Where it once seemed pleasantly eerie, the 5:00 a.m. Muslim call to prayer has become an annoying disturbance. There is no escaping it. Whether sleeping in mountain villages or big city hotels, piercing predawn blasts from metal bullhorn speakers shake all within range from fitful slumber. The earsplitting off-key verses shouted by energetic imams last just long enough to ensure that those they have awakened remain so.
As with America’s Bible Belt, Third World life centers on God and family, with strong convictions concerning morality. Although no one ever mentions my religion, during typical roadside café chats, natives in every country constantly ask, “Where is your wife?”
With eyes half-closed while waving my hands in holy gestures, solemnly I declare, “As a high priest in the Sacred Order of Confirmed Bachelors, I am forbidden to marry.” Those listening nod with a knowing respect as I continue, patting the shiny blue tank of my faithful machine, and pronounce with utmost sincerity, “This is the only wife I am ever allowed to take.”
Gasping as though a spiritual revelation has just occurred, the surrounding barefoot crowd dressed in shorts and T-shirts murmur among themselves, “Ah, the only wife to take, the only wife to take . . .”
Java
October 8, 2005
Jakarta, Indonesia
Next to slapped-together palm leaf–covered noodle stands, the most common roadside business in Asia is tire repair. Highway shoulders used for dodging oncoming vehicles are minefields of debris dropped off lumbering trucks and fragments of past collisions. Although bikers know to be vigilant inspecting their tires, we seldom find rusted steel shards until a faint hissing sound stops us to pry them out from between wounded treads. India and Indonesia have been the worst for punctures.
If not stopping to inspect an unmistakable rear-end wobble, I wouldn’t have noticed sprays of engine oil dripping across the tank. Sidetracked by natives during a morning fluid check, I’d forgotten to secure the oil cap. For the previous hour, darkened oil splattering in the wind had also been coating the front of my jacket and pants. Stuck sweating and cursing under shady banana trees on a stretch of road between towns, I did not have to wait long for assistance.
At times, the locals can be annoying, firing the same questions I’d fielded from the last group only an hour before, but they also appear when most needed. Flat tires are always a hassle, but being stranded miles from a town compounds the problem. Temporary glue-on sticky rubber squares are unreliable patches and usually leak after tires warm up. A new tube is cheap enough, but if they’re unavailable, the heat-vulcanizing patches are best. And how to find a tire shop in unfamiliar territory?
Within minutes after parking and removing the rear wheel, two-man teams of eager volunteers on little flashy scooters surround the disabled alien. Passing motorists notice the swelling crowd competing to assist me and stop to investigate. They all volunteer to take my punctured tube to the nearest repair stand. For the job of courier, I chose the one man wearing a watch, and an hour later, he returns in triumph with a 10-bike escort. After charging just one dollar for the patching, my angels of motorcycle mercy refuse to take tips for their efforts. Now if only there were decent restaurants.
Sumatran village food was getting old — literally. Before they’re offered to customers, the severely overcooked deep-fried chicken and smoked fish heads displayed on restaurant shelves sit long hours without refrigeration. Once you’re seated, a buffet of a dozen flaming vegetable dishes and chilied meats are set before you. After the meal, you pay for whatever you choke down — and because of Ramadan, the hungry must wait until sundown. But the Indonesian capital is more forgiving.
Eleven months out of the year, religious fundamentalists tolerate the open sinning of Jakarta’s infamous red-light district and blazing discos, but during Ramadan, doors leading to sinful paradise remain chained. But, flagrantly serving food in daylight hours, the provocative decadence of Western fast-food restaurants beckons to the famished. At the risk of burning in hell, women in headscarves sneak out of downtown McDonald’s with Big Macs stuffed into bulging purses.
Seventy percent of 235 million Indonesians crowd the single island of Java, while Jakarta’s teeming streets overflow with forlorn migrants who’ve abandoned a hopeless countryside for the despair of an overpopulated city. Yet, they still smile and wave, asking if there is anything they can do to help a disoriented stranger.
