Thumb Twiddling
September 15, 2005
Penang, Malaysia
Since Glen Eagles Medical Centers are the most advanced hospitals in the region, the Penang, Malaysia, branch was the best and last place to investigate my misbehaving left kidney before continuing on to Sumatra. The 10 millimeter aggressive stone doctors in Munich couldn’t pulverize electronically but had said was too big to migrate did, and it now floats free, acting as a ball-check valve where it shouldn’t. To complicate matters, since departing Germany last October, another eight-millimeter stone had formed on my right side. Yet, an optimistic Chinese urologist claims that by taking pH-altering pills and drinking lots of water, the stones could dissolve in a few weeks. The painful distress of kidney stones on the move has been known to ruin vacations. After discarding the powerful meds doctors had issued to me in Munich, the urologist has upgraded my emergency-only supplies by prescribing two glass ampoules of heavy-duty injectable painkillers for that special moment I hope does not arrive somewhere in Africa.
The good news is local riders have provided me valuable information about a new roll-on/roll-off vehicle ferry operating from Malaysia to Sumatra. No more slinging bikes over the decks of onion boats. The ship sails across the Strait of Malacca at 8:00 p.m. Tuesday and puts into port 12 hours later. Meanwhile, using sporadic Internet connections, I answer email and update my journals.
There is little else to do these last two weeks except wait for new tires to be express-mailed and organize supplies for Sumatra. While still digesting Borneo, images of mud roads and Dayak villages fade in the shadows of impersonal skyscrapers and forward gazes toward the rest of Indonesia. Without tribal villages to pass, it’s boring riding the smooth modern freeways of Malaysia on long, empty stretches between anonymous cities that all look the same. But bikers rule the roads in Malaysia — there are separate high-speed lanes and underpasses exclusively for motorcycles. While cars are packed tight in smoggy gridlock, bikers zoom by like competitors on private Disneyland racetracks.
In response to a growing militant threat, security tightens in Indonesia. The rumors I’ve heard about visas have been confirmed. According to new Indonesian immigration regulations, 60-day visas have been restricted to 30. Once again, it was time to plead my “special case.” After an embassy meeting, yet another consul general is happy to bend the new rules and issue an on-the-spot 60-day visa. My laptop slideshows over afternoon tea have become the ultimate dog and pony show to woo everyone from jungle natives to apprehensive government officials. Now, there is enough time to consider including a tour of the tsunami-stricken rebel-held territories of Banda Aceh. In the past week, there have been televised news reports that militant Islamic separatists have finally signed a peace agreement with Jakarta, and this week, have begun surrendering weapons in exchange for troop withdrawals.
Crowded with aggressive merchants and pungent spice markets, Penang Island connects to mainland beaches by bridges and ferries from various cultural districts. Rows of Indian restaurants pump varying beats of tabla drums with familiar piercing scents of fiery curries. Dark-skinned Hindu men in long, baggy shirts call out wanting to know “From where is the place to which you have been traveling.” As a 5:00 a.m. loudspeaker Muslim call-to-prayer nudges the faithful from sleep, smoky trails of smoldering incense drift from colorful Chinese Buddhist temples with clinking cymbals and banging gongs. Afternoon strolls require alternating ethnic greetings — Nee hou to Chinese, Namaste to Indians and Salamat siang to Malay. And like clockwork, at sundown, thick-mustached Georgetown rickshaw riders lurking outside tourist hotels make their pitch: “Pssst, Mistah, you looky for massage?”
SUMATRA
Across the Strait of Malacca
September 21, 2005
Belawan, Sumatra, Indonesia
After an Internet introduction from Eris and Murphy in Singapore, Chinese riders B.K. and Francis were waiting for me in Penang. In keeping with the two-nights-max rule, I divided time between staying at their houses and downtown hotels. Fluent in English and three dialects of Mandarin, B.K. is happy to field questions about his views. The issues are the same everywhere: racial, religious and cultural identities in conflict.
