I landed in Bali on Christmas Day to meet Daz, a 2-hour flight from Darwin and a stone's throw from East Timor, where my journey would continue. There was no better place to spend 10 days together, a tropical paradise with great food and even better coffee. We had New Year's all planned out at the nearby Gilli Islands. On New Year’s Eve, we woke in the hotel bed to the most devasting and painful news anybody could hear. Dani’s brother had been killed in a motorbike accident back home in Brazil. Out of respect (and because my words simply won’t do justice to Digo) I won’t go into much detail, other than to say it would be a huge understatement to say he was one of life’s most talented, kind, and humble people and the shock and pain of his passing for everyone that knew him is beyond any words.
Incredibly Intelligent, kind and full of zest and positive energy, he was a wonderful father to his 11-month-old daughter and 5-year-old son, with incredible drive and work ethic. Coming from nothing, he worked his way right up the ladder to became CEO of Honda for the whole of South America, where he was loved by all, always finding time to chat and play basketball with workers of all levels. He had worked at Honda for 23 years and been with his wife for 26. He was a talented football player and Black belt at Jijitsu, though his biggest love was motorbikes, where nobody could touch him, literally. Digo was the superbike champion of Sao Paulo, a city of 23 million people, racing on televised events. Dani told me he decided to make a return to the track at the age of 40, due to his long absence he was forced to start at the back of the grid, yet still won the race. He truly was that rare great yet humble and kind person that could turn his hand to anything.
After hearing the news, I immediately booked a same-day flight to Brazil to be with Dani for the funeral the next day, on New Year’s Day. The flight had a stopover at Doha. As I used the airport toilet I heard a cheer or two, on exiting I noticed the airport clock read 1-minute past midnight, it was 2023. I was still hoping to wake from a nightmare and would do anything to go back 24 hours and change what had happened. Touching down in Brazil we took a taxi directly from Sao Paulo airport to the cemetery on the other side of the city, the same place Dani’s father was buried. Flowers were spilling out of the room where his coffin lay into the hallway as 100’s came to show respect for one of life's most wonderful and loving people. An old man was crying next to Digo’s body, it was his driver. So humble was Digo he hadn’t even told Dani he had his own driver. The vice president of Honda from Japan was also there to pay respect. My words don’t come close to describing the heartbreak or the man Digo was and the void he leaves behind. I hope he’s up there somewhere, smiling down at Dani and the family and they will meet again. X
A day on either side of this tragic event, both my uncle and cousin also sadly passed in unrelated incidents. Life can be cruel, it was yet another reminder that we all need to make the most of our time on this planet and live each day as if it were our last. With a heavy heart, my trip continued….
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Road less traveled - Timor
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After 10 days in Sao Paulo Brazil, I was back on the Qatar Airways flight to Bali via Doha. They say air travel shrink-wraps the world and it's true. It was a strange thought that the jet aircraft had traveled the same distance in just over a day, (29 hours) that it will take me a year to pedal back home from Australia. After a few days in Bali to get my body back to the right time zone, collect my bike from the tiny market storage center in Despensar, and do a few repairs, I was finally on a plane to the starting point of my Asian leg. A country on the opposite side of the globe that ironically speaks the same language, Portuguese, as the one I had just left. Looking out of the tiny airplane window at the lush tropical utopia as the planes tryes screeched onto the tarmac at Dilli Airport, I knew I was in for an adventure. I had finally arrived at East Timor. An island surrounded by turquoise waters, where, within moments of the sea transitioning into beach the land ramps upwards reaching for the heavens with its disproportionately large lush green 3000 metre mountain peaks. Geographically, I was only 400 miles from Darwin where my Australian outback adventure had finished, but this country was worlds apart in every way imaginable.
Thirty dollars for my visa and I was a free man. It wasn't hard to locate my bike box, there was only one luggage carousel, small enough to fit in my kitchen. Of equally dinky proportions was the duty-free, closet-sized room with about 10 dusty bottles of the same brand of Whisky on the shelf. I pulled my bike box through customs to the loud “tutting” sound and shaking of the head from the security agent, my vitally important luggage tag should apparently not have been scrunched into a ball and rammed into my pocket! Like a naughty schoolboy, I assembled my bike in the arrivals room and cycled out into the sunshine. My hotel, the “Chong T” was just a 30-minute ride away in the breezy low-rise city centre, positioned in-between market stalls and opposite the national football stadium, consisting of a single concrete stand without seating. Poor it may be, with barely a single high rise in sight and half the capital's roads without street lighting, but what a place. Nestled between green volcanic mountains to the south, an azure blue ocean and beaches to the north, littered with palm trees and with a laid-back Caribbean feel, Dilli was a captivating place with one hell of a backdrop.
Welcome to East Timor, the Portuguese-speaking little gem of a country that few get to see, how lucky I was. What made the warm smiles of this intoxicating little nation even more miraculous, was its sad and ugly war-torn past. Shortly after independence from Portugal in 1974, in which a military coup in favour of decolonization had ousted the Portuguese dictatorship government, it was invaded by Indonesia (who owned the western side of the island of Timor). The Indonesian invasion was barbaric and long, lasting for 25 years and costing the lives of one-quarter of Timor's population. Similar to what happened in Vietnam, the justification for war was to stop the spread of communism. The national museum I visited had footage from an Australian photographer of East Timor men literally being hacked to death, the Ozzy photographer was also later caught and paid the ultimate price. The conflict finally ended in 1999 when an international force was bought in to end the conflict, on May 20th, 2002 East Timor was finally recognised as a country, making it the first new sovereign state of the 21st century. With much of the population living in straw huts and an average monthly salary of just over 100 quid, this was Asia's poorest nation.