When I’d rolled off the ferry from Sumatra into a series of tangled intersections, a fellow rider immediately came to my rescue, offering guidance through the 60 miles of tricky boulevard mazes leading to Jakarta. Motorcycles are prohibited on the much faster toll road, and what should have taken an hour turned into four. At the halfway mark, in choking gridlock, we stopped to eat. My new friend, Wayan, with the expensive motorcycle carried three cell phones, and while tossing wads of rupiah to the waitress, explained that he works as a bouncer in a tourist nightclub. Wayan flashed too much cash for a teenager working a job that pays a dollar a day. Pantomiming popping pills, with a boyish nonchalance he twirled an index finger next to his ear, and then leaning slightly forward whispered, “Mistuh, you want some Axtasee?”
It’s not right to judge another man without first walking in his shoes, and how Wayan answers the challenge of survival in the developing world is up to him. But it was disheartening to realize that under Indonesia’s brutal drug laws, this kind young stranger demanding to pay for my food might someday swing from the gallows. As we dined on sizzling chicken satay sticks and my first taste of Diet Coke in a while, maddening racket from outside the café drowned out a conversation I didn’t want to hear.
Thick blue smoke from two-cycle motorcycles blended with trails of black burned diesel fuel swirling together with brownish road dust kicked up from dueling buses and three-wheeled taxis. Although clouds of filth invaded the canvas flaps of our roadside barbecue stand, Wayan still sucked down one cigarette after another. To relieve my inflamed sinuses, I sipped shallow gulps of this airborne sludge, but from stinging eyes to burning skin, the assault was endless. Ever since Turkey, I have inhaled enough carcinogens on this journey to guarantee one day waking up with potatoes growing in my lungs.
Once on the two-lane boulevard leading to Jakarta, the road-space battle escalated as traffic backed up for miles. Some of the common evasive maneuvers here would have aggressive Southern California drivers drawing sidearms. After 10 minutes of high-risk weaving to the front, we discover two truck drivers stopped in the middle of the road, talking to each other through open windows. Reluctant to unmask as the Ugly American yet still anxious to vent, I flipped open my face shield and shouted, “Hey asshole, that’s not the way we do things in Montreal!”
Mountain Tops
October 18, 2005
Mount Bromo, Java, Indonesia
Indonesia has not always been Muslim. From European mixes of green-eyed Taoist Chinese in Banda Aceh to the Christian church steeples of Dana Toba, for 2,000 years conquerors and occupiers have stamped their presence and beliefs upon this South Asian archipelago. In the early ninth century, when Java was Buddhist, worshippers constructed the massive stone temple of Borobudur on the outskirts of Yogyakarta. A decaying stone behemoth rising a hundred feet above the forest floor, its chiseled granite walls tell the story of Buddha. Hand-carved scenes of interacting humans describe the life and teachings of a young Indian prince reaching nirvana through meditation. Later abandoned and reclaimed by the jungle, Borobudur remained buried in encroaching foliage until 1814, when it was rediscovered by English explorers. Recognized as the greatest of all Buddhist monuments and a significant tourist draw, now, once again, it is deserted.
With the recent doubling of fuel prices, family gatherings for Ramadan and unwarranted fears of terrorism, Indonesia’s famous attractions remain empty. Except for a wandering unemployed tour guide, I’m the only one scrambling up the ancient temple steps. Resting on the upper decks, bell-shaped stone st
upas house smaller Buddha statues floating in serenity against a backdrop of stunning palm-covered countryside. A lazy afternoon spent absorbing local history passes into night, but with only three weeks left on my visa and another island yet to explore, it was time to visit Indonesia’s mountains.
It had been so long since I’d been cold, I’d forgotten what it was like or even to keep handy a sweater and insulated gloves. Riding west across Java, cloudy skies shielded the earth from baking rays of a tropical sun, but that was in the sweltering lowlands. Once beyond the smog-choked asphalt fingers of Jakarta, traffic thinned from the chaotic pace of first-gear sprints and fast hard-braking to long empty stretches of green agriculture fields between small rural towns. At sea level, the air was sweet and warm, but spiraling up the sides of dormant volcanoes, the temperatures plummeted in relation to ascent. An abrupt rise of 8,000 feet into monsoon clouds turned the air see-your-breath cold. Mount Bromo is actually one of three volcanoes within a much larger crater and still belches steamy vapors through cracks in the mountain.
