Dear Readers,
It has certainly been too long since my last post. Some of you were perhaps wondering "What the hell has he been doing?"
Had I given up? Thrown in the towel? Skulked home with my tail between my legs, unable to complete the task?
The simple answer is, not bloody likely....
96 days after leaving Sydney I arrived in Darwin. 4000km battling chronic head winds, intense heat, equally as intense storms and many sleepless nights. My ego had written many cheques and my body had cashed them all. It was nothing short of thrilling to watch the sun set over the sea in Darwin. This was only the beginning......
The following blog post contains a first hand account of my most recent experience riding a BMX around the world.
The overnight flight to Bali arriving at 2am was probably not the most thought out plan. There was no accommodation booked, no one to greet me at the airport and I had only acquired a map of Bali the afternoon of departure from Darwin. I already had a 60 day visa and getting through customs was a breeze. Thankfully no one had planted a large amount of marijuana into the box containing my bike (This can happen you know).
Without sleep I was naturally exhausted but as I walked to the exit the adrenaline began to flow.
The barrage of offers from the local taxi drivers was the first wake up call. It was certainly daunting as I refused all, one after the other, simply pointing to my large bike shaped box saying "I have my own taxi". Some were more persistent than others.
Finally outside I found a space and removed my bike from its box for reassembly. One particularly kind driver even took the box for me. It didn't seem to cause too much attention with this action and by the time I was ready to go everyone was gone.
I had only the vaguest of idea of where I needed to go which was to find the coast and follow it to Gillimanuk some 150km to the north west corner of Bali. Before leaving I used the compass on my phone to find west, this was it.
Navigating out of the airport was a challenge in itself. There were plenty of signs but I had no idea what they said. Asking anyone I could find "Kuta?" All pointed the way for me although I still ended up going around in circles for some time.
Finally I sucked it up and ventured down a small dark street. Moments later I could smell and hear the ocean and it was clear I was going the right way. Along the coast of Kuta beach I could see why many tourists had no intention of visiting here. Totally westernized with many fast food outlets lining the foreshore. The road was not as terrible as I had first imagined but it was most certainly a little on the dirty side. Dogs roamed the streets and cowered when I rode past, men sat in groups at dimly lit cafe style carts.
I was alone and lost and there was no way I was about to stop and pull out my map, not yet. Eventually I spotted the moon and would use this to guide my way until the sun came up.
Weaving through the streets heading in the general direction I needed to go the traffic was almost non existent. After an hour of so of solid pedalling I had to find a place to stop. There seemed to be plenty of 7-11 type stores around, clean and well lit, these looked like a safe place to stop and check the map. I would head to Tabanan north west of Denpasar, Bali's largest city. It was also written in bold on the map so I imagined there would be suitable accommodation.
By 4am I saw a sign to Tabanan hidden behind a tree. The moon had remained in the same place and I was sure to be travelling in the right direction. A quick check of the map I hear a friendly voice call out to me. I had had all the warnings in the world about being careful from family and friends, but a friendly voice and a smile is the same in any language.
Eka is the first friend I made in Indonesia and after just two hours. An 18 year old tattoo artist with his own shop in Bali (Eka Gold Tattoo) we somehow managed to communicate. He showed me some of his tattooing on his phone and I was quite impressed. After helping me with the map to make sure I was going the right way I had to continue. Eka and I shared facebook details in case something went awry and naturally he told me to be careful.
The traffic slowly increased and I was sure the sun wasn't far away. A few of the braver street dogs gave chase and barked, my response was to bark back and show them my boot, all recoiled.
A glow on the horizon was bringing light to the day and I was in the flow of the morning traffic. After just a few hours in a strange land I began to feel a little more comfortable with the surroundings and even dared to snap a few pictures.
My induction into Indonesian traffic was not at all intimidating, even when having to dodge scooters coming down the wrong side of the road I felt quite safe.
The sun was nearly up and I could now see clearly where I was. Fires smoking away on the side of the street, chickens roaming freely and the seemingly chaotic traffic flowing seamlessly together, it was just a typical Tuesday morning for the Balinese. For myself it was a sensory overload and I couldn't help but smile.
