It seemed I had not entered Jakarta with the same anonymity as you would expect from a city with a population of 9 million people. Within an hour of arriving I began to receive messages saying “Welcome to Jakarta” and “If you need any help here, let me know”. I had not announced the arrival anywhere past my immediate family and these were coming from people I had never met. I engaged in a few online conversations and took up an offer to meet a fellow cyclist in the morning. “Sure, ill meet you strange man from the internet”, whats the worst that could happen?
A fairly easy task to navigate around Jakarta made easier with the lack, or even existence, of rules for bicycles in Indonesia. One way street not heading in the direction you require? No problem, just hug the side and hold on tight.
Gia was my contact in Jakarta and I was very keen to investigate how the hell he knew where I was before I did. As it turns out I had been the subject of a photo out on the road yesterday afternoon, one in which I had unknowingly posed for, and subsequently this made its way onto a social media platform. This was then noticed by a friend I had made on the other side of Java 3 weeks prior. And that was it.
I declined an offer for a place to stay with Gia’s friend. After a month of cycling I craved a couple of days to myself and I had as good as found a nice, cheap place to stay. With all the competition in Jakarta for accommodation it was very easy to find somewhere comfortable and at a reasonable rate. Unbeknownst to me at the time but I was heading into the red light district and the ‘to good to be true’ alarm bell finally rang. Still, in the comfort of the hotel I felt far away from the weird laneways and dimly lit bars.
By far the easiest and cheapest non bicycle way to navigate the city is with a Go-Jek. Simply put it is a scooter taxi. There are hundreds of these zipping around the busy streets and one is never far away. Its very simple; download the app, enter your location and phone number, then they call you (this is the challenging part) and within a couple of minutes a madman on a scooter pulls up and hands you a helmet. For 15000 Rupiah ($1.50) you can get anywhere in the city, and that’s about a 25km radius. The peak hour rate is a little higher and rightly so. Call it ‘danger money’ if you will. In addition to the 9 million who live in Jakarta and additional 3 million commute for work into the city from the surrounding area.
I was lucky enough to enjoy an adrenaline fuelled Go-Jek ride in peak hour from one side of the city to the other to meet Gia for a coffee. The first thing I noticed with my pilot was the torn jacket and scuffed helmet. When we entered the flow of traffic I then noticed there was a mirror missing from the left handlebar. Just a knob remained where the mirror stem once attached. I had to trust he knew what he was doing even when I thought he was going the wrong way. “Ah, he’s missing the heavy traffic area” I thought. If this was the light traffic I would hate to think what grid lock would look like. Still, he rarely put a foot down squeezing through incredibly tight gaps in the cars. I took special attention to narrow myself and take caution as my knees became the widest part of our vessel. Not scared in the conventional sense, I did let out a few “Gasp!” when we passed a car (or cut them off) and the view of the ground between us and our potential maker disappeared for just a moment. As you are reading this now there is no doubt we survived. When we were done tempting fate there was a high five to be had. The cheeky bugger was laughing and smiling at me with his remaining teeth. I could’t help but think he was trying to scare the shit out of me. He almost succeeded.
I couldn’t wait to leave the city, get back on my bike and leave this polluted haze behind me. I still had a good 140km or so the get to Merak in the far north west corner of West Java. This would not be done in one day, especially when I am leaving at 10:30am. The late start was a result of last nights punk rock show I attended with Gia. An evening rocking out to Indonesian punk band NTRL (Netral) with very well behaved and relatively sober Indonesian punks.
Getting out of the city was not a great task. Well sign posted and a nice wide road. Although riding in the pollution and the constant questions from local scooter riders frustrated me quickly.
With the city now in my wake, the dense population continued. Tall buildings became small timber shacks, shoulder to shoulder, lining the narrowing road. The narrow road bottle necked the traffic and the pollution was far from improving. I wasn’t having the time of my life and desperately wished for a place to get off the road and rest. My eyes were peeled for any sign of refuge, and kilometre after kilometre there was nothing but people and traffic. There was no one to hold my hand and tell me everything was going to be alright, I had to suck it up and keep pedalling.
With the sun all but gone and rain clouds looming I would have to break the cardinal rule of cycling in Indonesia, riding at night. It was the one thing I had been sternly warned about. The city of Serang was still 30km away. I had to move fast, and move fast I did.
The cool night helped to expend the last of my energy. Serang came closer and closer and the traffic slowed. The thick slow traffic offered a little safety, I could move just as fast and there was little chance of being mugged. Soon I would be safe.
It was now only 35 short kilometers to Merak and the trans Java ride complete. The road was still as flat as ever to the coast and to see the ships in the harbour I knew Java would soon be just a memory.
With one ferry ride already under my belt the daunting feeling of being totally lost was lessened. The port of Merak was much smaller than the terminal from Bali, and far easier to find my way onto the boat. There was no game face this time, I was visibly excited.
As the only skinny white guy on the boat I no doubt was attracting a little attention. After a stroll around I found a seat on the top deck and tried to contain my excitement and play it cool.
Peering over the railing and into the water, half a dozen kids are swimming around with their hands out looking for a few rupiah. I screw up a 2000 rupiah note and throw it over the side to the brave swimmer below. He quickly scrambled to retrieve it and when he inspected the note I had just thrown my thankyou was the middle finger. Hahahaha! I couldn’t help but laugh at the ungrateful shit. I did see other people throwing coins, almost mocking the kids frantically trying to collect the sinking rupiah.