The last outpost at Cemoro Lawang was a ghost town of idle villagers waiting for tourists who would not arrive. Employees of the only open café provided me with directions for investigating Bromo-Tengger-Semeru National Park without a guide. Pasted on lobby walls, faded flyers touting excursions by rented jeep and tired old ponies promised to replace hours of trekking for views over the rim of a puffing volcano. But those options were for people without motorcycles. An overnight drizzle had packed soft ground lava fields solid enough to ride straight across as long as the surface was flat. Determined to avoid walking, I rode halfway up the radical incline of the first smoldering cone until buried to the engine skid plate by a spinning rear tire losing traction. A second attempt with more running speed might have yielded better results, but it was now only a 10-minute hike to the base of the famous 254 cement steps to the crater’s edge. Peering over the rim provided eerie glimpses of boiling sulfur fumes that encrusted the crevice walls a powdery yellow. Yet, if the weather cleared, panoramic postcard shots from five miles across the crater up on Penanjakan Peak were a photographer’s ultimate prize.
What guidebooks warned was a serious four-hour hike up to the summit became 20 minutes by motorcycle, twisting up jungle hairpins to 9,100 feet. But by late afternoon, mild drizzle turning into a full-force storm meant becoming stranded at the top. The highest point in the region, Penanjakan Peak is also a base for remote radio towers and relay stations. While I stood drenched and staring though graying walls of falling water, the final light of day faded into a solid fog. In better times, the half-dozen boarded-up shacks near the lookout patio served as souvenir stands for winded trekkers, but after prying apart broken wooden slats, a hollow musty shell became this shivering solo traveler’s twilight refuge. While waiting for rains to ease enough to retrieve camping gear from my bike, a middle-aged bearded man appeared from the darkening shadows. Draped in dripping green plastic trash bags and without speaking, he motioned with his hands to follow.
Unsure if I’d been busted for burglary or rescued from the elements, Agil Kurniawan’s cramped five-by-eight-foot brick cubicle provided instant relief from biting winds. As exterior temperatures nose-dived, the orange glow of his electric cooking plate was warming enough to begin to dry my waterlogged riding clothes. Cluttered with a nine-inch flickering TV, a few handheld transmitters and a rack of eating utensils on top of boxed clothing, there was barely room in here for one. Folding away his makeshift rain suit, Agil repeated familiar greetings, “Dari manna mistuh?” (You come from where sir?)
“Nama saya Glen. Saya orang Amereeka.” (My name is Glen and I am original of America.)
Using a dented metal cup to scoop a bowl of rice from his cooker, he asked “Apa kabar? Mau makan?” (How are you? Do you want to eat?)
I nodded, and he sprinkled a plate with steaming white grains and chunks of smoked fish heads that were spicy enough to melt plastic. Sitting cross-legged, eating in silence, it was obvious this wandering alien was now trapped by the intensifying evening storm. Pointing to the raised plywood platform filling half the tiny room, Agil said “Tidur desanah.” (You sleep.) Waving away my objections, he rolled out a greasy horse blanket onto the cold concrete floor and insisted that I use his bed. Debate was useless, so we spent the next two hours studying my computer images of faces and scenes from distant cultures. While tracing my route around the globe, Agil smiled and stared as if he was hearing about life on Mars. Even explaining the other islands of Indonesia was difficult — he understood only Java.
Agil’s wife had died years ago, so he’d accepted work as station caretaker to live alone on this chilly mountaintop. To combat his eerie solitude, he conversed with others like himself, broadcasting bizarre messages over the radio. Throughout the night, switching between three handheld transmitters, he communicated with similar workers on other faraway peaks. In bursts of alternating short verses and chanted Islamic prayers, the men entertained and consoled each other through the night. With the endless crackling chatter beneath a bright fluorescent light, my chain-smoking new friend made sleep difficult.
In the morning, crisp dawn air was locked in thick fog while I manhandled the Beast up the final steps to what should have been a perfect volcano photo shoot. Bromo’s illusive panorama was still obscured, but after coming this far I waited, hoping the sky would clear by noon. It did not, and I realized that if not leaving soon, another storm would surely cause me further delay. I was worried about complications airfreighting out of Bali next week as the regulations were rumored to have changed. A quick island hop south was imperative.