Tabanan was a busy place, at least for me it was. I searched for a sign saying 'hotel'. Even asking strangers "Hotel?" and making the universal sign for sleeping (the two hands together pillow).
A scooter pulls along side and asks where I am from. This particular gentleman used to live in Coggee on Sydney's beaches and with a smile he directed me back to the coast to a place called Tanah Lot. He assured me I would find suitable lodging there, showing me on the map the way to go.
The street was busy with markets, and the traffic was slow. Soon I exited Tabanan and found myself on a delightful country road heading downhill through small villages and agricultural land. People were working in the fields, kids went to school and everyone had a smile on their face. These are the roads I longed for.
Reaching Tanah Lot and the road gave way to a large car park surrounded by market stalls. I had seen signage for a hotel and wandered in search of a bed. People kindly pointed me in the direction I needed to go and a security man walked me the final steps.
6.30am and I was safe. There was no problem checking in at such an hour and soon I was grounded for the day. My host was more than accommodating teaching me a few Indonesian words to get me started.
I strolled down to the ocean past the closed market stalls. Was this place a failed tourist attraction?
The sight which greeted me was quite spectacular. A Hindu temple perched on a rock in the ocean, I had the place to myself...... for now. It was evident that I had beaten the rush as the tourists arrived in droves and the market stalls sprang into life. Enjoying such a place with tranquility prior to the masses arrival was something that could only perhaps be enjoyed by getting up early (or staying awake all night) and traveling on a bicycle. I had no interest in joining the tourist brigade, selfie sticks in tow, so I retired to the hotel restaurant for a well deserved beer and some breakfast.
In five short hours I had seen things I could have only dreamed of. Completely exhausted and in need of a rest any anxieties about solo travel of such a nature were diminished. My mind had been blown.
I sat on the rocks watching the waves as the sun rose the next day. Bang on 6am Hindu music blasted out over the ocean where I sat alone. The religious types slowly arrived to make their way over to the temple.
One asked if I would like to come with him and told me to follow. I took of my shoes as we had to wade through knee deep water about 30 meters across the rocks. He grasped my wrist as we waited for the right time for the swell to rush off the rocks. The current was surprisingly strong and I was glad he had a firm grip. Spring water flowed from the rock through a bamboo outlet and I was told to wash and drink while my photo was taken. Totally unaware of the source of the water I could hear my father, "Only drink from bottled water", and I pretended to drink as not to offend. After a few more photos the words "Mali, Mali", I thought he was telling me his name, Ha! He wanted some money, cheeky bugger. I laughed out loud and felt very naive. The quality of photos did not at all reflect the amount I had paid (approx $2 AUD), had I not paid I may have had to find my way back across the rocks alone, disaster being imminent.
Ready to go again the most important meal of the day was to be had. I could happily eat rice and fruit for breakfast on a daily basis. So far the local food had been well suited to my pallet. I didn't really want to travel all this way just to have cornflakes and toast. A pair of cyclist from Holland, John and Lisette,, were to join me, albeit I join them, and thus friends made broadening the worldwide connection of lounges to sleep on.
The morning ride began with a gradual climb back to the main road to Gillimanuk which would eventually bring me back to the coast. I jumped into the cue of traffic with the usual story of overloaded scooters and overloaded trucks. A scent of smoke fills the air as the road undulates up and down through busy villages. Small stores line the road which makes for light traveling on my part. There is no need to be carrying exorbitant amounts of food and water, in fact I was carrying next to no food. A perfect way to return to the heartache of loaded BMX travel.
With so much to going on my mind is occupied, thoughts of aching legs scarcely enter my mind. A wonderful contrast to the soul crushing vastness of the Australian outback.
Banana trees flourish in the tropics and are everywhere. Even with the dry season still in full swing there are some fine specimens along the road.
Finding a nice place to rest is never a problem. Quiet stores with fresh fruit are literally everywhere, complete with cold drinks and at the right price.
