So far, scattered small towns along the roadway have been Asian versions of Mayberry. Tranquil and friendly with an immaculate orderliness separating the old wooden buildings,they make me want to return one day to explore them. City versions of Iban tribesmen greet the few Westerners who venture this far afield with world-famous hospitality. Twice now, when attempting to settle a restaurant tab, the waiter only points to a departing car or a family walking away and said, “They already pay.” Last night, a Chinese shop owner I had just met took me out for one of my best meals yet. Over spicy soft-shell crab and pungent steamed vegetables, Kenny Smith mapped out a route upriver to a remote village with rumors of an old deserted logging road connecting back to asphalt. “If it’s not raining, you may be able to ride it back to Bintalu and continue north to Brunei.”
The next morning, I spent a few hours interviewing reluctant riverboat captains before finding one willing to load a motorcycle for the hundred-mile upstream sail to Kapit, the last main trading post for whatever lies deeper inland. Yet this is still only a transfer point to catch another boat to a questionable riverside town with which no one in Sibu is familiar.
For travel beyond Kapit, the Malaysian government requires special permits and explanations of how travelers intend to get in as well as out. The questions they ask are unnerving. “Do you realize that there are no roads leading to any villages along the way?” I steady my growing uneasiness by mumbling something about crossing those bridges later — but what about the bridges today? Loading 600 pounds of awkward motorcycle onto the cramped rear deck of a 60-foot cargo vessel is tricky without a crane. You can’t just pick it up and carry it on unstable surfaces, and there are no convenient steel ramps, like on a ferry. Because of the severe rains, river levels can change 10 feet overnight, so timing is essential if you want to be level with the concrete wharf. Loading the bike this morning, it was. Arriving in Kapit at the end of the day, it wasn’t. Combine that with a need to dock on the outside of five similar vessels already tied side by side to the pier and the problem intensifies. For 50 U.S. dollars, a half-dozen beefy young Iban dockworkers offer to carry it over the rocking, narrow decks to the wharf.
They were certainly strong enough, but if one of the flip-flop-wearing youngsters slipped on the wet surface, the Beast would drop straight to the river bottom. Besides, the price was a hustle. After consulting all the captains regarding the next morning’s departures, I manage to convince them that when the boat closest to the dock left we could back ours into position for a simple roll-off. They agree but warn that if it rains, the water level will rise another five feet overnight.
Staring out my hotel window past midnight must have helped, or maybe Jesus, Allah, Buddha or Thor took pity on me — but, by morning, the water level had descended to a perfect height, and after some well-coordinated maneuvering, the Blue Beast popped over the rail for a steep ride upriver to Kapit.
In retrospect, none of this had been necessary — in fact, it would have made more sense to leave the bike in Sibu and travel upriver without the burden. And today was the easy part — tomorrow, I’d repeat the process with even more difficulty 150 miles upriver. If I have to backtrack, it’s long way out — and even more unpredictable is the trail to a passable road. But then again, if passion didn’t override common sense, I never would have decided to ride a motorcycle around the earth.
Stranded (Only Temporarily)
July 21, 2005
Kapit, Serawak
Kapit has defied its reputation as a backwater, rough-and-tumble frontier town. Actually, it’s a mini-city complete with paved roads, a small strip mall and modern housing centers. Not only are the spotless, crime-free streets coordinated into precise traffic patterns, there are no police necessary to enforce regulations. When leaving my helmet off to ride half a block, shopkeepers and patrons frantically wave, warning me that I’m violating the helmet law. Tranquility here requires an obedience found in few places outside Germany, and here I don’t worry about leaving belongings unattended.
Ten thousand tribal Iban, Orangs and ethnic Chinese live side by side with no tolerance for conflict. To spur trade and development, during the 18th-century days of the White Raja, British authorities urged Chinese nationals to immigrate. They and their descendants have done their jobs well. Iban natives handle agriculture and labor, while a few still live communally in traditional elevated wooden longhouses. Anywhere else in Asia, such a harmonious coexistence would be unusual, but considering that Kapit is also entirely landlocked by a hundred miles of incredibly dense forest, it’s a miracle. Perfected Stepford lives in the wilds of Borneo.
