At Tenri Judo Dojo in East Los Angeles, California, during evening practice sessions, when training for the national team, our warm-up was to throw 50 men in a row then fight every fresh black belt on the mat for two minutes each until collapsing. The following morning workout included wind sprints around a football field followed by an hour of weight lifting. Between that and the injuries, this was the toughest conditioning imaginable, and the reason I retired. The human body eventually reaches its limits.
But that training is what got me through the harder times to come — five weeks of starvation and torment at the hands of a rebel army. Later, shell-shocked by the experience, discipline developed through martial arts gave me the necessary strength of spirit to climb back on a motorcycle and continue to my round-trip to Argentina. During those difficult days, I recalled my earlier training mantras, “If I can do judo, I can do anything.”
So that was then and this is now, and what the hell am I doing back in the ring gagging for air in some tropical jungle? The word impossible has always been a challenge to me, even if there wasn’t much to gain beyond bragging rights. If so many people hadn’t claimed looping Borneo was impossible, I probably would be relaxing right now in a comfortable Kuching hotel. But as I am discovering, there are good reasons why no one else has done this. It has taken me five 12-hour days merely to cover the first thoroughly fatiguing 300 wheel-spinning miles. A Trans-Siberian crossing is a cakewalk compared to this.
Muscling 600 pounds of motorcycle on a hard surface is tiring enough. In slick mud, sitting on the seat paddling with burning legs while pushing on the handlebars is exhausting. But to be honest, I would not have felt so alive without those familiar lung-burning gasps for air. If I can ride Borneo, I can ride anything.
After all, what was motorcycling through Kalimantan without being buried in muck at least once? But mile after mile? Toward the end of the day, I ran into four-wheelers attempting a short hop to the next town who’d been stuck in the mud since yesterday — and seemed to accept their situation as normal.
Knowing the road conditions ahead would help. But few natives here have ever traveled 20 miles beyond their homes, so the best information is rumor. No one knows if the distance to Samarinda is 200 or 300 miles, only that it takes three long days if it doesn’t rain. In South America, it rained every day and I was wet for seven months. On Borneo, Jesus, Thor and Allah have been merciful. But what if the road ends again at the river? The last stretch had been called “a good road,” which makes me wonder what the next 3,000 miles to Kuching will be like. Not counting the tame sections of Borneo: Sarawak, Brunei and Sabah, riding Kalimantan alone is similar to riding from San Francisco to New York half off-road in mud.
When clearing the last bog and asking a woodsman in sign language how much further this misery goes on, I am uncertain if he answered 10 miles or 10 minutes. On the edge of the equator, a relentless tropical sun boils a gallon of moisture from my flesh every eight hours. The fatigue is so intense I lack the strength to sit upright, let alone continue paddling with my legs and feet. But gazing ahead into the vibrant, forbidding jungle exhausted, stinking and hungry, I cannot recollect when I’ve felt more content.
And thank god for those youngsters who twice lifted the bike off my leg while I was laying sideways. They seemed to enjoy following me, as they could walk faster than I could ride through the slop. At the point of total exhaustion, thinking it impossible to push through the mud any further, they suddenly rushed to my aid, shoving from behind. While I stand red-faced and gasping for air, the inspiring Dayak girl holding my helmet shocks me when urging in decent English, “Come on mister, you’ve got to try harder. I know you can do it.” Today, she was my judo coach.
Hanging with the Locals
August 12, 2005
Kalimantan, Borneo
Males of all ages in Borneo are heavily tattooed with each pattern signifying a particular accomplishment or spiritual meaning. Flowers inked on fronts of deltoid muscles ward off specific evil forest ghosts, but a skull on the back of a hand proves that the bearer has taken a human head — and likely also consumed a few of his victim’s internal organs. As a matter of practice with natives anywhere, when entering a village, I remove my jacket to reveal my own collage of Western tribal art and let them speculate what the skulls etched on my forearms could mean.