Terraced fields give somewhat of a visual treat as do misty hills covered in millions of palm trees. I have little intention of attempting to break any distance records this early on in my re-training and the sight of the coast again and the need for a decent meal once again puts me in the search for a place to park up. I am riding without any real plan and am resisting all urges to turn to google for help with locations or accommodation. My fate is in the hands of the universe.
Signage written in English boasting homestays sends me back off the main road and down a narrow path. I spot a familiar caucasian appearance and ask if he knows of a cheap place to stay. Directed down an even narrower and less BMX friendly path I easily find a little place called Surya Homestay at Balian Beach.
Promptly I am met with gracious hospitality from the proprietor, a Balinese lady named Wayan. There are several Balinese names and each has a number designated in order of who was here first. Wayan being the first. Wayan gets me to sit and we chat away while I sip on the obligatory 'finished riding for the day' beer. Not to be confused of course with the obligatory 'I feel like a beer' beer or the obligatory 'I am going on an aeroplane' beer (there's a beer for every occasion).
Wayan is nothing short of a beautiful soul, her english is awesome and we hit it off like a house on fire. If she were anymore laid back she would probably fall over. Thankyou universe, I am being well taken care of.
The afternoon is spent eating and drinking and just plain relaxing. Meals for just a couple of bucks there is no need for me to cram my tiny cookware with rice and vegetables here.
A bit of exploring finds a tourist clad beach down the road where men and women sunbake and drink cocktails in the sun. I am, on the other hand, more interested in mixing it with the locals and enjoying sweet serenity.
Wayan directs me to a smaller beach a short walk away and a great place to watch the sunset on a high cliff. While I sit by myself I am joined by a trio of lads from California, Zach, Joe and Austin. Has there ever been three more suitable American names? We share a beer and they offer to take me on their scooters to the night market for some food. Much obliged I take them up on their offer. Like most young men and women who visit Bali it is all about the surfing. These three were no different. Somewhere around this island at all times there are some utterly beautiful waves.
It would be nice to be able to explore the island of Bali further, travelling to the north and into the hills. Unfortunately my time in Indonesia is limited to 60 days. I have a long way to go if I want to make it to Sumatra, and a limited budget.
Wayan sends me off with the best banana pancakes I have ever eaten and loaded me up with fruit and coffee. The days on the road are still relatively short and I have to travel only 40km or so to make Negara, my decided upon destination for the day.
People smile and wave as I ride past, as do I. At first people seem to stare with a blank expression before I shout out "Halo!" and throw my thumb into the air. It is always reciprocated with a beaming smile, wide eyes and a big waves.
Lunch at Medawi Beach, a very popular surf spot with men on the shore pointing large cameras at the waves taking photos of European surfers on the long Medawi Point ride. A magnificent wave.
Tour guides ushering surfers along the coast to many a break ask "Surf?" as I walk by. My response of "No, sorry" seems less than well received and my lack of enthusiasm to surf makes me feel a little out of place.
I have no idea what I am eating for lunch. I asked for something to eat and responded to in Indonesian. I nod as if I understand and wait. I am sure it is meat of some kind, on rice of course and makes for good eating. After watching the waves and the sufers come and go I hit the road.
Still riding the main road the bustling traffic gives me plenty of room. I ride as close to the edge as I can. Common sense prevails on these roads. Constantly looking over my shoulder, unless of course a truck or other vehicle is barrowing down my side of the road then I can be sure, for at least a second, there is nothing behind me. Overtaking maneuvers are brave to say the least, and not a horn is honked in anger.
Negara is a little off the coast and in no way a tourist town. Attempting to find a place to sleep proves difficult until I find someone who can direct me. Asking around is often met with a look of shock. I have learned the word "Akomodasi" (guess what that means?) but sometimes it is not understood. Being in the right place at the right time is the key.
Upon asking on said occasion a man first lokks at me with a confused look before calling out into a small empty store to his compatriot. A man comes out with limited English and right away invites me in to sit and have a coffee. How can I refuse?
His name is Noman and even with the language barrier we are able to communicate. Noman is very welcoming to me and I sit while he fetches a couple of coffees. Outside a couple of young children look at me, giggling when I pull a funny face at them. In any language a funny face to a child brings laughter. I ask Noman if I can offer them a lolly and reach into my back to find some sweets. Another universal way to make a child happy. Nomans children are very cute and they, each in turn, put out there hand to shake mine, then take my hand and give it a little kiss. I almost blush.