2 hours and several conversation later the boat was docked. The trucks finally exit, chugging huge amounts of diesel smoke into the hold, leaving just me and my bike to take my fist steps onto the island of Sumatra.
The road immediately headed north and into a huge climb. I had little idea where I would end up but I didn’t want to waste the afternoon by remaining static. Up and up I went, on foot as the steepness of the exordium hill was too great a task to ride.
It was evidently clear by the lack of traffic that Sumatra is far less populated. This had a calming effect while I negotiated the first section of hills. Instead of the expected jungles, tall palm and banana trees are scattered across the misty hills.
My map shows the town of Kalianda not far away, maybe 30km, back along the coast. Again I need to race the sun to get there, following the winding road, unaware of what could be around every corner.
The reduction in population has not reduced the volume of the “Hello Mister”s. In fact nearly everyone I even remotely engage with bellows out a nice loud “HELLO MISTER”.
With aching legs and especially my glutes (bum muscles) from the long hills, I limp into Kalianda. It doesn’t take long to find a bed and I contemplate the immediate future. To stay for a day and relax on the beach, or attempt the 70km to Bander Lampung, the capital of Lampung province.
The cycling community from Bander Lampung had found me on the internet and were awaiting my arrival. Thoughts of a free bed for a day off were enticing and the decision to continue was not given another thought.
I had made the right decision to carry on after a night of broken sleep, itching bites from mystery insects. Somehow I had managed to lose my map, searching everywhere again and again in vain, I had to continue without. It is pretty straight forward to get to Bander Lampung where hopefully I can locate a new one. Once I made it back to the main road the hills rolled. The road would arc back in land before finding the water for the final stretch to the city.
The wind was in my face. The right amount of wind in the wrong direction is always enough to create despair. My legs tired swiftly, and lethargy soon followed. I felt as if I was tethered to something heavy, like dragging a truck tyre tied to a rope around my waist. It was going to be one of those days.
My new friends in Bander Lampung were waiting for me while I moved along the road at a snails pace, now completely drenched in sweat as if I just stepped out of the shower. Having the welcoming committee waiting and constantly messaging me enquiring as to my location added to the angst of the day.
A brief break in the day came when the I was passed by 3 or 4 old Holdens. The Holden is of course a classic Australian car, and here they were out in the middle of nowhere, far from the shores of my homeland. In true Holden fashion I caught up to them not far up the road, bonnets up, owners with their heads buried inside. It was the holden car club from Central Java on their yearly run to Bander Lampung. They were soon on the move again as I am sure they are experienced in dealing with their temperamental Australian beasts.
Several punishing hours later the ocean came into view and a long bumpy downhill retuned me to the the flat coast.
I found the place I was to meet my host for the next day or so, Angginlang. There was no rest, It was straight to his little village on the outskirts of the city.
Through a narrow maze of houses, past countless shocked adults and equally as shocked children we arrived to his home, right on the water. Finally a rest and time to take it all in. Children quickly gathered around me, as did anyone else who had caught wind of my arrival. We sat and talked looking out to sea and watching men building new structures over the water. Sans OH&S.
It was a little sad to see the amount of rubbish that was anywhere except a bin. Where you would find rocks or sand dividing the water from the land was rubbish being churned in the brown water lapping the coastline. It is just the way it is, the culture in this part of the land. I even saw a man casually throw a dead chicken straight into the water. At least I think it was dead.
Angginlang and his family welcomed me with open arms. I was made to feel immediately comfortable and more of a family member than a strange tourist.
I was fed and fed well. After the excitement of arriving I became increasingly drained. A totally exhausting day was far from over.
The bites I had experienced from the previous night had escalated and even spread over my feet, arms and legs. It was especially bad on my knees and elbows and I soon think these were not mosquitos. F&%k. I had no energy to deal with them right away, perhaps if I just fall asleep I would wake with a miracle cure. My fingers were crossed as I lay on the polished concrete floor of Angginlang’s home and closed my eyes.
The rest was short lived and, much to my dismay, there was no miracle cure and the itch was getting worse.
Slowly but surely the friends came to visit while local children stood in the door way mesmerised. One by one they arrived and the same conversation ensued over and over.
What better way to spend an evening after a day that had, at times, nearly broken me, then to go for a ride. We made out way to the city centre and I began to meet every cyclist in Bander Lampung. My friend Rico who had first contacted me and organised my stay was their bicycle community leader. He loves nothing more than riding a bike and taking photos. The fact he was deaf didn’t impede our ability to communicate and constantly laugh, Rico is one of the most enthusiastic people I have ever met.
We spent the night riding around the city and with no rules by which to ride we owned the roads. Rico would seemingly appear out of nowhere with his large camera snapping away before disappearing and then magically reappearing further up the road to repeat the process.
As it neared midnight, again sleep was becoming a necessity. Angginlang had organised for me to sleep at his friends house nearby. I cant for the life of me remember his name and we hardly spoke, but there was a total selfless quality about him. A guy, maybe 20 years old giving up his bed to a stranger in the middle of the night.
I am woken with a light rocking action….. at 5:45am…… to go for a ride. Its hard to move, my muscles are in dire need of recovery and the red inching spots have again intensified. I am having trouble on the bike, even with no luggage. I can only last a short while before a combination of an immense amount of discomfort coupled now with sleep deprivation draw me to a stop. I explain to Angginlang I need to deal with my infection, unfortunately it was early on Sunday morning and finding a chemist might not be so easy. I have no choice but to try before I am either sent mad or bleed to death from scratching.