Skirting the hinterlands, the natives are friendly. When I stop outside thatched-roof villages, it’s a slow process to get invited in. Digital camera games lure giggling children, which eventually lead to introductions to the chief. Tonight, following the tribal etiquette of standing quietly for examination, the potbellied old leader with jagged teeth motions with a raised hand-signal permission to sleep in the adjoining quarters of his communal longhouse. With no common words between us, communicating with natives is difficult but also one of the best experiences in Borneo.
The chief was boss, but he still did housework. After sweeping his own floor, he presented me with a specially stamped friendship letter written in local language. This important document will be stored next to my heart along with the hand-painted spoon given to me by the Russian Buryats who housed and fed me during a Siberian tornado. In developing nations, gift-giving is far more important that tips of currency and so is feeding a stranger.
Finding solid food in Kalimantan has been difficult, yet whenever stopping for directions, without asking, natives fill my saddlebags with dwarf bananas and wild berries. Although protein is unavailable, jungle banana trees provide sufficient carbohydrates for energy and to slow any obvious weight loss. I’d assumed at the start that living off the land was possible, but clean water has been hard to find. I’m forced now to ration, as my last half-liter of stored water must be saved to replenish my slow-leaking cooling system. I can function without water, but the motorcycle’s engine cannot.
To stay ahead of overdue storms, I must keep moving. A freak dry spell is still the only reason I’ve made it this far. The reality is a solid rain will stop me cold. Gathering to watch me prepare to ride, grinning villagers step forward, offering handfuls of peeled fruit. Upon this early morning departure, those who fled at my approach now jump with thumbs-up gestures, shouting goodbyes. That’s the awkward emotional issue of adventure travel — bidding farewell to people that in a very short time I have grown to like and will surely never see again.
The Price for Adventure
August 13, 2005
Balikpapan, Borneo
The most adventurous times on a motorcycle are when you’re riding off-road. That means straying from the beaten path to see and experience what few tourists can — the extremes of both good and evil. Straight-shooting across the Syrian Desert, wandering the Sinai and sleeping with the Bedouin in Jordan linger in my head like the scents of exotic flavors. In retrospect, even getting lost in the Gobi is now a pleasant recollection. But adventure has a price.
The Gobi alone claimed broken sub-frame bolts, a bent pannier frame and, because of my kidney complications, peeing lots of blood. Abrasive dust and clinging mud prematurely wears motorcycle drive lines, while overworked suspensions eat piston seals causing fluids to leak. The jolts from riding over sinkholes and sharp stones in Borneo require constant stops to check for a busted frame. This has been the most punishing test of the journey, and I still have no clear sense of how far it is back to Kuching.
Off the beaten path in the wilds of Borneo, riding is a relentless struggle, and what’s behind shouldn’t count. But sometimes it does. The last hundred miles into Balikpapan turned into twisting mountain tarmac so smooth and sweet I drifted into road-racing local boys on souped-up little Hondas. The shock of the day came at the end while unsnapping my aluminum panniers in the hotel parking lot. Noticing an unusual gap between the fender and frame, I discovered that the false exhaust pipe containing 15 pounds of hard-to-replace vital spare parts had vanished. My ratchet tools, tire irons, patch kit and spare brake pads lay somewh
ere in the last hundred miles. Twelve hours a day of jackhammering had taken its toll.
Double-nutted bolts supporting the stainless-steel tube had sheared in half. Because my last set of brake pads had cost me 180 bucks in Israel, I’d been waiting until they were completely shot to change them — now, front and rear were nearly worn down to bare metal. Because of their superior stopping power, I use sintered pads likely unavailable in Asia. Even in a major city, the typical customs-clearing delays to get express-mailed spares could take weeks, if they made it at all. And how long could I expect to have clear skies?