It’s as though a complete community was simultaneously picked up and transplanted. Government offices, hospitals and a power station promote self-sufficiency, while manufactured goods are imported. Two roads a mile beyond the city limits end at the jungle edge like in a scene from The Twilight Zone. The only way to import fuel and supplies is via river barges hauling in construction equipment and building materials. But since there is also nowhere to go, three days has been sufficient to wonder and marvel. Now I must find new transportation.
This morning, after all the captains on the wharf had turned me away, my options dwindled. A tugboat dragging empty timber barges left Sibu this morning and is scheduled for docking tonight. Kapit’s only shipping agent has promised a meeting and a desperate plea with the owner on my behalf. One of the reasons ship captains have rejected my passage is that there is no pier upriver to offload the Beast. A 60-foot vessel is too large to beach, and there is only a ladder for people to disembark. There must be alternatives.
Plan C is an unthinkable tail-between-the-legs retreat to Sibu — but plan B is to locate that long-abandoned logging road to see where it leads. If able to find the entrance, I can haul enough food and water for two days. If it dead-ends on the first day, that leaves another day to return. The problem is, the rumored trail begins a quarter-mile across a swift-moving river with no means to cross.
Borneo Shakedown Ride
July 22, 2005
Sarawak, East Malaysia
Two hours of haggling in Mandarin, Malay and back into broken English netted no favorable result — no riverboat captains will haul a crazy American anywhere. At this point, even a return to the highway in Sibu is questionable. Requesting directions to the abandoned logging road further confused my anxious Chinese helpers. “You cannot go Missur Gren, there no pavement or hotel.” Adventure travel is illogical to business-minded merchants, but after several conversations, they draw me a map and unenthusiastically wave goodbye.
Without crossing any rivers, the trail appeared exactly where indicated, complete with a sign in three languages — “Road Closed.” After verifying I had four gallons of fuel remaining, I reset the trip meter and switched on the GPS Breadcrumbs function to show a dotted line indicating the exact route I had just traveled. It’s easy to get lost on the hundreds of forks and overrun trails throughout Borneo, but harnessing the technology of a half-dozen orbiting satellites evens the playing field. Yet this GPS is well-worn, and sometimes vibration shuts down the power connection, erasing recent tracks. This could cause a problem on the way out.
The first three hours’ ride is over a mixture of wheel-wiggling, rocky adobe and sandy gravel — a persistent reminder of departing off the beaten path. At the 20-mile mark, a bulldozed raised barricade blocks the road. The emptiness beyond is marked by multi-shaded green mountains cursed by trackless miles of mud trails and landslides. As advised, the road has been abandoned, but has the jungle? Why has the logging company sealed the forest? Indigenous people around the world resent international corporations raping their natural resources. Would the natives accept or reject a wandering Westerner violating their isolated wilderness on a shiny blue riding machine? Were tribal troubles ahead?
Through an early morning mist, the deteriorating trail grows thick with creeping vines and storm-eroded gullies. It was a pleas
ant ride dry, but after a solid rain, the return trip would be a miserable, perilous slide. How big a fool rides solo into an unforgiving rain forest hoping it will not rain? Yesterday, the decision came down to whether I would keep spinning my wheels in Kapit or spin them in the forest.
The objective was to ride in as deep as possible the first day and take two more getting out. There was no way to judge how far the road would hold — 10 miles or 100? Just before sunset, after getting buried to my axles in sucking mud one last time, I mark a GPS waypoint and record odometer readings — 55 miles of delightful, challenging jungle track in eight exhausting hours. After setting up camp in the sweltering tropical heat, eating imported apples and canned sardines by the iridescent glow of a silvery rising moon served as the grand finale of an adventurous day.
Once zipped into my two-man tent, like an orchestra warming-up, one by one, sections of awakening insects announce their presence. The first round of beetles shriek like thousands of activated smoke alarms, followed by volleys of deafening, singing crickets. Overhead, giant circling nocturnal birds ride a slow, methodical whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of enormous flapping wings. The symphony of life overwhelms me: “Welcome to the jungle.” Masters of the planet we are not — within a square mile, the population of bugs likely exceeds the number of humans on the planet. Suddenly, I feel insignificant.