After a long farewell handshake, I held forth a few rupiah, but like those befriending me before, he shook his head in annoyance, indicating by pointing that hospitality comes from the heart. Hooking leathered brown fingers together, he stumbled through what he had written down using my dictionary, “Mistuh Glan, we brother forever.”
Murphy’s Law 101 (Refresher Course)
October 29, 2005
Ubud, Bali
Airfreight rates vary according to cargo. The highest are for hazardous goods — chemicals, combustibles and nuclear or infectious materials. Since they run on combustible fuel, motorcycles are considered hazardous goods, billable at quadrupled prices. In other countries, to declassify them as normal goods for standard rates, motorcyclists only have to drain fuel tanks and disconnect batteries. Today in Indonesia, that’s not allowed, and instead of per-kilo costs of three to five dollars, they have jumped to 17. Shippers also use tricky methods of calculating fees based on volume as opposed to actual weight, using whatever numbers are higher. While the total weight of the bike, including crate, is 320 kilos, the volume formula translates into a billable 450.
To further the headache, within hours of discovering this rate hike, a half-dozen follow-up emails arrive announcing that there is now an embargo on airfreighting motorcycles from Indonesia, period. Singapore doesn’t even allow their airport to be used for transit. Qantas in Australia, however, is holding steady at 17 bucks a kilo with no space available for three weeks. Sea freighting is worse, as it can take an unreliable four to six weeks and adds a series of additional complications, namely changing cargo ships in hub cities. Potential for wildcat strikes, deliveries to the wrong continent, port charges and Murphy’s Law make that a poor choice.
But surrender is not an option when there is nowhere to go except backtracking 3,000 tedious miles to Malaysia for possibly a similar outcome. For eight eyeball-burning hours a day, I have spent the last week staring at fuzzy computer screens emailing and awaiting answers from freight-forwarders around the world. So far, there is only bad news to add to my reminders of an expiring Indonesian visa. As this journey unwinds, every hour is important and nonproductive days dallying in Indonesia will eat into quality time in Africa. While still mumbling “damn a schedule,” at some point soon I’ll also need to deal with my cursed kidney stones.
> Airfreighting from Australia would be far simpler, but that requires a visa and two more weeks of riding the remaining islands of Indonesia just to reach East Timor for a ferry to Darwin. From there, it’s another two weeks across the deserts to Sydney for transport to South Africa. Australian officials in Bangkok still refuse to acknowledge my emails.
But just as I’ve learned that after a series of misfortunes in life better days soon follow, somehow, this situation seems certain to lead to deeper experiences. And so, after firing a Friday afternoon final salvo of enquiries, a windy road through jungle mountains called out to me — to meet and enjoy the enchanting natives of Bali.
Sweet Bali
November 3, 2005
Ubud, Indonesia
Since I last trekked through Bali in 1982, much of the Hindu island has changed. Then, the entire southeastern beach had only one major hotel; now, there are hundreds connected by traffic-clogged roadways smothered in gagging exhaust fumes. A wobbling tourist industry was just beginning to recover from the 2002 terrorist bombings when another wave of violence struck last month. With threats from extremists of more attacks to follow, few tourists visit the main vacationing towns of Sanur, Kuta and Nusa Dua. Rows of downtown bars and fancy restaurants are manned by forlorn waiters staring at empty tables while pondering their future. Between fuel prices doubling and worry about the next terrorist bomb, there is much to be concerned about.
Renowned as a cheap holiday with world-class surfing, Bali resort areas have also grown famous for dope and partying. Paradisiacal beaches draw reveling hordes of young backpackers whose nighttime thrills can have dire consequences. Despite Indonesia’s merciless drug laws, foreigners are still arrested weekly for selling or possessing marijuana and cocaine. The price for a short-lived good time can be 10 years in prison. But weary motorcycle riders aren’t here for such distractions and instead appreciate the Western food, discounted lodging and perfect weather to offset months of gulping greasy noodles and bumpy rural roads. Still, rest and relaxation gets boring after a week, and life is always more interesting in the countryside. Beaches and nightclubs are great for vacationers, but a world tour should be about experiencing people and seeing society on other levels.
One More Day Everywhere Page 34