We enlist the help of a few of Angginlang’s friends and before I know it there is a posse of us scouring the city in search of a chemist (Apotik). Success, even before I get to ingest the antihistamine I begin to feel better, relief is not far away.
At this point I just need to sleep, surpassing just a want and becoming need. We retire back to the village and lay down on the floor. My eyes immediately close and I can feel the medication already helping with the itching.
Sleeping for a few hours was absolute bliss. The powerful antihistamine was working fast although the drowsy side effect had made it difficult to continue to be social with the new group of friends I would be spending the evening with. We hung out and went for dinner and they could see I was tired. I tried to hold on as long as I could but I was really having a hard time. This on a day off when I am supposed to be recovering for the ride ahead.
I still have most of a month to ride to 1300 or so more kilometres to Dumai in Riau province. Everyday I don’t move put added pressure on making the ferry to Malaysia before my visa runs out. I had to go.
Another 6am wake up call was ignored as best I could. Soon Rico had arrived to escort me out of town and send me on my way. First there was quite an emotional goodbye with Angginlang and his family. His extremely cute grandmother was especially teary, like her son was leaving and never coming back. Apart from the tears it was a humbling experience.
We picked up another cyclist on the way and the three of us made our way to the edge of the city. Rico stayed with me for another 20km or so before leaving me once again alone out on the road and heading north to Palembang in the province of Sumatra Seletan (South Sumatra).
The wind swung around into my face, the flat road slowly deteriorating notably more so when I reach the town of Terbanggi Besar. 50 km is more than enough for the day. I still am in dire need of sleep so I locate a bed and load up on antihistamines desperate to get rid of the last of this bastard infection. Now terribly paranoid where I sleep in these rustic hotels.
The landscape is remarkably dry as I head north. There had been a lack of rain for almost 7 months in places, it’s a wonder that anything can grow. I am yet to see close to anything that resembles a jungle. To my delight I am heading away from busy towns and out into the open country roads, Small wooden shacks doubling as places to eat and get some water are now sparsely spaced. It has been well over a month since I have been able to enjoy some open landscape. A bit of relief from the traffic and “hello misters”, wonderful for my mental health.
The sun is belting down and the road develops larger and larger pot holes. I take special care to pay attention as not to be swallowed by these gargantuan canyons. A few times losing concentration and diving head first into the crevasses, front wheel crashing into the sharp edges with a hard thud. I wonder how long my bike will last under these conditions.
Somehow I have foolishly lost my atm card. A horrible feeling at the end of the day, a frantic search with no positive result. I remember using it earlier in the day, about 30km from where I now stood. There will be no turning back, it is gone. My host for the evening made a couple of phone calls for me to no avail. The process of cancelling and ordering a replacement was a test in itself. Several internet calls later the task was done. I have a back up card in my kit, all the thanks in the world go out to Ian Killpatrick whom went out of his way to supply this before I left Sydney nearly one year ago. A lifesaver.
Nearly out of medication and the itch all but gone. It is making me very drowsy and as I read back through my journal I need to interpret the gibberish I had been writing down. I wonder if the plethora of mishaps will continue and with smirk I contemplate what adventure the following days will bring.
Day after day under the hot sun, weaving in and out of huge pot holes and eating food in increasingly risky places begin to blur into one. Groundhog day over and over, now making way to mighty palm plantations and the entry to South Sumatra.
Mornings begin with a cramped stomach and several bowel movements. Sumatra food is not as forgiving as the food in Java. Vegetables are difficult to find which surprises me this deep in the tropics. Fruit on the other hand is my saviour and is easily found. My favourite found on the back motorcycles cruising everywhere on the roads, a large box on the back filled with prepared cuts of pineapple, watermelon and paw paw.
The craziest things can been found out in the middle of nowhere. Like a group of plantation workers and their all but buried excavator in the mud. I joined the large group on the side of the road who had also stopped to watch the commotion. The men were still in good spirits, stuck out in the mud and happy to give a big thumbs up for a photo. I too was set upon by the group for the obligatory selfie. Its impossible for me to stop anywhere for more than a moment without someone wanting to take my photo. Sometimes I am just pulled over by cars and scooters for the same treatment. Always happy smiling people. Well nearly always.
Being stared at has been nothing new from the moment I landed in Indonesia. It is easy to tell the kindness of a person simply by looking into their eyes and 90 percent of the time I feel completely safe.
A gawking scooter rider passes and gives a long glare as I approach a large hill. Only being able to see the eyes through the full face helmet I instantly notice a hint of crazy. As I get off to walk the hill he has stopped on the crest and pulled off the road. “Great, here we go”. When I reach the crest I am straight back on the pedals and turn to look at him frantically waving at me to follow him into the palm forest. I yell “AS IF!” while I turn and build speed down the other side and along the unpopulated road. Thankfully I am not followed but I wonder what the hell these type of people are thinking. For all I know it was a completely innocent interaction, my instinct was telling me otherwise.
Almost out of nowhere the atmosphere changes. Like going through an invisible curtain and into another dimension. The first thing I notice is the reduced visibility up ahead and a reduction in light. The sun is barely visible in the sky, a faint orange circle with no glare at all. The leaves of the palm and banana trees are covered in a thick brown dirt. This is the toxic cloud I had been warned about.
It was no secret I would find these conditions sooner or later. Even before I came to Indonesia the fires had been raging in Sumatra and Kalimantan from the yearly practice of illegal slash and burn land clearing methods which plague the air every year. This year the extended effects of El-Nino was producing the most severe year on record. I had every opportunity to change my plans long before getting to this point. Like a true sceptic I had to see for myself. Wearing a mask would be my only protection.
