Chicken Bus IndonesiaFiveo1

The bus arrived an hour late. It was his only ride.

Not the Greyhound coach he was used to in the States. Not even close. This was a chicken bus — overloaded with men, women, children, and actual chickens. Live ones. The kind that look at you sideways and remind you they have beaks. The kind that do not care about your comfort, your schedule, or your sanity.

Luggage was bundled to the roof. A mountain of bags, baskets, mattresses, and what looked like a small kitchen sink. Potter had no other option. He boarded. He crammed his pack between his legs. He sat down. And he hoped for the best.

The driver pulled away.

Potter would soon learn that time in Indonesia operates on a different planet.

He set his navigation on his phone. Popped in his earbuds. Closed his eyes. He just wanted a few hours of sleep. A small request. Reasonable, even.

The universe laughed.

The driver cranked up the Arabic music. Not soft. Not background. Blasting. Through six-inch speakers mounted directly beside Potter's head. The kind of speakers designed for stadiums, not buses. The bass vibrated through his skull. His teeth hummed.

Sleep was never an option.

The route took them down the middle of the elongated island toward Jakarta. The capital. A few hours, Potter told himself. Just a few hours. He could survive a few hours.

Forty-eight hours later, he arrived in Jakarta.

Bloodshot eyes. A pounding headache that had settled in somewhere behind his left eyebrow and refused to leave. And a stench — a deep, fermented, unmistakable stench — rising from every inch of his person. He smelled like a farm. He smelled like a bus. He smelled like a man who had made a series of poor decisions, starting with the word "Indonesia."

This was the ride from hell.

Let me describe the ride from hell.

Two drivers. They traded seats whenever exhaustion overtook them. No schedule. No plan. Just two men taking turns at the wheel while the other slept across the front seat, oblivious to the fact that they were hurtling down narrow roads with trees and cliffs and other vehicles that also had no regard for lanes.

A massive rainstorm hit. Trees fell in the middle of the road. Not small trees. Full-grown trees. The kind that take multiple men and a chainsaw to move. The kind that stop traffic for hours while everyone sits in the dark, listening to the rain pound the metal roof, wondering if the next tree will land on them.

A pregnant woman boarded somewhere in the night. She did not look well. She looked like she was about to give birth on the bus. Everyone pretended not to notice. Including Potter. He still feels guilty about that.

An old woman died. At least Potter thinks she died. Someone was wailing. Someone was crying. The bus stopped for an hour. People got off. People got back on. The wailing stopped. The bus continued. No one explained anything. No one owed him an explanation.

The prayer chant blasted through the speakers every five hours. Right next to his head. A reminder that he was a guest in someone else's country, someone else's faith, someone else's bus. He had no right to complain. So he didn't.

Stops for prayer happened every few hours. Each stop lasted an hour. Sometimes longer. The bus would pull over. Everyone would get off. Potter would sit alone in the metal oven, sweat dripping down his back, and wonder where he had gone wrong in life.

Then they would board again. And the music would start again. And the chickens would stare at him again.

Forty-eight hours.

When Potter finally stepped off that bus, he did so in a fog. Not a poetic fog. A physical fog. His legs were numb. His ears were ringing. His brain had retreated to some dark corner of his skull and was refusing to come out.

Jakarta sprawled before him. Massive. Busy. Overwhelming. He had no intention of staying. The city was a transition point. Nothing more.

His next mode of transportation was a minivan. It fit nine others and himself. A luxury compared to the bus. Leather seats. Air conditioning that actually worked. No chickens. No wailing. No prayer chants.

Potter passed out in the rear seat. Exhaustion finally won. He did not dream. He simply disappeared for a few hours.

He woke as the van arrived at the ferry to Bali.

The crossing was a relief. The refreshing blue glare of the ocean in every direction. The sun painting the water in vibrant streaks of gold and orange and pink. The natural beauty of Indonesia revealing itself to him for the first time without a layer of sweat and suffering in between.

They approached the island. His resting place. His reward for surviving the insanity of the journey.

As far as Potter was concerned, he had already earned this.

The prize was still a few hours away. A coastal town along the southwest coast of Bali. White sand. Blue water. Cold beer. A bed that did not vibrate.

He checked into a small homestead hostel. Dropped his pack. Headed straight for the pool.

Cold Bintang beer in hand. Warm sun on his face. Water lapping at the edges of the pool. For the first time in forty-eight hours, Potter exhaled.

Then he learned about the Day of Silence.

He had arrived on the eve of Nyepi. A national day observed by all of Bali. The entire island shuts down. No lights. No noise. No travel. No music. No television. No laughter above a whisper. No nothing.

The spirits pass over the island on this day. Ancient spirits. Demonic forces looking for weakness. Complete silence is required. Any noise alerts them. Any light draws their attention. The island must appear abandoned. Empty. Uninhabited.

The doors remain closed. The curtains stay drawn. Everyone waits.

Potter sat by the pool with his beer and watched the sun set. He knew what was coming. Twenty-four hours of nothing. No music in his ears. No bus beneath his feet. No chickens staring him down. Just silence.

After forty-eight hours of hell, silence sounded like heaven.

He finished his beer. He walked to his room. He closed the curtains. He lay down on a bed that did not move.

Outside, Bali held its breath. The spirits passed overhead. And Potter — filthy, exhausted, and finally still — slept through every single one of them.

The next morning, the silence broke. The island woke up. Life resumed.

Potter walked to the beach. He ordered another beer. He watched the waves.

He had made it.

The chickens did not.

—

Some journeys are measured in miles. Some in hours. Some in the number of times you ask yourself why you didn't just stay home.

This one was measured in chickens.

But Potter would do it again. Not because he was smart. Not because he was brave. Because somewhere between the prayer chants and the fallen trees and the old woman who may or may not have died, he learned something about himself.

He could endure.

That's not nothing.

That's everything.