Indigenous Malays receive preferential treatment for government jobs and official licensing for businesses and industry. Non-Muslims are out of the loop and find it difficult to get ahead. When they do, the government steps in to appropriate a corporate share to give to someone more deserving — one of their own.
According to Malays, racial quotas exist to protect their culture from more aggressive, business-minded Chinese. If they didn’t, the Chinese would soon dominate. At the very bottom, highly educated Indians grab whatever is left. Unless they are members of a circle of well-connected merchants, young Indian men with master’s degrees are left to accept menial jobs. Yet with all the grumbling, there are still no tanks in the streets or armed gangs of rebels as in other developing countries.
B.K.’s neighbor is engaged to be married, and together we have been invited to a Chinese wedding bachelor party. Far different from a Western stag with its strippers and bad behavior, this family affair is attended by future in-laws who lecture on morality and ancient ways. Dressed in pattern-printed red silk pajamas, during the ritual combing-of-hair, the groom is admonished by both sets of parents on issues of fidelity and duty. A costumed priestess waves smoldering joss sticks while reciting instructions to respect ancestors and live according to ancient customs.
The Chinese have no rules governing alcohol, and after the ceremony, wine, whiskey and beer flow freely next to fried noodle dishes and flaming seafood delights. No one knows much about the motorcycling American, but because I’m the guest of a man held in high esteem, they honor me as a family member.
Spending days with 50-year-old motocross champion B.K. has allowed me to witness an impromptu mediation he is conducting between an older traditional businessman and a young, hot-tempered construction boss. Their animated conversation is conducted in a little-used dialect of Mandarin, but the irate 72-year-old milky-eyed senior pounding his fists on the desk leaves little doubt what’s going on. Ignoring the presence of a surprised yellowed-haired stranger as he shuffles toward the door, the old man’s last warning is “I have my temper too, if he takes my face, I will kill him.”
After a week of waiting for the ship to Sumatra, I can almost count final days to California. I’m getting homesick for a home, any home, period. And relaxing on the ferry is a chance to reflect about the future as well as the past.
To spur tourism for the whole region, Thailand, Indonesia and Malaysia have combined resources to create a vehicle ferry service between Penang and Sumatra. No one is certain if it’s fear of terrorism or the tsunami disaster that has been keeping travelers away, but there’s only a motorcycle, one car and four passengers onboard a ship designed to carry a hundred times that.
Among empty rows of sticky vinyl cabin seats, a full crew of 40 stands waiting to serve airline-style dinners comprised of a spicy chicken wing and stale rice. A dozen video screens simultaneously display images of Muslim girls in head scarves singing and dancing to traditional music — picture a Lawrence Welk version of MTV with young women dressed as nuns.
Overpowering currents from the Indian Ocean surging through the Strait of Malacca forced the frustrated captain to wait two hours before docking the ferry for offloading. Twelve hours later, when we arrive in Port Belewan, we wasted another half day waiting for rising tides to align for the roll-off ramp. Moving a motorcycle by means other than on its own two wheels is a sorry process, but at least there was no crating procedure or teams of sloppy port workers picking it up by the turn signals.
Indonesia is to Malaysia what Mexico is to the U.S., a less fortunate neighbor with too many people and not enough money. From the clear skies of Malaysia, the change is dramatic. In the oppressive heat and throat-burning smog, a hodgepodge of dilapidated veh
icles converges in single lanes. Jockeying for road space is a nerve-frazzling science that requires delicate refining. Still relaxed from Malaysian highways easier to ride than California, Sumatran traffic is an ice-water-in-the-face shock to the system.