Fortunately my induction into the smoke was a short afternoon. I reached Kayu Agung, 70km from Palembang. Even through the sickening cloud I could see the potential beauty of this town. Statues and sculptures lined a long park with a large boat shaped stadium in the background. I had to get out of the smoke and fast.
A short walk to find a meal was an eye opener to the environmental tragedy which was unfolding right before my very eyes. The people who live here simply carry on business as usual, there is no choice to just pack up and leave, they must endure.
In the morning the smoke had cleared a little, enough for me to have little anxiety about getting on my bike to continue. I still wore a mask as a precaution but the visibility was no where near to the severity of yesterday afternoon.
A friend from Palembang had organised to meet me up the road and escort me into the city. It was not difficult to find him at the organised time as long as I didn’t stop for too long anywhere. Stopping means of course the many many photos I had to pose for. “Lagi, Lagi” It was always one more. I don’t know why I hadn’t though of it before, but to make it a little fun I began to do a bit of silly buggers in the photos. Flexing my puny muscles or pulling a funny face. It made these times much more enjoyable for me as I like to give smiling people my time, it was just wearing a bit thin.
Soon I met El Falah (Rasa) and we were off after a quick stop so he could have his Friday prayer at the mosque. Friday around midday, Muslims meet for group prayer at packed mosques all over the world. I waited outside and before long we were on the road.
Rasa is a pioneer tourer in Palembang and known in his community as the turtle. Aptly named due to his speed on the bike. A perfect match for my riding style.
We had a good 40km or so to get to Palembang. The afternoon saw the smoke haze return with all its might. Mostly an open smouldering plain, we pushed hard to get to the safety of the city.
My eyes began to sting from immense sweat and the chocking air. I hoped we would be there soon.
I followed Rasa through a busy market deep into the city. In an attempt to dodge an oncoming car I slowly move to the side. At the same time a scooter and its three passengers has the same idea and we collide in an almost slow motion style. There was no catastrophic failure as we slowly came together, the car passed and I was able to keep it rubber side down. I had taken responsibility for the collision but it didn’t matter. I stopped to say sorry and was returned with a wave and a smile.
Slowly we made our way through the city and over the massive Ampera bridge, Palembangs number one landmark.
Stopping on the way to try Durian. Durian is a peculiar fruit and certainly not for everybody. It is high in cholesterol and has a smell which I can best describe as, well, a dirty sock pulled from a sewer. The taste does not match the smell, at least not when its covered in sugar.
I was to spend the night not with Rasa but a fellow cyclist Norca and his wife. Norca was very keen to take care of me, feeding me and making sure I was comfortable.
At 6am I was woken by a guy named Jefran who had come to visit. Jefran was not from Palembang and had driven 300km to come and visit me. As I rubbed my eyes and sat up, learning this swayed my decision to stay for the day, to spend some time and check out what Palambang is all about.
There was a mention of a massage from a blind guy and this was much to my liking. Unfortunately the blind guy was busy so we settled for a more conventional massage. The three of us all in the same room I closed my eyes and could feel my muscles being taken care of. Norca and Jefran was under the impression I was asleep and I could hear them taking photos of me and laughing as the massage lady tried to remove the tattoo from my right arm. A sensation of relaxation I hadn’t felt for quite some time.
Norca refused to let me pay for anything, saying “if you pay you are just a tourist, not my brother”. A sly way into tricking me to not paying, it would be rude to refuse.
The river in Palembang was quite vast. We head to a small floating restaurant for lunch just under the Ampera bridge on the brown river. The food is becoming more interesting and the quality, on occasion, questionable.
Trading from long colourful boats is still quite common, as is their use for transportation. Some villages further down the river using it as their only way to get to the city. I had found my feet quite easily in Indonesia but as I wandering through the busy market I feel as far away from anywhere I have ever been.
After lots of food and lots of rest the show must go on. Rasa arrived early to spend the day riding with me and was nice enough to let me sleep just that little bit longer. The posse would grow to five while I packed my bike and prepared for the next leg to Jambi about 250km to the north.
The five of us pedalled out of town before just Rasa and I were to continue a further 70km. The road had improved slightly at times and became increasingly hilly. Long rolling hills, not steep enough to force me on foot, and with Rasa along with me it was an extra incentive to power over every crest as best I could. As I only have one speed quite often I would overtake and wait at the top for the turtle to catch up.
It may come as a shock to you that I like to ride alone. Though Rasa was the perfect cycling partner. We didn’t ride 2 abreast on the busy rolling road and try to chat the entire way, instead we both loved cruising along with the headphones in singing away. I followed Rasa and watched his head sway to the music in his ears.
We both had a very similar amount of stamina stopping at similar times for a rest. A stop at a gasoline station for a drink and a rest, Rasa begins talking to a group of young, dirty looking Indonesians. At first it looks as if they are camping and have created a large shelter. Upon further inspection I notice parts of an engine on the ground and its not a camp at all but some strange homemade contraption. They are modified vespas being ridden, or driven, from Central Java to the most northerly point of Sumatra, a place called zero degrees in Aceh. Modified vespas might be an understatement. Multi tyres, multi engined, home made go cart style frames. I cant believe they are allowed on the road on their round trip of about 4000km, all with no harassment from the authorities.
Rasa and I continue to push on to Betung. A quick random stop and Rasa spots a TV with the Moto GP showing from Phillip Island. What a score! In the middle of Sumatra in the back of a tiny shop there is my favourite race of the year. The quick stop is extended and I waste no time in removing my shoes and parking myself in front of the grainy image. The best I could muster was an alcohol free beer, there were no complaints.
