Pandanapped

I was sweating pretty hard for about 45 minutes yesterday from the Jakarta airport to my hotel, thanks to my stupid, over-trusting self and an over-active imagination. Prior to arriving in Jakarta, I'd been told to stay vigilant, be careful and remember that Americans aren't the most welcome people in Indonesia.

With these warnings in the back of my mind, I exited the immigration area and came face-to-face with a crowd of people, most of whom were offering taxi services and others sporting signs with hotel logos and passengers' names. Since my company had arranged a car to pick me up, I searched the signs for my own name, but didn't see it among the sea of people. As I stepped back to survey the scene again, a little man in a plaid shirt approached me and said, "Hotel Mulia?"

"Yes!" I exclaimed, for that was the name of the hotel where I'd reserved a room.

He grabbed my bag and directed me out of the airport and into an elevator. We went up one floor to the departures level where his silver Mercedes was parked on the curb. Like the driver, there was no indication this was an official hotel vehicle, but he popped the trunk, tossed my bag inside and opened the door for me to enter, which I did.

I saw him turn to the airport security guy and hand him a wad of cash before he hopped into the driver's seat and made a phone call. He asked me how to spell my name and repeated it into his phone.

Once that transaction was finished, he filled out a receipt with my name and the price of the transfer and asked me to pay with cash - either in local currency or in US dollars. I simply didn't have that much money and I insisted that the ride be charged to my hotel room (like normal hotel-arranged airport pick-ups). We haggled a bit more, then he seemed to acquiesce, locked the doors and zoomed away.

As we pulled out of the airport, I put the pieces together: an unmarked vehicle, no indication that this was related to my hotel reservation, a kick-back to airport security, an insistence on cash payment, a less than friendly country to Americans. And I decided I was being kidnapped!

I had no way of knowing whether or not he was taking me toward the hotel or taking me to some empty warehouse where I'd be tortured and where my employer would be called to pay for my release. How could I be so naive? What would I do?

I turned on my phone and got my recent numbers on the screen. I figured I could call either my boss or Puppy if things took a turn for the worse and scream that I was being kidnapped, probably resulting in a swift bullet to the brain.

So, I just kind of sat there, heart racing and eyes peeled for any way out ... until we pulled into the hotel parking lot and went through the obligatory bomb check - also kind of unsettling in my moderately panicked state.

Long story short, I made it safe and sound and remain in one piece, able to blog about my paranoia. But next time I'm in a similar situation, I may call the hotel to confirm that I'm getting in the right car.