North from Medan
September 26, 2005
Sumatra, Indonesia
When I first enter a major city, I immediately long for the fresh scented countryside and its slower pace. But after a few days of nutritious meals, fast Internet connections and motorcycle servicing, I’ve made enough new friends at bike shops and restaurants to get lazy and uncomfortable. But all I need to do to be reinvigorated is to load my gear and roll past the city limits with a new direction that invariably leads to somewhere interesting. Once back in the wind, shifting into high gear, the situation reverses when discarding that temporary security for the open road, with unfamiliar food, unpredictable weather and questionable routes. Still, it’s not always important to seek a particular destination; often, a mere compass heading is sufficient inspiration to appease cravings to move on.
Maps are useful for general directions and timing seasons, but tomorrow’s destination can easily be subject to change depending on your mood at sundown or sunrise. Maps aside, gossip about villages in neighboring countries is rarely reliable. Claims of “danger ahead” and “promiscuous women abound” are generally overstated, while other road information seldom applies to bikers. “It takes 10 hours to get there by car” can mean a longer or shorter ride by motorcycle, depending on traffic or insanity levels of bus drivers. With the growing realization that this journey must end sooner rather than later to deal with my kidneys, I have set a deadline to return to California by late winter of 2006.
As time becomes a glaring factor, it’s important to make every day count, but lingering in the countryside to smell blossoming orchids may soon be reduced to deep inhales while downshifting around jungle curves. I originally allocated four months for Africa, but additional time spent exploring Indonesia meant less for Kenya and Tanzania. Even if I eliminate Australia and reduce my days here, I will only have two months for the entire African continent.
So why another deviation? Weaving through convoys of commercial vehicles fouling muggy morning air, this long, grueling detour in the opposite direction north from Medan made little sense. I had planned for a safe ride through the mountains and a visit to a famous lake before heading south to catch the ferry to Java. This morning that plan changed. I stopped on the highway shoulder, pondering the wisdom of riding north into the troubled Aceh province. Questioning my own better judgment, I even considered retreating. Looping the entire island of Sumatra seemed less possible every hour. Warnings of “No Return Road” on the opposite side of the island constantly raised the question of whether it was worthwhile to ride 400 miles in miserably thick traffic just to turn around and commit the traveler’s mortal sin of backtracking? How important is Banda Aceh anyway? I’ve already seen the pictures of a leveled city on TV.
But at every meal stop, welcoming natives with encouraging toothy smiles restated the case, convincing me to proceed to meet more Sumatrans. “Hallo mistah, wahr you come from?” preempted animated language lessons and hilarious photo sessions. Further from the city, puffy black trails of diesel fumes evaporated into vibrant green rice fields speckled with meandering broad-horned water buffalo. Within hours, the boredom of Malaysia’s modern cities, and the apprehension of Indonesia’s congested roadways, dissolved into the optimistic spirits of people returning from the brink. You’d never guess Sumatrans were suffering from horrific disasters — a maliciously deadly civil conflict and the whimpering aftermath of a devastating tsunami.
The Indonesian military had sealed off Aceh province from the rest of the island. Under a negotiated agreement, the Islamic secessionist movement is currently scheduled to surrender its weapons as the army withdraws. Skirting police checkpoints required riding through the forest, but once I was past the provincial border there were no more patrols or armed convoys — just a few hundred thousand dazed survivors trying to assess the damage.
Yet, through it all, disoriented villagers worry as much for others as themselves. When I answer questions in other countries with, “I come from California,” locals everywhere shout, “Arnold!” Here, when I say “America,” their tones turn sympathetic and they utter, “Katrina, Katrina, we are so sorry for you.”
Just as residents of Sumatra’s Aceh province were wondering what could be worse than 15,000 dead in 30 years of a bloody secessionist movement, they were struck by a series of earthquake-induced tidal waves. The first was a hundred feet tall, crushing everything in its punishing path. As the earth trembled and buckled beneath the ocean, survivors could only scramble in panic to higher ground. In one gargantuan, unforgiving surge of the sea, five-story buildings collapsed into instant tombs for those inside. Yet, before assisting, organizing world bodies demanded warring factions recognize that they needed each other to rebuild, leading to the current settlement brought about by Finland’s most determined negotiators.