Noman had called his co-worker and friend Donny to come and translate for us. Donny comes rushing in having run from wherever he was panting and sweating. They ask lots of questions and we laugh and take photos. I love these chance interactions which begin as perfect strangers and ends as friends.
I am directed to a hotel about 1km down the road.
Into the busy street and afternoon Negara traffic. With everything so close together in the main street and concentrating on where I am going in my immediate path I seem to have missed what I was looking for. I ride in search of a sign, yet again, stating accommodation. Dumb luck prevails and the challenge of crossing the street is the final hurdle for the day.
My evenings room is cheap and clean although they wouldnt let me take my bike to the room. I have to trust its safety in a lobby storeroom.
I am now in close proximity to Gillimanuk and the ferry to Java a short ride away. I am amazed at the quality of the roads on Bali. Mostly perfect, or close to it, hot mix asphalt with very few pot holes. The side roads are another story altogether.
The road flattens off and the hills are gone as I ride through a nature reserve in the North West corner of Bali. On the map it appears about 30km left of Bali roads to conquer. Smooth and flat are the optimum words to describe a pleasant days riding. Just as I was thinking to myself, "hey, I haven't seen any monkey yet" There they were right there on the side of the road. Hahahahahahahaha!!!!!!! I couldn't contain myself. It was without a doubt the most exciting thing I have seen on the road since the journeys inception.
I was unable to snap any photos as they were quite timid amidst the sound of my passing bike. When I waved and smiled in passing, one particular monkey thought he would 'have a go', I was in no way about to stop and interact with these wild unpredictable creatures alone on the side of the road.
Through the forest I had made it to Gillimanuk and continued to ride through to the ferry terminal. I was unable to understand any signage or see the word ferry anywhere. Though it was blindingly obvious where I was. I simply asked "Java" and was pointed to where to go. Past several guards I found where to buy a ticket (85c AUD) and proceeded to the gate. "Java?" I ask a man and point to the ferry at the dock, "10mins, sit". I was about to leave Bali and its tourist friendly shores, time to put my game face on. I sat and waited and pretended to look as if I knew what I was doing.
One of the first onto the ferry I am directed where to lean my bike along the wall and swiftly the hold fills with scooters, cars and trucks until its time to go. The crossing to Java is only about 30 minutes. The island can be clearly seen from Bali.
I stand outside to watch the clear blue water, surprisingly clear in fact I can spot a turtle floating around the boat and sunlight piercing the surface. As we approached Java I could see the mountainous shore line and a couple of the volcanos which call East Java their home.
Last off the ferry and straight out onto the road. I knew I wanted to get to Jakarta on the far end of the Island, the only decision I had to make was to go north or south around the coast. Simple, follow the wind. North it is then.
If you look on a decent size map of the world Java is about the size of your pinky finger, and is home to 150,000,000 people. Thats right, a one hundred and fifty million, predominantly islamic, human population. Home to 51% of the Indonesian population and the most populous island on earth. All living on a pinky finger.
I was not to travel any further today as I needed a map and I figured this would be the best place to source one. First things first I had to find a place to stay. After the usual asking around I am pointed 1km up the road. Not too hard to find and definitely cheap enough, I am home for the night.
I am invited to join a couple of fellas for lunch, it would be rude to say no. Before I even have a chance to have a wash lunch is served. Rano and Wawan introduce me to Tempe, a soy bean patty similar to tofu. And along with the usual nasi (rice) I am well fed. These boys were even nice enough to pick up the tab and gave me the usual be careful or 'hati-hati'. With the constant warnings I had neglected to ever ask what I should be careful of. As it turns out is in in reference to the traffic, something I had taken in my stride.
