The Screwdriver and the Bus Driver

Bukittinggi, West Sumatra

When Bukittinggi, screwdriver wielding taxi drivers, CIA plots and MInangkabau claims to Grand Canyon lookalikes merge, there are bound to be fireworks. I was off to Bukit Tinggi again. Great. Up in the mountains. Often misty. Almost cold. Historically significant. A captured plane from the US/CIA (they are synonymous) supported Sumatran uprising  in the 1950s pivoted on a rusting plinth in the old Panorama Hotel overlooking the so called Grand Canyon. Japanese-built underground caverns. The Sianok Canyon is far from grand. It is like the Sundanese claiming that their capital, Bandung, is the Pairs of the Orient.

Why? Because it has alfresco dining establishments. That is ridiculous. Every town and village in Indonesia has that. But Bukittinggi’s canyon? From the Panorama Park, it is impressive: lush green, deep and steep canyons. It is arguably one of the most beautiful scenic sites in West Sumatra. But a grand canyon? Only in the sense that a bonsai tree is a tree.

Nonetheless, walk down the canyon and across to the Great Wall of Koto Gadang and you will be pleasantly surprised. Rice fields, forests, a river set against the background of the mini Grand Canyon. And of course, the beautiful canyons as the background. Smaller canyons branch off at various places—each with its own grandeur.

So “High Hill”: how did it get its name. The Dutch called it Fort de Kock named after the then Lieutenant Governor-General of the Dutch East Indies, Hendrik Merkus de Kock. A railway line connecting it with Payakumbuh and Padang was built in the 1890s but lapsed—as did so many of the old Dutch lines—in the 1960s.  The Japanese used the town as the headquarters for the Japanese 25th Army after they lost hold of Singapore.

During the Indonesian National Revolution, Bukittinggi was the headquarters for the Emergency Government of the Republic of Indonesia (PDRI) for a few months from 19^th December 1948 to 13^th July 1949. Dutch forces invaded the city in December 1948, having earlier bombed it into submission. The Dutch finally handed the city back to the Republican officials in December 1949 after the Dutch recognized Indonesian Merdeka. Fort de Kock was officially renamed Bukittinggi in 1949. From 1950 until 1957, Bukittinggi served as the capital city of a province called Central Sumatra. It covered present day West Sumatra, Riau and Jambi.

Bukittinggi became the centre of revolution for a second time in February 1958 when Sumatrans (with covert US help) rebelled against Sukarno’s government. They proclaimed the Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia (PRRI). Three months later, the Indonesian government crushed the revolt. The old US fighter plane in the garden of the MInangkabau hotel is a trophy from that time.

Enough of the history of this lovely place. I had arrived on a rust bucket flight from Palembang to oversee some projects designed to improve rice yields. What a waste of time. The Sumatrans and indeed all Indonesians knew what they wanted.

They had been growing it for years. Forget the yields. They wanted taste and they know what they liked. If I were to tell you that there are over 40,000 varieties of rice, you would scoff—unless you were Asian—when you would say: Is that all?

I digress. I landed intending to walk into the arms of a welcoming driver dispatched from Bukittinggi. I stood looking forlorn and lost, but no one took any notice of me except for a gaggle of obnoxious taxi drivers.

I eventually asked how much for a taxi fare to Bukittinggi. The effect was like throwing a thousand dollar bill into a clutch of hawkers. Squawk! Screech? Here mister. Me Mister. Only 200,000 rupiah. They even fought with each other. Obviously, a fare my announced destination was rare.

Uncharacteristically, I lost my cool. Did I say uncharacteristically? I exaggerate slightly. I stormed towards the main road—a mere fifty metres from the terminal—having decided to take a bus.

The chickens followed. One drove his cab along the footpath beside me lowering his offer by 10,000 per ten metres.

I told him to… What I said really is not important. It was not polite.

I crossed the main road intending to flag down a bus. The pest stuck to me like wet chicken feed on a beak lined with glue. I was thoroughly annoyed by now. I shouted more pleasantries (sic) at him.

He looked at me, grimaced, turned and drove back to the airport.

I relaxed and decided to walk along the road whilst keeping an eye out for the bus.

I heard a horn. I turned. Three taxis, the pest in the lead, formed a triangle around me, demanding that I take a cab.

‘Foreigners are not allowed to take buses’ was one classic line.

By this stage I totally lost it. I kicked the back door of the pest’s cab. It left a rather large dint. I was a little upset at that; I became more enraged, and heaped loving accolades on his ancestors.

They drove off.  I kept walking. Suddenly, the pest returned at high speed. He had obviously seen the dint. Now I was for it. He pulled in front of me. His two mates blocked the road. Horns blared. The bus arrived. The pest got out of his cab and walked towards me threatening me with a screwdriver in his hand.

Without thinking, I charged at him. With commendable bravery, ho baulked, turned, and fled back to the cab. The three drove away. The bus driver beckoned me in; Dozens of heads were poked out of the bus windows. They applauded when I stood up to the pest. I was welcomed on to the bus as a hero. I found a seat in the very last row of the bus and sat down, trying to calm down.

It was over. I was on a bus. 15,000 Rupiah.  I relaxed.

Suddenly, three taxis overtook the bus, slipped in front of it forcing it to a stop. Six men got out of the taxis and ran to the bus, hammering on the door. They wanted blood. I was a little apprehensive. I need not have worried. The bus driver, and the bus passengers, almost en masse, blocked the door. There was no way they were going to let these people on the bus. I felt as if I was being protected.

Screaming and shouting. The sound of iron bars and pieces of timber against the side of the bus. And all the while, the passengers voicing their vitriol and demanding that I be left alone. I said nothing. I did nothing. I just sat there stunned.

Finally the taxi drivers gave up and—mouthing threats—turned and disappeared.

‘Don’t you worry, mister,’ my protectors said to me. ‘We saw what happened.’

I said nothing about the dent in the back door of the pest’s cab.

We reached Bukittinggi without further incident and with much hilarity and bonhomie. Arrangements were made for a few of us to meet for dinner that night.

The contrasts were amazing. It typified this fascinating country and its mercurial people: aggressive touts, aggressive protectors, genuine friendliness, and genuine hatred. When you think about it, I could have been anywhere.

But I still did not mention the dent.

Nor did I return via Padang airport. After I spend my time looking at rice, I drove on to Jambi. Just in case.