo”

Press, 4 October 1977, Page 42

Jolting through Bali in a “beamo”

JENNY DICK,

of Bryndicr, rode Indonesian style on a recent visit to Bali.

“Beamo, ladies?” a voice sang out as a small jeep-like car drew up outside the gates of our hotel.

My friend and I looked at each other, and then at the driver in the cab and his passengers sitting in the back in two rows facing each other.

Before going to the Indonesian island of Bali, we found out as much as we could about it. “Ride in the beamos, the Balinese form of transport,” we had been counselled. “It is much cheaper, far more fun and perfectly safe; but you have to bargain.” “Bargain!’ “Oh, yes. Never part with any money even for a beamo ride without first having a haggle.” We were told that the hotel limousine would take us to the capital, Denpasar, for about N.Z.$3 (about 1200 rupiahs in Indonesian currency). The rate, however, for a beamo ride from our hotel at Sanur Beach to the capital was between 40 and 50 rupiahs, or rupes, as we came to call them.

Another beamo pulled up behind the first and the boy who took the money kept a look-out for prospective passengers and generally acted as conductor. He shouted: “I take you ladies. Where you want to go?” We looked at each other again. Although there was no set timetable for beamos, we had not expected one, let alone two, to turn up so quickly.

Mv friend took the initiative. “To Denpasar — 40 rupes.” “Fifty,” replied the conductor of the first beamo. “Forty-five,” said the boy from the second. “Forty,” countered the first, and before we had time to think, we had been ushered into the back of the first beamo and were jolting along the road.

The sealing on the roads around the villages was, for the most part, a tourist bus wide. The beamos went straight down the middle of these at breakneck speed. At the sound of a horn everything scattered — scooters, bicycles, people, pigs, dogs. We did not see any accidents, nor did we see any people who looked as though they had been in one. Many travellers in Bali hire scooters, but they seemed a somewhat perilous means of transport to me. Our trip to Bali was not a tour in the conventional sense. Apart from when we were grouped together to be taken to and from the airport, and for a trip, we did not see much of our fellow travellers. We mapped out our own jaunts for each day, and became adept at flagging down beamos. As a result of this we got to know some of the beamo boys quite well; so much so, in fact, that they would often let us on without a haggle! I guess we paid more than the Balinese who travelled with us, but since we were considerably larger

than they, and occupied at least two spaces each, it was only fair. One of the boys was a real character. Between ourselves we called him “monkey-face.” He was a good-natured lad with a ready smile and an infectious laugh, but to us he seemed evidence enough that man descended from the apes. His command of English was better than that of the majority of boys

lacked springs, but they did enable us to meet the people. At every tourist place we were besieged by men, women, and children ti. mg to sell us the wooden carvings arid batik material for which Bali is famous. “You buy, lady?” “One dollar, one dollar,” “You name a price,” was their cry. We hated to be rude and pass these

passengers before slowly drawing out a wooden carving from his bag. “You buy?” he whispered. The humour of the situation caught my friend. She laughed. “We already have lots and lots, she told him, demonstrating with her hands. The others were amused too and joined in the laughter, and eventually the old man gave a toothless grin and put his carving away. “I couldn’t help it,” mv friend confided later. If the old man had been offended we would have purchased his carving but his attitude was clearly that it was worth a try. When the Balinese realised that we were not out bargain hunting, they were ready to talk about themselves and their families, especially the children many of whom were learning English at school and were pleased to have the opportunity to put in some practice. We were sad when our holiday came to an end and we departed the hotel in a well-upholstereid, air-conditioned bus. The driver was immaculate in his white shirt. On the way to the airport we went along the roads we had come to know so well. The horn of the bus sounded loudly and a couple of bikes, an old man with his burden of rice straw, and a beamo scattered to the side of the road.

We looked out of the window and waved, but they did not see us. We were just another lot of tourists.

For a moment I wanted to stand again on the hot, dusty roadside, and hear the cry “Beamo, ladies?” — and the laughter of “monkey-face.”