To Borneo tribesmen, trees, animals and insects have individual spirits, though evil ones are warded off with body tattoos. My recently ink-stained arms provide some small comfort. Still, the sounds in the dark become louder as my mind races to identify and classify which are harmless and which might be otherwise. Speculating about how lurking ghosts might welcome jungle intruders is enough to disrupt my needed night’s rest. Backlit against a full moon, silhouettes of fist-size roaches creep across the paper-thin dome of my nylon tent. Somehow, even when sealed inside, tiny ants manage entry in sufficient numbers to march across my bare torso, leaving trails of annoying welts. Lying naked on a cushy Therma-rest, the inescapable evening heat and humidity leave me soaked in sweat as I ponder tomorrow’s plan. The night turns long and eerie.
Enveloped in predawn fog, my riding clothes, still soggy from yesterday’s drizzle, are wetter than when they were hung to dry last night. But there has been a changing of the insect guard. Bees. With undulating little rumps, dozens of pink-and-yellow flyers buzz across the glistening, dew-covered rain flap, probing for something or someone to sting. But I am still hungry.
Crystal Lite and fermented duck eggs made for a decent breakfast, while later, I chase shafts of sunlight cutting through the overhead tree canopy to dry my dampened camping gear. This year’s pig-hunting season had opened with a phenomenally large migration from the Indonesian side of Borneo. Tracks running through my camp indicated a family of nighttime visitors. Just after packing the last of my gear, a sharp crashing in the underbrush produces a 200-pound sow followed by a herd of snorting piglets. Slow on the draw, I miss photo-graphing them as they trample up the hillside meadow.
On the second night out, I receive a midnight visit from three well-equipped Iban hunters, curious about the alien invader. The Malaysian government restricts the ownership of firearms, but game-hunting indigenous peoples are allowed single-barrel 12-gauge shotguns. Armed with solid slug projectiles, they can shoot down a wild boar at a hundred feet but not much further. After sharing the last of their strange purple fruit with me and using a sign language to warn of snakes, they switch on their headband spotlights and quietly fade into the woods.
Often, the quality of an adventure can be measured by what went wrong. But this week’s deviation into the rain forest’s mystical gardens ends as smoothly as it began. No flat tires, engine failures or tumbles off precarious rocky ledges. Poisonous spiders and snakes kept to themselves, while evil spirits attacked only those who believed in them.
Back in Kapit, local wharf workers lent a hand loading the motorcycle on the first boat heading downriver. A pipe-smoking skipper, shirtless and sporting tattered, baggy shorts, was pleased to aid a man with wild dreams. As a penetrating tropical sun caked layers of red clay on my boots, dreams of expanding horizons glowed like red-hot embers. After this test run for the harsher conditions which reportedly existed on the other side of the island, I’m confident Kalimantan is passable. My new challenge is laid out — to be the first person to circle the entire island of Borneo on two wheels.
Negotiating recent landslides in Borneo
Wounded Beast
July 30, 2005
Kota Kinabalu, Borneo
Maintaining a hard pace through the icy fall rains of Eastern Europe is paying off now. Not only did it get me to the hospital in Germany in time to save my ailing kidneys, sticking to schedule has also launched me ahead of planetary foul weather for the rest of the trip. The last 10 months have been mostly warm days under sunny skies, with only short bursts of monsoon storms. Even when I’m caught in tropical squalls impossible to see through, they end within an hour, and after a bit of stand-up riding, I am dry again.
Cruising East Malaysia is a glide through peaceful jungle parklands. Timid and respectful, local drivers are appalled by this aggressive motorcyclist riding the only Beemer in Borneo. From traditional roadside Iban longhouses, natives wave and beckon me to stop and talk — I resist the temptation as it only turns into a contest over who can ask the most questions. They always win.
From Sarawak, to reach Malaysia’s eastern autonomous state of Sabah it’s necessary to cross the Sultanate of Brunei Darussalam. One of the smallest countries in the world and once ruler of all Borneo, the government of Brunei basks in waves of cascading oil dollars. For the citizens that means free education, free health care and subsidized housing. But even when they’re offered free government-built apartments, villagers often refuse, preferring to live in their stilted riverbank huts — now equipped with plumbing and satellite TV. In the mornings, water taxis deliver citizens to government-subsidized cars parked on the opposite bank for short drives to work.