Spending the last 15 months off the beaten track, most of my time has been spent with people of color. At first, it was uncomfortable seeing groups of other white Westerners, but they have arrived as dedicated relief workers and international observers on missions of peace.
Unarmed multinational groups have invaded the countryside, monitoring the fragile new ceasefire treaty that requires rebels to surrender machine guns, hand grenades and small arms as government troops slowly retreat to the southern provincial border. So far, the exchange is ahead of schedule. Yet, in the midst of this precarious stand-down, United Nations personnel are just as surprised to see a wandering American biker. “How did you get past the military?” they ask. “You must be careful. If they find out you are here, you’ll be immediately escorted to the airport.”
UN peacekeeping forces classify security risks. Afghanistan is a level three. Because of heavy rebel fighting in the surrounding mountains and local assassinations of political leaders, Aceh province is considered a level four. Last week, two foreigners were shot outside the city for violating the 6:00 p.m. curfew. My rear tire blew out around 5:00 p.m. today, and it was a long taxi ride back to town to search for a 17-inch tube that I soon discovered does not exist on Sumatra. We over inflated a smaller version to fit, muttered “In shallah” and continue to hope for the best.
In their negotiated settlement with the government, separatists of the Free Aceh Movement (BAM) won a bid for autonomy and a return to Islamic Law — Sharia. The people have chosen to be governed by the religious rules of the Koran. Comparable to the Christian Amish and Quakers, these are peaceful people wishing to live according to the strictest interpretations of their respective sacred teachings.
In the Christian-dominated American Midwest, there are still dry regions where the sale of alcohol is forbidden and district attorneys will criminally prosecute store owners for selling magazines featuring bare-breasted women. Under Islamic Sharia, women are required to cover their hair and male to female contact outside of marriage is forbidden. It’s scary to consider life in the USA if radical religious leaders were allowed to declare and enforce laws — and fundamentalist states provide worthy reminders of the value of separating church and state.
Tsunamis
September 27, 2005
Banda Aceh, Sumatra
Shortly after he turned 63, my father died of a long-anticipated second heart attack. Though I had left home as a teenager and we weren’t close, the aftermath of disbelief and denial lasted years. But learning to fend for myself from the age of 16 had given me an independent spirit. While devastated at his funeral, I recall wondering what the death of a loved one was like for those with deeper roots? How painful is the passing of a child or spouse?
In developing nations, extended families are so tightly knit they often live together in one house. Elders are respected and depend on those they raised to
care for them in their twilight years — one reason they have so many children in countries without social safety nets. Children are social security; the ones who live long enough to work will feed you when you’re no longer able to look after yourself. Maybe that’s why the people here smile and laugh and complain less than their Western counterparts — they might like a new color TV but know they can survive without one as long as they have each other. There is also far more demonstrative love and warmth expressed between family members, and with that open love comes a positive attitude towards the world.
A horrific tsunami swept 200,000 out to sea and left another 200,000 homeless in Banda Aceh, Sumatra, Indonesia
Throughout Asia, it’s unusual to find villagers not smiling. Is it the simple life minus anxiety over stock market prices or which conniving politician has stirred more animosity toward the other? There are no worries about evaluating portfolios and counting money — there isn’t any. As long as the basics of human survival exist, natives enjoy each other. Yes, they would prefer accessible health care — everyone wants to live better and longer — but the hand they’ve been dealt doesn’t include the privileges available in the West.
But how did people so poor cope with one of the worst natural disasters in human history? In a ruthless rush of nature’s fury, one sunny December afternoon in 2004, enormous ocean waves of unprecedented size penetrated as much as three miles inland to pummel and destroy all in the unsuspecting path. In a single wicked hydraulic pulse, 200,000 innocent mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, were crushed instantly or swept out to sea.
One More Day Everywhere Page 32