But if I’d skipped this loop of Borneo, I surely wouldn’t have laughed with mischievous monkeys dropping twigs on my head and never had the pants scared off me by a 10-foot cobra in the road. I was satisfied just having witnessed a 400-pound boar reverse his course and charge back into the jungle, more afraid of my motorcycle than I was of him. And I would certainly have never met the Dayak or the coal-mining couple from Sanata who took me home for the night. The rain forest was the same here as Malaysia, but Kalimantan is more primitive and far less filled with people who had seen my kind before.
It’s too early to know if the worst is over or just beginning, but I have come to accept that real adventure starts when things stop going as planned.
Friends
August 14, 2005
Banjarmassin, Borneo
Two heavenly nights in Balikpapan in a hotel with air-conditioning, fattening up on bargain-priced giant river prawns was a sufficient recharge for the remaining unknown stretch back to Kuching. Although it is cooler here on the coast, I dialed the room thermostat down to blizzard mode — what a relief to wake with a sore throat from cold, dry air instead of soaked in sweat and peppered with mosquito bites.
After a two-hour ferryboat river-crossing, the 300-mile road to Banjarmassin improved to the level of deteriorated asphalt, some of it wide enough for two cars and a dividing line. This is coal-mining country, with a million migrant workers from throughout the islands of Indonesia steadily bussing to and from underground mines or hauling truckloads of jet-black coal. After a week of seeing only a few vehicles a day, being trapped in long black clouds of diesel exhaust is a sullen reminder of the price of progress. Here, dedicated miners toiling six days a week on 12-hour shifts earn $300 a month — a fortune compared to most other jobs in Indonesia. Under threat from pollution caused by plundering its riches of gold, oil, coal and even diamonds, pristine Borneo is to Indonesia what Alaska is to the U.S. — an endangered national treasure.
Coal miner Mohammad Siah explained that with a Korean corporation covering his room and board, at the end of five years, even while supporting his parents, he could retire rich enough to buy a house and motorcycle — raising his status to most-desirable in the eyes of Indonesian girls looking for husbands. This afternoon, he is anxious to teach me his language. Written and pronounced the same as English only without tenses, Bassha Indonesian is easy to learn if you practice with the natives. Restaurant stops become impromptu classes as my scribbled dictionary notebook is filled by new tutors wanting to teach common phrases over some of the tastiest beef satay in Asia. Once you decide what to eat, like anywhere in developing nations, meals are cooked to order. No one here has heard of frozen food. Market fruits and vegetables were picked the day before, while the chicken in the fiery tomato noodles was likely clucking a few hours ago. But there are still motorcycle issues to handle.
I am still unsure how far I have to go, but matching GPS tracks against a trucker’s regional map indicates another 1,500 miles back to Kuching, at least half of which will be off-road. Up until now, Avon Gripster tires have delivered 10,000 miles per set, even when grinding through Siberia. From spinning over abrasive gravel and rock-face in Borneo, at 5,000, this current pair is almost worn smooth.
If you search hard enough, you can always find what you need. In Banjarmassin, there are motor-scooter shops across the city center, but none have reason to carry tires or brake pads for bigger bikes. Seventeen-inch tires are common in Europe but not in Indonesia — except when used on a particular model of police bike, and there just happens to be one in Banjarmassin. An eager-to-assist Suzuki motorcycle shop owner appoints his English-speaking bookkeeper to spend the morning interpreting, while others work the phones tracking down tires and providing directions.
My new Kalimantan map shows a few major cities linked by waterways with still no indication of rural land routes. Men familiar with the region are busy drawing on my map, connecting the dots with ink lines where the smaller roads should be. They are positive that some of them extend at least another 200 miles to Sampit, but after that, no one is sure. That’s good enough; other volunteers will fill in more blanks when I get there.
