Joanna Biggar's Blog

Those blurs zipping around the base are CARS

My first exposure to traffic in Paris was dizzying, and nowhere more than in the madness zooming around the Etoile, where cars circulate at mad speeds according to rules only divined by those with French blood types. Not only did the notion of priorité à droit, whereby those entering the stream of traffic on the right (always at great velocity) have the right-of-way make my hair curl, but on a more primitive level, I feared each whirl around the Arc de Triomphe would be my last. I’m too young to die, I whimpered in silent terror.
Now many countries (yes, even Italy) and many decades later, I am having a whole new version of traffic angst on the storied isle of Bali. Even though I’ve been here before, (and yes, even have experienced the world-class traffic jitters and jams of Jakarta), yesterday added a whole new deep-tissue test of my ability to breath steadily, turn the other cheek against endless infractions of my pitiful ideals of common sense, and to do the only honorable (ok, cowardly) thing in the face of certain destruction – look the other way. Because yesterday my husband Doug and I engaged Wayan, an affable driver with the build of a heavy-weight wrestler and a pate like Andrew Agassi, to drive us the length of the entire island and then some.
Leaving Ubud and the serenity of Sayan, where the tropical forest cascades down a steep valley to the gushing Ayung River, a place where I had peacefully resided for some ten days, we quickly got that Wayan was not just your ordinary Balian chauffer-magician, capable of weaving, honking, swerving and accelerating with the best of his brothers-in-karma behind the wheel, but occupied a class apart. For one thing, a thoroughly engaging raconteur, he had many interesting tales to tell us as the country whizzed by. That was for about half the time; the other half he spent regaling others on his cell phone. Which meant that he had one hand free to conduct the actual business of steering. The other notable characteristic was his marked predilection for the other side of the road, whatever direction we were headed.
As we wove through windy mountain roads with magically green terraced fields,

Terraced rice fields of central Bali

thick forests of banana and palms, groves of clove trees with leaves bundled for distant markets, small villages with thatch or tin roofs, and ubiquitous roadside stands, his garrulousness and good nature kept his speedy tendencies more or less in check. As did the fact that the engine of his small Toyota SUV was barely up to the mountainous task. When we reached the top of Gunung Batur, the second largest volcano on Bali, to stop for lunch, the car seemed as grateful as we were.

Gunung Batur

From there we came down through flatter, drier country on the other side of the mountains making our way to the north coast – the old Dutch colonial capital of Singaraja with large circular roundabouts for proper wheeling around (though with admittedly fewer terrifying options than those at the Etoile), and to the quiet beach town of Lovina, with sandy two-land roads filled with lazy bikes, carts and cars and drowsy beach-goers. It wasn’t obvious that Wayan’s truest impulses had been merely thwarted.
But somewhere after we turned south and had destination Denpasar by 6:00 in our sights, Wayan really hit his stride. The road was fairly straight and crowded, but with just enough room to let our man cut loose. His proclivity to drive on the wrong side of the road grew as the traffic thickened. Bicycles and motorbikes, often with whole families, usually unadorned by helmets, swerved in, out and around the buses, cars and vans that brushed past each other at high speeds with only inches to spare. Doug commented that if we’d had an extra coat of paint, we wouldn’t have made it. Wayan, cell phone constantly engaged, passed, dodged, and danced through the barrage of vehicles, hitting the brake with only the greatest reluctance. I think I neither blinked nor swallowed for at least two hours, as I sat frozen in the back seat watching motorbikes come within inches of us, going in every direction. I realized my long ago fear of not surviving Parisian traffic had now evolved into a different, mordant terror: that I would be responsible for killing somebody else.
But, of course, we didn’t. From the lessons learned in Jakarta I already knew that two lanes quickly become three, or maybe even four, as one vehicle squeezes in between others – and here’s the thing of it – the others give way. As Doug and I had what we dubbed our Balian NASCAR moment, he commented that watching the traffic move was like watching a dance, one where everybody knows the steps and moves just at the right moment. He was right. It seemed a miracle that we had not witnessed a single accident (though assuredly they do have them), let alone mass wreckage. But it was another lesson learned from Bali. People smiled at one another, and gave room, and so the traffic moved. If one tried to maneuver here in the Parisian manner, bursting in from the right, horns blaring, or God help us the Italian manner, starting with comments about your mama up front, there would have been carnage. But this was Bali, where things, even traffic, move in their own way. It has to do with moving aside to make room for others. Even clueless, white-knuckled foreigners.

Indonesian family going with the flow

By the time we reached Denpasar in the height of rush hour, I was deep breathing calmly enough to make a yoga instructor proud. I relaxed in my seat, felt myself in the mysterious flow of cars, and was certain we would hit no one, and would arrive at our hotel just in time, safely delivered by a smiling Wayan, who had now moved on to texting