JAKARTA

Contrary to what I’d been told, Jakarta is one of the nicest airports I’ve been through. Terracotta and colourful tiles adorn the walls, musicians play traditional, Indochinese, pentamic scale music as signs hang above you saying DEATH SENTENCE FOR DRUG TRAFFIKERS.

Now I best get that kilo out of my arsehole before customs.

The mouth that launched a thousand words had nothing much to declare so I walked out to a throng of taxi touts, all shouting another new language at the white boy; I’d been warned about these guys.
Doni was meeting me here, with a sign with my name on and everything, but where was he?
After ten minutes I walked outside to sit by a good landmark. As ever the omnipresent mei-ing (bowing) Ronald McDonald again provided the perfect one; that’s all they’re good for really, that and McDumps when needed.

Another ten minutes and two cigarettes later, after I had warded off a cabbie who very kindly offered to drive me the six hours to Krakatau, Doni appeared.

From my e-mails and texts, Doni thought I was 53, and would be sporting a panama hat, short-sleeved shirt, shorts, socks with sandals and carrying an umbrella and a briefcase.

From his e-mails, texts and research on the web I thought he was a serious academic. We sat in a café with his friend Sikrip and he offered me a filterless clove cigarette. I was glad they smoked too, I’d been worried he might be an uber-geek. That saved me from lots of awkward pauses over the next ten days but five minutes later when he said that watching an eruption was “SuperBloodyMaximumFuckin’Crazy” which was to become catchphrase of the week. As Doni explained how he was “the world’s worst Muslim” I knew I was in good company. Missing Nat like crazy, but in good company...

Either that or what had these two bum-bandits done with the real Doni?