"The Perfect Murder" Indonesia, Day 3

After a full day in Jakarta where the city itself proved to be exactly what I had expected, I ventured south to a small fishing village on the coast of West Java, called Pelabuhan Ratu. From Bogor train station, it took six hours of terrible traffic congestion that left my eyes burning and dry. The air gets real thick and cloudy from street dirt and engine exhaust as motorbikes and cargo trucks pummel their way down narrow roads.

I am not in a city bus like I was advised to get in but a rundown, unmarked, "underground" van where drivers stop frequently in the middle of the street to hustle commuters in. If I had followed my CS's directions perfectly, I should have gotten on the "MRI" AC bus at Bogor and made one long but comfortable and cheap ride to P.Ratu. Instead, I got duped by the quick plays and poker faces of Indonesia's notorious self-employed "taxi" drivers and it took close to seven hours.

Waiting at Tebet Station just before noon to go to Bogor.

The map Ryan so kindly drew for me to get from Jakarta to P.Ratu.

In Pelabahun Ratu, there is only one road that drives up the coastline with the raging sea to the left and huts lining the street. This place is sort of a hidden secret amongst tourists, but the local surfers escape here to catch delicious waves. Huts that I imagine are full of life and laughter and the smells of scrumptious food are deserted and it's practically a ghost coast.

In the mornings and afternoons, school children traveled by hopping on the shuttle buses that ran up the coast.You pay by distance, usually 2,000 to 5,000 Rps.

The second full day in P.Ratu, all I ate was this.

After booking into my hotel at close to 7 pm, I search the wooden huts on the beach for nutrition. I haven't eaten a meal all day and the fasting of Ramadan was really having its influence over me. The three girls laughing at a hut next to the road shake their heads when I say "restaurant" and motion eating. They put me in a shuttle bus that happens to drive by and tell the driver restaurant. Without lights, the pathway up the coast is scary dark and I worry about all the gremlins lurking in the silence. After a most expensive meal at a backpacker's inn, I want to order a beer and forget my exhausting day, but I left my money hiding under the mattress back at the hotel. So I hop on a motorbike and head back down the coast through the darkness with a head of heavy eyes. In bed, I fall easily to sleep, one fan blowing air on me, and I dream vacation dreams of people back home.

 

At precisely 3 a.m., I hear a loud crowing sound. An unmistakable, defiant, most pronounced rooster croak. It is so loud I think the rooster is beside me in bed but when I check around, it's nowhere to be seen. Just a simple $10 room filled with a queen size bed, dresser, and vanity.
Again, I hear its scream, "CUCK-A-DOO!"
The fucker must just be outside my door greeting the hotel's newest and only occupant. I close my eyes, still heavy with dreams, and spend the next two hours in a fitful, unsatisfying battle to remain succumbed. The cuck-cooking happens at intervals. Drawn out for a few minutes and then a rest. Then the onslaught again.

So this is when I plan the perfect murder.
(I try not to hate things because I believe hate is the most useless emotion. It takes from you, correction, it boldly rips from you, an immense amount of energy, brain waves, and time but rewards you with nothing. However, there are some things that are okay to hate. Things like Monday mornings, lying taxi drivers, moldy apartments, cheating ex boyfriends, war, and roosters. That's about it. )

So my hate makes me think callous things:
"I'm going to badger this rooster with a bat and squeal with joy as its guts explode onto the ground!"

CUCK-A-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

"I'm going to get a cleaver, slice it's throat at the jugular, hold its head back and watch the pavement turn crimson, then I'll de-feather it and eat it whole."

CUCK-A-FUCKEN-DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

"I'm going to use my bare hands, wring its neck, eat its innards, and use its blood as tribal paint while dancing naked  and possessed around a fire."

CUCK-A-FUCKEN-DO-DO-DO-DO-DO-DO-DO-DO!!

"I SWEAR TO GOD for the rest of my life I will only eat one meat! Rooster meat. Rooster steak. Rooster pot pies. Rooster and eggs for breakfast!

From all this hate, I fall asleep again (maybe there is a reward for hate) and I wake up around nine. I walk barefoot to the edge of the ocean, smoke, and take in the sun and early morning calm and isolation.
Later in the day when I am dressed and ready to head out, I sit on the hotel porch having a cup of delicious instant coffee when a rooster jumps up out of nowhere onto the ledge in front of me. So this is it. It's not as big or menacing as I pictured. It fluffs its feathers. I fluff mine. We size each other up. I take in its black and brown colour, the skinny neck. I puff on my cigarette. It stays poised and perched, the silence in between us an amends? An apology for hateful thoughts and loud croaks.