Betung was not far, maybe 15km, and the hills would eventually wait for another day. It was a great days riding after a rest, feeling fit on the road and there way nothing more than a light haze in the sky. The sun appearing for just a moment. We ate Satay in Betung and enjoyed reaching our destination. It seems I had nearly broken the turtle on his way to breaking his record for the Palembang to Batung ride, by a hefty 2 hours. Local police in training joined us for a chat in the Satay restaurant and I could see the haze slowly return outside.
Rasa showed me where I could stay, quite a primitive place bringing back the fear of some strange insects having their way with me in the night. There was no need to panic.
I said goodbye to the turtle as he caught a small bus with his bike back to Palembang. The air was not looking good completely hiding the sun, only giving an impression of a faint orange ring in the sky.
Across the road was a large concrete building with no windows. The piercing sound of birds coming from within. Rasa explains it is a huge avery, farming small birds for their eggs and nests. The piercing sound was also artificial designed to attract unsuspecting wild birds into entering and meeting their fate.
Any flat roads were now behind me. Rasa giving me the run down of what to expect for the next couple of hundred kilometres. Riding up and down hills expends far more energy than a simple flat smooth road, my legs knowing all about this after only one day in hill country.
No more than 40km and I am not having a good time. The wind is strong and heading straight for me, and the smoke haze at times had a strong scent.
To cut the day short will hopefully make it easier to press on in the morning. My new map is quite vague with marking towns and often I arrive into places not marked at all. I need more energy.
There is a pattern of reprieve from the smoke during the day. Its usually the early morning and late afternoon and night time when it is at its worst. Jambi is apparently suffering quite badly as one of the worst effected areas. I was getting closer every day.
The struggle to reach Jambi was getting harder and harder. After a 100km day I began to rethink my agenda. The smoke had barely alleviated during the day and thoughts of giving up were entering my mind.
The final day to Jambi was beginning to break my spirit. The toughest 70km I had ridden since leaving home now almost one year ago. Rasa had told me the final stretch would be flat, I rounded every corner and crested every hill praying the flat road was near. Taking little notice of where I actually was I firmly focused on getting inside somewhere safe. Anywhere else but here. I am seriously considering leaving the area on a bus and finding clear air. Not a decision I want to make in a deflated mental state. I know I can make it if I persevere.
There is no easy way to escape except to ride as fast as I can. The flat road eventually came and the city was near. No idea where to go I just kept going until I reached an area of the city to the north which looked like a hub for reasonable accommodation.
Exhausted mentally the sun was all but gone. I was directed to a cheap place behind a large hotel. “No rooms, sorry mister”. I was giving up. To navigate in the night was never going to happen. I walked into the large hotel. A place I had never considered before due to the exorbitant price that comes along with such a place. Today I would make an exception. The price is exorbitant for Indonesia, in Australia 4 star accommodation at this price would be the deal of the century. After a little playing on the sympathies of the staff I was given a special rate. Now I could have a proper rest, alone and on my own schedule.
There are times in a journey when special consideration must be made when safety becomes an issue. It pains me to even give it a thought. Jambi is most certainly in the shit. The toxic cloud is horrifically brown and is engulfing the entire city. Even the hallways of the hotel have a light haze. Almost unescapable.
I read that at this time the tiny islands of Indonesia are producing more pollution than the entire economic USA in a single day. I try to sleep with my mind racing, the last thing I want to do is give up now.
There must be a solution, there is always a way. During the day I find a more suitable industrial grade respirator, load up on food and give my body the best fighting chance to tackle a ride through one of the worst man made ecological disasters the world has ever seen. And one the worlds media seems to be taking little notice of. This is the real deal.
I feel quite psyched up when it comes time to go. In Indonesia its called ‘make a spirit’. I pack my bike and strap my bags on tight. The treacherous road has taken its toll on two of my bags which are beginning to fail at the mounting points. My luggage rack as well has vibrated some of the bolts loose and with a few adjustments its go time.
Immediately after getting onto the road the fastener which locks my rear chainring to the hub also vibrates itself completely loose. A tool I never considered to pack was now required to tighten it and I had to find a bicycle store to lend some help.
Fortunately there was one only a few kilometres away albeit in the other direction I wished to go. I tried to stay calm. Only a minor problem I know but one I wished not to deal with now. I needed to spend as little time as possible outside.
UPS Cycles were awesome. The bicycle mechanic was deaf, it didn’t matter when I pointed to my problem my bike was swiftly wheeled out the back and we got to work. In no time at all my bike was fixed, wheel and chain cleaned. At the grand total of 0 rupiah ($0 AUD) I couldn’t be more thankful.
Now the task of navigating back through the city, over the river and out into the hazy palm plantations.
I had lost precious time before I had a chance to make any ground.
The flat road followed the river to the west for quite some time before turning north again and into the hills. Up and up I went. I was climbing to the top of a ridge in the mountains. My sister had warned me about over exerting myself and sucking in too much air. It is a total contrast to my efforts on the bike, I need air, and lots of it. Still I tried my best to stay calm and breath slowly.
The new mask was already becoming a hindrance, pinching my nose and making it difficult to breath. The alternatives I had with me was the elasticated neck scarf I had received from Rico whilst in Bander Lampung. I sometimes had ridden with this although it quickly drenches in sweat and almost impossible to breath through while soaked. I liken it to water boarding.
I also had a more conventional face mask, a little easier to breath although I questioned its effectiveness. This would have to do for now.