It was a stroke of luck arriving in the capital of Bandar Seri Begawan in time for the sultan’s annual birthday festival. A strict Islamic country, alcohol is forbidden and Western-style nightlife does not exist. Still, the city center is alive with outdoor venues and traditional Muslim food stalls. Colorful banners with images of a grinning sultan drape the tallest buildings. But besides meeting people in the streets and photographing their mosque, there is nothing left to do except continue rolling east.
Irregular international boundaries mean that reaching Sabah requires four separate border crossings back and forth through Malaysia. Limping into Kota Kinabalu with screeching wheel bearings and a leaky water-pump seal was made worse when a brake pedal bolt vibrated out 500 miles back. It’s possible to get by using only the front brake, but without both, an emergency stop could be an issue. Three problems at once are difficult, but if you tackle them one at a time, the severity diminishes.
Annoyed this time by the typically inquisitive audience that forms whenever I’m fiddling with roadside repairs, I am short with a group of friendly Chinese and answer anticipated questions before they can ask. “Yes, it has 650 CCs and holds ten gallons of fuel and can go 600 miles without stopping and costs blah blah blah.” Middle-aged Mr. Gkwa is not deterred by an impatient foreigner and follows me into a restaurant. “I can companion with you?”
Ashamed at my attitude, I offer a hand, “Hello, my name is Glen and I come from America.” He likes to repeat the last few words of my answers while stroking his chin — “Ah, come from America.”
“I have been traveling for more than one year.”
“Ah, more than one year.”
Over fried noodles and boiled eggs, Mr. Gkwa says he knows of a special machine shop that can make a new bushing and bolt for my crippled brake pedal. As one Chinese to another, a wave of his hand signals to the restaurant owner that breakfast is paid for, and we are off
to solve my problems.
The industrial zone winds through a 10-mile maze beyond Kota Kinabulu and into even rows of modern cement-block shops run by older men speaking only Chinese. The creative genius of any machinist is amazing, especially when working from enormous piles of rusting salvaged steel. Instead of using his lathe to make a separate new bushing and bolt, this confident artist insists that carving a complex one-piece part is best. Considering the odds of calculating such precise measurements correctly and certain that German engineers had done it right the first time, I reiterate, “No, please just make a separate bushing and bolt.”
He laughs, “I make. You no like, you no pay.”
Nothing goes to waste in developing countries, especially scrapped metal. Verifying his eyeball calculations with micrometer checks, Mr. Wong carefully trims a rusted old hexagon-shaped crowbar on a spinning lathe, creating a part that, in the West, would take a team to design. The equivalent of five bucks solves problem one.
As a maintenance step, I should have replaced the rear-wheel carrier bearings 10,000 miles ago, but procrastination prevailed. Mr. Gkwa also knows of a bearing shop that might supply cross-referenced BMW parts. An afternoon passes puttering across town in his rattling old pickup truck being entertained by haggling Chinese merchants hunting down fresh wheel bearings. Mr. Gkwa is the ultimate fix-it man, and we proceed to the next step. With critical parts now in hand, an aging mechanic stares through coke-bottle glasses muttering, “Can do, can do.” From riding through storms and river crossings, hardened steel balls have rusted into shattered fragments that dribble out when the wheel is removed. A debate rages in Mandarin as expert fingers scrape away debris and tap in new bearings.
Yet my final problem is too difficult to resolve here, even for Mr. Gkwa. Worn water-pump seals at this stage of use are normal, but there’s no telling how much longer my slow-leaking set will last. When it’s cold, the coolant pump shaft leaks a drop a minute, but as the engine warms, it subsides. Barring total seal failure, it’s possible to top off the radiator twice a day and continue. It was time to weigh the odds and evaluate the risk of a total rupture, which would yank my journey to an immediate halt somewhere in primitive Kalimantan, the mostly untamed Indonesian side of Borneo. The BMW motorcycle representative in Kuala Lumpur has emailed a message that parts are available in Singapore, but that’s 3,000 miles ahead on mud logging roads if I continue in a forward direction.
One More Day Everywhere Page 27