A walk back into town to find a map numerous taxis stop and try to get me in. I make the walking fingers symbol, say "ok", and continue to walk. The first possible place I see says 'tourist information' at a little cafe. I walk in and ask for a map. A group gathered at a table turns out to be the proprietors and staff. I am immediately offered a seat. A Dutch woman named Dewi (half Indonesian) is part of the crew. I ask where I might find a map (peta) and am showed a vague map of east Java. After explaining I need one of the whole Island Dewi's niece walks me down the road and we try a couple of small shops. I already feel like they are going to alot of trouble and try to explain its no big deal I can find one on my way, but it just won't do. I sit with the group and am offered a drink by a large, slightly inebriated, local named Paultie. He smiles and pours me a small drink which at first sight looks like water (aqua), the thought didn't even enter my head why he was pouring me such a small water. Needless to say it was not water, and as I sipped the warm local spirit I soon realised this fact. Much to the amusement of Paultie. In my defence I did 'take it like a man' and had another. "Dimas will take you to find a map". Wow, this is some serious hospitality, and before I know it i was on the back of a scooter carving through the insane traffic on my way to get a map. Lucky for me I had been primed for the trip.
Two shops later I was the proud owner of a map of Java, now to survive the ride back to the cafe.
I spent the rest of the afternoon enjoying the company of these new friends. They even went to fetch some beer for us to share and in return wanted nothing. I don't know why I was at all ever worried about Java. You never ever know unless you never ever go.
The stroll back to my room was filled with lots of waving "salamat siang" to everyone (good afternoon) and I felt quite at home.
It turns out my luck had run dry with the sleeping arrangements and by 9:30pm I realised I had quite literally checked into a genuine flea bag hotel. With many hand signals I was able to change rooms and enjoyed the rest of the night with one eye open and the lights on. I do somewhat enjoy these testing experiences as they make the more mildly comfortable seem that much better.
I returned to the Kedai Station cafe in the morning for breakfast, as they wouldn't take any money the previous day, I wanted to inject a little something by buying breakfast.
I again loaded up on fruit and a huge banana pancake, stocked up on a little water said my goodbyes (sempe ketimu lagi) and hit the road.
A splendidly flat road took me out of Ketapang and towards the Baluran forest in the far north east corner of east Java.
It wasn't long before I had to leave the road and let a few trucks past when I was called over to a small garage. Wits on overdrive the smiling face seemed innocent enough. I was sat down and presented with some watermelon (si man ka). Not put off by the rusty knife (pisau) used to cut the melon as I was up to date with my tetnus and a variety of other rusty knife antibodies. Posing for photos is a popular past time for Indonesians who love to get in front of the camera. Check these guys out.....
I was soon off the coast again and rounding Baluran. The road gradually climbed. At first I thought I was out of juice before noticing the slight gradient. The heat was intense and the forrest dry and burnt from a recent fire. It seemed like a long push up the hill and again, at times, monkeys joined the roadside. I was sure they could smell the bananas in my bag and I wasn't willing to share.
The road reached a peak after much pushing and I enjoyed the long downhill run to Karanganyar on the north east tip. Many a thumb came from the window of passing motorists as I rounded Baluran and an afternoon in the forest was coming to an end.
At the bottom of the hill I saw a sign for Rosa's Ecolodge and a possible place to stay. For lack of a better word the tiny road going entering the villiage rapidly 'turned to shit'. I stayed on the bike a little nervous about venturing down this strange rough alleyway. It followed a canal complete with people bathing, soap and all, and free range cows and chickens wandered around. Still people would wave "Halo Mister".
I was truly lost until a young boy asked "Mister, homestay?" I nodded and got the signal to follow. He took me straight to an unmarked gate which was locked and I called out. Indonesian children speak to best english here and are keen to practice at all times. Someone comes to the gate and lets me in. I am directed to sit and before long am presented with a glass of lemon ice tea and await the meeting of Mrs Rosa. The garden around this little homestay is blooming with colour and I can't quite believe on the place I have stumbled yet again.
Mrs Rosa comes out and shakes my hand before leaving me in the capable presence of Ahmad, her right hand man. We talk for nearly an hour before I am shown to my room. As clean and simple as it gets I will surely get a good nights sleep here.