To assist the crazy foreigner, work at the scooter shop has shut down until my new tire is mounted and road tested. Mechanics and salesmen circled around the laptop for a slideshow of alien cultures and animals. How do you explain snow to those who’ve only lived in the tropics? They wanted to know what camels smelled like, and when they see the erotic sculptures of Indian temples, the young Muslim men could only gasp and point. At last my bike had a fresh rear tire and a set of used brake pads that should last until I reached Singapore.
If he’d only charged for labor and a half-day’s legwork, the bill would have been 10 bucks, yet the owner adamantly refuses my offers of payment — his only request was to take a photo of us all together so I would always remember my friends in Banjarmissan. Topped off with dollar-a-gallon low-octane fuel, I am ready to ride. Late evening light rains cleanse the countryside, while the skies remain cloudy enough to shield me from the frying rays of the equatorial sun. With luck, I’ll return to Kuala Lumpur on the mainland in two weeks en route for the next Indonesian island, Sumatra.
The bridges of Borneo
Caneeeeebols
August 17, 2005
Sampit, Kalimantan, Borneo
Indonesia, the largest Muslim nation in the world and fourth most populous, is actually a group of island countries with separate cultures and religions united under one government. Bali is Hindu, Java is Muslim, Kalimantan (Borneo) is predominantly Christian and so on. So different are the various values and beliefs, that for 60 years there has been a constant struggle, in one region or another, to secede. The most recent concerns are the separatist movements of East Timor and the tsunami-ravaged province of Aceh in Sumatra.
There are literally thousands of tiny islands in the archipelago, some inhabited, many deserted. With the Indonesian side of Borneo overflowing with natural resources and vastly underpopulated, in 1973, to properly exploit its riches, the government instituted a national program of transmigration. Because of a critical labor shortage, inhabitants from other islands were offered economic incentives to settle in Kalimantan to begin new careers. Known for their courtesy and hospitality, local Dayak tribesmen greeted the newcomers with tolerance and friendship.
But the more industrious recent immigrants soon passed their welcoming hosts in terms of prosperity and opportunity. The natives were left behind. During the ’90s, tensions simmered with sporadic violence and killings. Eventually, an all-out violent conflict exploded between pioneering Mudarese and indigenous Dayaks. The rage peaked in 2001 during a five-day homicidal rampage in which authorities claim 500 Mudarese were stabbed to death. The orgy of violence was so intense regional police fled in terror.
Early European missionaries converted the Dayaks long ago but although they’re now dressed in Western clothes and baptized as Christians, a few early animistic beliefs linger. Some Dayak sects believe that when conflicts turn to war, to properly kill an enemy you must also cut off his head to capture his spirit. Then to control that spirit, it is necessary to eat certain body parts. Following ancient practice, during the last violent confrontation, not only did Dayaks sever the heads of their Mudarese enemies, they used their hearts for satay while adding brain matter
to their morning coffee. A local man laughed while explaining it to me: “After they cut off heads, the men was like frog, they keep wiggling for 10 or 15 seconds.”
Sampit had been the flashpoint of the carnage and now, four years later, a designated overnight on my way back to Kuching. When I mentioned Sampit on stops in outer villages to ask directions, frowns replaced pearly smiles as the locals uttered warnings. They wagged little brown index fingers then drew them across their throats, following up with cries of “Caneeeeebols.”
Sampit wasn’t my first choice for a stopover, but there was nothing else beyond my last stop in Banjarmassin. Still, the rumors had me nervous.
Although most of it was paved, covering those 300 miles of steady dipping road was like riding a pogo stick on wheels. There wasn’t much to see on long straightaways across dried-out flat jungle terrain, except a few dilapidated villages with old men in baggy cotton shirts lounging in the shade. Not knowing the local languages, travelers miss a lot of what goes on around them — like today being Independence Day for Indonesians, commemorating ridding themselves of Dutch rule. This was a time for them to celebrate overcoming colonialism and to rant about foreigners. I rode into Sampit around 10 at night, just after the parade and festivities ended with an electrical blackout.
One More Day Everywhere Page 29