The map was showing little in the way of any towns as the day went on. Totally unsure of where I would end up. I have to say I enjoy the mystery much more than knowing where I will be at the end of the day. There are no more friends waiting for me in the next town, in fact I don’t even know where the next town will be.
Out in the hills the road was now incredibly smooth, a consolation prize for having to deal with a toxic cloud and now a mountainous winding road.
When I find a petrol station in the hills there is little choice but to stay. I cant believe it has taken me this long to take advantage of this free, safe place to sleep. I am shown where to have a wash, there is also sufficient amounts of food to choose from before unrolling my mattress on the tiles outside the masholla (prayer room, like a small mosque) and slowly try to drift off to sleep. After taking a photo with an absolutely lovely guy who didn’t speak much but wanted a photo with me. His handshake was firm and I could feel his kindness (strange I know). He put a 50,000 rupiah note in my hand before letting me close my eyes. I feel relatively safe as I am not the only one using this space for slumber.
Waking in the night from a dream that I am sleeping at a petrol station to find myself sleeping at a petrol station. My backpack as a pillow and sleeping with a scarf over my face I hope my bike is still there when I wake up.
In the morning I am the last one up. Nearly every one is gone except a few truck drivers sipping coffee and smoking cigarettes.
I notice my rear tyre is dead flat. The first flat in over 2000 km. Its no problem to repair and under closer inspection I find it has suspiciously let go from the valve, just under the thread. Perhaps a sabotage effort in the night?
Rolling hills winding their way through to mountainous country send me further north. I come across a truck which has only recently rolled over. The driver and occupant are noticeably shaken and tell me they are ok. I can only imagine how this is going to effect his life in the near future. Is it his truck? Is he insured? Oh dear. All I can do is leave them a bottle of water and continue on.
Energy levels are becoming a concern. The quality of food at the little roadside eateries has dropped significantly, and I continue to question my intentions.
Even if I wanted to give up now it would involve hitchhiking. The only way to escape the hills quickly and remove myself from imminent respiratory illness. My finger is on the trigger of giving up. Every turn of the wheel taking me deeper into the shit. Constant thoughts of pulling the pin keep my mind occupied. Still, I am moving forward.
Another night at a petrol station. Its only 3 in the afternoon and I have the stamina to continue, but to where? I imagine somewhere more difficult to find a place to sleep.
Another of the slightly modified vepsas is parked up and some company for the afternoon. When they leave as the night rolls in I feel a little worried about sleeping alone. Any worries are short lived as my eyes finally close.
I sigh with the thoughts of continuing. My bike is not going to ride itself and I have absolutely no choice but to revisit the rolling hills and the windy road. Reaching the border of Riau province early in the morning is a welcome sight. Nothing was to change with the landscape and the air remained shit, but still it was an awesome feeling to enter what will be the final province I need to tackle.
At a busy petrol station in the middle of the day I wonder when the next one will be and have to consider if this will be the end of the line for the day. I try to speak to the one of the attendants and bring up the Moto GP. He points across the road to a small resto and I realise that its Sunday and again I have found a TV in the middle of nowhere at just the right time to catch the race.
While I sit and watch the wind has changed and stirred the air. Within moments its hard to see outside. I make the possibly stupid decision to carry on. I haven’t made it very far today and with a little energy left in the tank I need to get out of here as soon as I can. Always hoping that at any moment the sun will reappear and the road will become flat. It is wishful thinking but thinking that keeps me going. If I were to succumb to the difficulties only to find that a few kilometres up the road all is well I would be devastated.
Luckily I find another petrol station as the day finds its end. Next door is a large restaurant with a tremendously friendly owner. He offers me lodging in the back of his restaurant and shows me where I can have a wash.
Out the back is a man carving pots from wood completely by hand, an immensely painstaking job, Still he works away with a smile on his face.
Where I am to sleep in the hot restaurant is also the place where locals congregate to play cards of an evening. It makes for difficult sleep. I wonder if I would be better off at the petrol station next door but being out of the smoke for a night is the clincher.
Sleeping in a restaurant makes it easy to find somewhere for breakfast, although this is never of great difficulty. To my dismay the smoke has gotten worse overnight and the calm air shows no sign of improving the conditions. Even my hosts children are retuned from the closed school for the day. Still they live in perpetual danger, and hardly anyone is wearing a mask.
Its no use getting very far today. After a short while I begin to fight my way along the road. Still debating with myself of the importance of risking a serious health issue just to ride my bicycle.
Its not long before I reach the first sizeable town since leaving Jambi. A hotel sign gets little thought and I am soon laying on a bed in an air conditioned room.
My appetite is becoming rather off from the push through the hills. My stomach churns while I lay there and can feel the chill of a mystery illness growing inside my body. I wont get into the gory details, but let me just say that with little warning I projectile vomited across the bed. A hand over my face unable to prevent the flow of spew I was leaving as I launched for the bathroom having to step over my bike which I had parked in front of the bathroom door. By the time I reached the toilet it was all but gone.
The staff of the hotel were more than helpful in changing my sheets and turning the mattress. Now I was once again facing the a new challenge. I tried to sleep hoping I would not need to visit a hospital and put an end to all the efforts over the past days.
I was hardly recovered over the short night and had to stay put for another day. Decent food was hard to locate and even harder to consume.
The equator was maybe a day away. The one goal I had rushed to reach. Beelining to this spot from the very beginning of my journey in Indonesia, missing out on the more pleasant roads and scenerys to get there. It would totally suck for it all to come crashing down now. I slept as best I could.