As it turns out Rosa doesn't usually take people passing by and is even a bit selective about who gets to stay. I am entirely honoured. All the money Mrs Rosa makes from her homestay pays her staff and the remainder is injected back into the community while she lives simply off her deceased husbands navy pension. Any qualms I had about the higher than average price for a bed are no longer there.
Two other guests soon arrive. Fabian and Paula are a young couple from Germany and Mrs Rosa joins us all in the garden so we can get to know each other. Rosa is, as we say in Australia, a crack up, and we laugh at how Ahmad takes a striking resemblance to the president of Indonesia.
Fabian and Paula ask me to join them for dinner and Rosa turns out the most amazing of all meals. Far to much for even the hungriest of cyclists to finish. Before retiring we are given the warning of the local mosque which cranks up the quran at 4am. "Do you have earplugs?" As I retire I can hear the sounds of the village, cows wandering the streets with their bells clanging about and people seemingly playing in the street.
Quite the wake up call for 4am, I manage to wrestle an extra couple of hours before breakfast. Ready to go again and I am invited for another breakfast before leaving, "no" is not an acceptable answer and I am forcing down breakfast number two with Rosa and her friends. Finally I am able to leave, wishing I could stay another day and enjoy the company of the locals exploring Baluran which is known as a little Africa on Java.
I find my mark on the map for the day and head off into the heat. The road is smooth and narrow as it passed many a warung (restaurant - they're everywhere). A great nights sleep makes for easy riding on the flat terrain as I head for Situbondo on the East Java's north coast. Before long I stop under a tree and am joined by a man on a scooter wishing to say hello. He then presents me with a hot fresh piece of corn right there on the side of the road and after much talking, he was talking I was nodding, another joins us. Lucky for me this man could speak english (ACDC!) and happily translated. Ahmad (corn man) wanted to take me to his mosque to give me water and food but I explained that I had a long way to go and wished to continue. I was then presented with 10,000 Rupih ($1 AUD), it was a humbling experience to say the least. Unfortunately the battery on Ahmad's device had died and couldn't take any more photos. I offered to email him some from my camera but alas, no email. After about 30 minutes I was able to continue.
Ahmad managed to catch up to me up the road with a newly charged device to take some more photos. I stood and nodded as Ahmad spoke Indonesian to me until he said in english, with clenched hands to his heart, "Islam, Protestant, Love". These word I could understand. He gave me a hug before letting me on my way and I pedaled away feeling, well, a little emotional.
I have learned to stop on the edges of towns as not to cause too much attention. Quite often these little store owners look at me with discontent until I speak a few Indo words and smile. Their minds are put at ease, and I guess having my bike doesn't hurt to break the ice a little.
Straight through Situbondo and out onto the open road again, hills and volcanoes in the distance, the road rejoins the coast. Its very hot (very very hot) as I head for Pasir Putih and the Indonesian tourist beach town for Indonesians. Now which flea bag motel will I sleep in tonight??
I take the cheapest room I can find at about $10AUD complete with tap and bucket shower, and tap and bucket flushing toilet (same bucket, same tap). I do manage to find some mosquito coils which offers peace of mind while I slumber. Due to the dry season there has been surprisingly next to know mozzies which leads me to stop taking the malaria tablets I had promised my parents I would take (sorry mum and dad).
After six days on the bike my body becomes increasing stiff in the mornings and I long for a decent place to have a day off. I find a warung on the way out of town to stop for a coffee and some breakfast.
Indonesian coffee is drunk black and sweet as has the consistency of a moderatly lumpy gravy. Beware the final sip. I have even seen the locals pour it into the saucer to consume and as I write this it dawns on me that perhaps this acts as a bit of a filter.
Half of the Indonesian army pulls up with their many trucks right beside my bike. While I sip away on coffee my bike soon becomes a bit of an attraction. One marine in particular seems brave enough to have a turn and takes off up the road. I call out “Hati-Hati” and everyone laughs. Many have tried to ride my bike, and many have fallen.
Rounding the coast and into the hot day views of the hills and fields are clear on the landscape before me.
Before long a scooter rider pulls along side for a chat and asking if I needed a place to stay. Even if I was ready to stop for the day I certainly wouldn’t be accompanying a man with such a dirty shirt.