I had to move. Not only did I have to get to the equator, my visa was quickly running out. Calculations put me right on time to get to Dumai with little time to spare.
The first turn of the pedals and they felt immediately heavy. The weight of my bike had not changed, the road was smooth and my tyres at maximum. The problem was me. Once I move there is no turning back and I would deal with pain as it was delivered.
The hills were subsiding much to my delight. Continually having to stop and rest meant for slow progress. Id hoped the bunch of bananas I had picked up would help me through, though even these were difficult to digest.
In an attempt to find a lodging I had seen on Google I detoured from the main road in search. It was a phantom, or at least I couldn’t find it. Soon I was heading back to the main road after travelling a few unnecessary kilometres.
I have no idea how far I had gone, I knew it wasn’t far and it was soon to be dark. I had to settle when I found an old disused police point. A small building with a short wall to hide behind that would offer protection from passers by.
Soon though I was spotted by people living nearby and the children soon congregated. As did the adults. My chosen place to sleep was filthy and covered in dirt and chicken poo so I asked if it was safe to set up my tent. Now for the first time in Sumatra I was camping.
One local offered me a bed in his house but I was tired and already set up. He worried about snakes and lightning that was lighting up the sky. After much effort in graciously refusing a bed he agreed to let me camp and put a 100,000 rupiah note into my hand. Impossible to refuse this I put it in my pocket.
I climbed into my tent and pulled out the note, or notes. He had given me 200,000 Rupiah, a significant amount of money in Indonesia. This is now the third time I have been given money from a stranger. Although harsh and poor, I am truly in a land of immeasurable hospitality.
I still felt weak and sick, yet there was something different about the day. The sun, I could see the sun. Finally I could see the sky I had longed for for the past two weeks.
I tried as hard as I could to make my aching legs move, one push at a time, progressing very slowly. I checked my coordinates on the GPS I was carrying for just this occasion. Less than one degree to go to the equator. I kept the GPS in my hand and watched it count down. It was curing what ailed me as I continually checked the screen and could see the number beginning with S 00.__.__.
And just like that…… The Fucking Equator!!!
Elation would be an understatement to describe this feeling. Food poisoning, two weeks in a toxic cloud, endless hills and various other problems subconsciously designed to slow me down had not succeeded.
I sat on the equator after getting someone to take my photo and felt pretty damn pleased with myself. On top of my new found success I was instantly cured. 6 weeks or riding just to get to this point, a patch of dirt with an imaginary line drawn through it. It was worth it, a sigh of relief.
Riding was now of little difficulty, the road was getting easier and I would hardly stop for the next 20 km.
A town that wasn’t even on my map found its way into the foreground, the size telling me there would be somewhere to stay. I found the only hotel in town and decided to use this as recovery base for a full day in an attempt recoup in a proper fashion.
A day of eating as much as I could was of great benefit. I was feeling as strong as I had for several days and was ready to ride.
I had hoped that the hills were behind me while I began to fly on a flat road. But really it didn’t matter. I had my legs back, at least for now.
For the first time in Sumatra I would get myself off the main road heading north in an attempt to cut out a few kilometres by missing Pekanbaru. I was running out of time with my visa and didn’t want to add any unnecessary pressure to the final five days.
I sat at an intersection wondering if I was making the right choice. To the left was a clearly marked road to Pekanbaru and most of the cars heading this way. Straight ahead the road looked a little smaller, headed up a long hill and the only traffic were trucks loaded with trees used for pulp to make paper. Straight ahead it was, onward and upward.
Straight ahead I went up the long hill, at the crest another long hill on the horizon. This was now the recurring theme through vast paper and palm plantations. The vastness was actually quite beautiful and I had little worry about the less than flat terrain. A great feeling to ride on a road less travelled, the final Indonesian adventure.
Up and down, and then up and down again. And again. And again. Where was I going to sleep? There would be no hiding in a plantation, the uniformity of the trees gives nowhere to hide with my tent. Luckily I come across a police station in a small town nestled in the hills. I ask one of the police if I can camp on a small patch of grass outside. I was told to sit and wait. The officers english wasn’t the greatest and I wondered if he understood my request. I sat and waited while he made a phone call, and then waited some more. Another officer arrived and I explained my situation again. I think they just wanted to find out a little bit more about me before they agreed to let me sleep at their station.
An audience soon gathered while I rolled out my tent. A few of the police and some local kids watched closely while I built my house. They were quite concerned about my safety out here, storm clouds loomed and the long awaited and much needed wet season was on its way. The police were very kind making sure I wasn’t hungry and even with very limited english they came to hang out with me, even sharing a few laughs. The rain, unfortunately, never came.
The hills along the straight road I had been travelling were soon to be gone. And much quicker than I had expected. Again I had to decide which way to go. Back to the main road in the west, or east and along a narrow road to the coast. On the map they looked an equal distance (I checked this with Google), I chose not to tempt fate too much and turned left to head to Minas back on the main road.
Traversing across the new palm plantations, the road was flat again. Precious kilometres are easily ticked off one by one.
I feel a little lost when the road attempts to send me back to Pekanbaru, well that’s what the sign said. I feel a little uneasy as the road winds back to the south. I stop and ask for directions for the quickest way to Dumai. I had taken a wrong turn a few k’s back and was beginning to feel a little lost. It is possible I had made the wrong choice or choices trying to find a shortcut.
I turned around headed back to where I had made a wrong turn. The sign was indicating a ferry, the road seemed unused but it was flat and straight and heading in the general direction I needed to go.
I reached what looked to be an unused rusted toll gate and up ahead the road disappeared into a river. As I ride closer I notice a barge on the shore. An unexpected river crossing. They wave me onto the barge and I sit and wait with a couple of other scooters. A very loud, non english speaking, Indonesian targets me while I sit and wait. I think he is trying to get me to pay for the ferry. When he shows me a 50,000 Rupiah note, I laugh. I can only respond in english but I said something like “Your dreaming aren’t you mate, no way is it that much”. I don’t think my english was exactly understood, the context most certainly was.
“Come on lets go”, I am signalled to follow the scooters. This ferry isn’t going anywhere as we head further to the water and onto a much smaller, less water tight vessel. The scooters are loaded, as is my bike and we all get in. I only pay 5,000 rupiah, far less than the 50,000 I was originally asked for.
A slow ride across the river is still very exciting. A totally unexpected experience brought about by simple decisions made a hundred kilometres ago. I always say that there are no wrong choices out on the road. Left or right, stay or go, it always leads to something.
I lose sight of the road on the map. Not sure if the map is wrong or its just me, I know Minas is west so I try to keep the afternoon sun in front of me, put my head down and go.
The hot afternoon is spent weaving in and out of pot holes, waiting for trucks to do the same and navigating blindly towards my goal.
I am sure I had gone the wrong way after several hours had passed. I had been told Minas was a short 30km from the ferry, surely I should be there by now.
The highway (if you can call it that) was reached late in the afternoon. I was actually 8km north of where I expected to be. Not the worst thing to happen but I was hoping to find a cool place to sleep for the night. Instead it would be another police station. Again I asked if it was ok to camp, the answer this time would be no. “Sleep in here”, I was shown to an office with a stretcher bed and a ceiling fan. Much better.
This was a much busier station with far more police hanging around and playing chess. Invited for a game I was no chess player and hadn’t played for years. Still I managed a win. When I realised I was about to win my competitive side was telling me “are you sure you want to do this?”.
Fortunately there were a couple of people to translate my english and I was asked numerous questions, mostly about religion and money. Two subjects which made me feel uneasy. More so the topic of money.
They were very curious to find out about wages in Australia. I had had this conversation before and it did make me feel a bit sad to share. In one month a police officer makes the equivalent of about $300 AUD…… A month. Sadly enough this is a wage that can be obtained by an unskilled labourer in Australia in little more than a day. We could talk about and debate the cost of living all day, sure they can survive and have a family. But to afford a car, a holiday, a plane ticket? These things we take for granted can be a little out of reach for majority of Indonesians.
Every weird night is followed by another day on the road. I had been fed by the police before heading north for the final 170km. The road was smooth, I would again have to endure the hills for a while longer. If 100km can be described as a while.
Dumai feels ever closer. Running on fumes, thoughts of getting to Malaysia and having a decent meal make my mouth water as I pedal along.
An uneventful night in a small unknown town, followed by a final night in the town of Duri, I manage to whittle the distance down to the final 70km. The ferry was booked and I had organised to meet a bicycle friend. Ahhh, one more day.
It had rained quite hard on my last night out on the road. The morning too was drizzling. I thought, “great”, just my luck to have a final hurrah thrown in my face when I am so close. I had overreacted and by the time I was on my way the rain had stopped. The road also flattened when I made the final turn off to Dumai. Long, straight and flat.
A local interested Indonesian began to ride along side, as so many had done before him. Absolutely no english at all, I could tell he wanted me to stop and have a drink with him. I wasn’t ready to stop, not while I was in a rhythm and travelling fast. He continually spoke to me as I rode, I was not at all in the mood for this especially as he continued to follow me for a good 20km. This was maybe a subtle motivation to keep me going. Whilst he was there I was in no way going to stop.
The darkest clouds I had seen in 2 months were now looming. I totally expect murphy’s law to kick in at any time now. Of course with less that an hours more riding I’m sure I would endure a hailstorm or get struck by lightning. There is not much more that can be thrown at me during my time in Sumatra.
It wasn’t the case and the worst I would have to put up with was a wet road from a storm I had just missed.
Dumai was a surprisingly quiet place. Out on the coast it is not a main thoroughfare anywhere, it is the end of the road.
Strangely there was no jumping for joy, no quiet smile. I was here, that was for certain, but it wasn’t here I wanted to be. It was over there, a 2.5 hour ferry ride to mainland Asia and the town of Melaka, Malaysia. Until I am on that ferry will I count all my chickens.
I stayed with Hamdi on my final night in Indonesia, a fellow cyclist well connected with the Indonesian bicycle community. I had actually been chatting with him for several weeks and he was happy to offer a place to sleep and escort me to the ferry in the morning.
When I was shown to the ferry in the morning I was glad Hamdi and our newly formed posse were there to show me the way. Past large industrial silos by the water there was no large sign ‘Passenger terminal’, just a small gate leads behind a large building, hiding where I would have most certainly not been able to find.
I waved goodbye to the last of my Indonesian brothers and entered the small terminal, joining the snaking line for the passport check and stamp out of the country. The customs official noted that I only had a day left on my visa, something I was quite proud about. Leaving on the 59th day of a 60 day visa. Cutting it fine was not my intention, had I been able to ride faster I would have. I had little detours or time to sit and watch the world go by on deserted beach or lonely mountain.
I leave my bike in the capable hands of the ferry staff and board the boat which is about to carry me out of Sumatra.
So this is it, so long Sumatra. As crazy as you are you always kept me safe and I will never forget you. New challenges await just a few short hours away. What could they possibly be?