Through a number of villages another scooter pulls alongside, this time quite close. I had had many a scooter rider take an interest either along side or following behind without giving me any anxiety. He says something in Indonesian and then the words “Mali, Mali”. “Sorry, no money mate”. I am given the finger shaped gun followed by the thumb across the throat. His finger looks by no means laoded and his thumb appears blunt. My right boot on the other hand is loaded and ready. I continue to smile and as he rides away says the words “Hati-Hati”, to which I reply “Hati-Hati”.
I had completely surprised myself. My usual nature would be to instantly submit to any act of aggression I received. Here I was forced to be brave. I rode away quietly thinking to myself “Little shit”.
The afternoon traffic into Probolingo was as thick as the air. Any shoulder on the road was all but gone and I was performing a balancing act on a thin white line, often having to put my tyres in the dirt and subsequently back on the line. I wasn’t sure how many more consecutive days I could ride in such an environment my eyes were peeled in search of a lodging.
A suitable cheap room was soon found and I was safe again for another night. The local mosque seemed to be right there in the backyard and as the blasting of the quran into the evening air died with the sun the local marching band fired up into full noise. Just when you think the day is over………..
The eighth consecutive day on the bike and I awoke with a slight numbness in my left leg. I decided to push as far as I could go today, hoping I would land somewhere safe. Through the Probolingo Kota (city) I was on the busiest road I had been on to date. Happily dodging and weaving my way through the busy city. I find a warung on the way out of town and enjoy a breakfast of who knows what, on rice. Even the crappest looking warung can still turn on a decent feed and keeping me free from illness (fingers crossed).
To my absolute delight the road had widened with a small extra lane for scooters, and anyone else that can fit. I could no longer see the coast and I put my head down to enjoy the somewhat buffer from the traffic.
I ride past a man who had pulled over to film me passing by. I give him my thumb and wave but do not stop as I am on a roll. He catches up to me down the road and I reluctantly pull over for a chat. As it turns out, Harry, my film crew, is the nicest of people. He had seen me a few days before near Situbondo. With a mountain bike in the back of his car we shared a common bond. It’s a beautiful thing when two people can communicate, laugh and bond without even using words. Naturally we became friends (and in the coming days particularly good ones) and exchanged numbers increasing my Indonesian network.
On reaching Pasuran a mere 30-40km from Probolingo I decided to head onto the alternative route around the kota (city). The road narrowed again and was much more peaceful, just what the doctor ordered. As it rounded Pasuran Kota and neared the main road again the trucks backed up. Some of these trucks were so overloaded they could barely keep up with my meager 20ish maybe k/ph.
I hoped to find rest in Bangil, approximately 20km away and surely my days final resting place. The afternoon heat was nothing short of awesome and the road began to deteriorate beneath my tyres. I was pushing hard feeling my knees began to strain.
The volcanoes of Batu and the famous Bromo came into view to my left. Bangil was very close.
Totally lost on the fringe of this little city I sat myself down at a well known Indomart (convenience store) for a cold drink and to get my bearings. I immediately had a good feeling about Bangil, I had observed it to be quite clean and felt much friendlier than last nights stay in Probolingo.
I was in much need of a day off and asking a few locals of a decent place to sleep was met with looks of confusion as they tried to think of somewhere to no avail. Feeling slightly desperate I decided to cave and turned to google. Ironically, at this juncture, the internet could offer me no assistance with this task.
30 minutes passes before I get up to search around manually. One door down I see a sign ‘Grand Augerah Hotel’ (Slap palm to forehead!). Unbeleivable! Surely it had been there the entire time? Suggesting a hotel appears out of thin air would be more than unreasonable.
Clean, cheap and complete with a genuine traditional shower, even a flushing toilet. A few simple pleasures, perfect for a weary traveller.
Eight days in Indonesia I have no real idea exactly how far I have gone. An estimation of around 350-400km, not a bad start. I am completely out of my depth, forced to speak to strangers, eating who knows what and in a perpetual state of being lost. On the cusp of central Java, its time to head for the hills.