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| Stopping for a pineapple - East Timor |
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| First few miles up into the steep mountains heading away from Dili |
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| Old Portuguese colonial building |
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| Dili, East Timor |
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| 1st day on the road in Asia (Dili, East Timor) |
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| Restaurant with a view |
Literally within moments of leaving Dilli, the road left the coastal capital to begin snaking its way up the mountain, as I headed overland to the southern coast. There was no warm-up to ease my way back into the saddle after a month off. Creeping up the mountainside I momentarily thought I was back in war-torn East Timor, looking ahead an old man dressed in John Rambo style full military attire (no doubt an ex-war veteran) walking towards me by the roadside screamed a high pitch command, cocked what I thought was a rifle an abruptly came to attention, scaring the shit out of me! His seriously regimented face then broke out into laughter as soon as he knew he’d had me!! The gun…..was a large stick.
The hard climb was made particularly difficult due to my new celebrity status. This was a whole new level of premature ejaculation Father Christmas-like excitement I'd never experienced. Most of the riding was done with one hand, the other was continually waving as a constant stream of passersby's on foot and mopeds chased after me to pull alongside for a chat, or honk of the horn followed by a frantic wave. And it wasn't only my new fan club that was distracting me from the hard climbing, it appeared that East Timor had literally no rules whatsoever. Goats, dogs, cattle, you name it, walked, sat, shat, or slept all over the road, 6-year-old children smoked cigarettes and drove past on mopeds without shoes or helmets, and best of all, nobody seemed to work! Groups of teenagers sat on walls by the roadside strumming guitars and singing pop songs and any bit of vaguely flat grass had an improvised football pitch with goals made from tree branches, all of which were at full capacity. Cycling past they would stop playing to run over and practice their English, a handsome bunch of people with beautiful big smiles and perfectly straight pearly white teeth. Considering there wasn't a dentist in sight, it seemed a miracle, no amount of money in the world could get my bad British teeth looking like that I thought to myself! On reflection, maybe it was the Western world that had gotten everything wrong. There was no rat race here, jumping onto a packed London Tube, just what appeared to be a very infectious and happy nation that didn't take life too seriously. The longer our charitable donations fund their football training and popstar practice, the better as far as I’m concerned.
Temperatures dropped as I passed the nation's highest peak (Foho Tatamailau 2986 meters) and spent the night in a small town on top of the pass. I grabbed some food and had a walk around, checking out an official-looking building with some dodgy karaoke music blasting out. After poking my head in the door, several men came out to shake my hand vigorously and thank me. I couldn't work out what all the fuss was about, though accepted it graciously anyway with a confident nod of the head. On reflection, the whole country was littered with buildings from various world aid agencies, they must have thought I was one of the big cheeses….I should have waited around for some free beer!
East Timor is a very small country and my time there was short and sweet. Before I knew it I was descending on beaten-up roads past houses made from various tree parts with straw roofs, down from the high mountains to the flatter southern coast where I chucked a right, arriving in Suai City an hour or so after nightfall, my trusty dynamo lights saving my bacon for the umpteenth time. Suai City, as it's known, was no bigger than a small town and a stone's throw from Indonesia. To clarify, the island of Timor is split into 2 countries, the east, is Portuguese-speaking East Timor, and the west, is Indonesian Timor. I pedalled 20 kilometres the next morning to cross the border. Correction, I pedalled the 20 kilometres to NOT cross the border, it was Sunday and this was East Timor not Heathrow airport, the border was closed. Pedaling back to Suai, I was not at all bitter. It was too soon to leave East Timor and it was dragging me back to stay for one more day, and I was more than happy to oblige. My last day was spent visiting the nearby beach and eating some fantastic fish from an extremely rustic wooden shack. I had bought my Speedos and goggles and just as I was about to enter the water for a swim, the lady who had cooked my fish told me not to, “But why!?” I cried, eyeing up the delicious water. “Crocodiles!” she replied, it seemed a reasonably strong argument. My last meal In East Timor that evening was not me, being eaten by a crocodile, but at a small Hotel restaurant close to my guesthouse. The accompanying farewell beer was from a neighbouring supermarket on the advice of the waiter, “It's cheaper”, he told me. I might try that one at a restaurant back in England.
The next day, pedaling the same stretch of road for the 3rd and final time, I finally did leave East Timor. As I left Suay, I can’t forget to mention the brand new 3-lane motorway that heads east for 20 kilometres parallel to the existing main road I had just cycled. The freshly tarmacked superhighway begins with a sign that states “For vehicles with 4 wheels only”........... 4 wheels only!? This is East Timor, other than a skateboard, nobody has a vehicle with 4 wheels! The only vehicle I saw using the new express superhighway, was a guy on a moped! I couldn't help but think that this was a corrupt backhander dirty deal with China, similar to the new roads I’d seen all over Africa. At least the people will be able to get football training on time!
Timor (The Indonesian side!)
To say the Indonesian border post was more glamorous than the East Timor side would be a slight understatement. A huge concrete fortress of a building lets you know who the bigger brother is. With the fresh ink of an exit stamp from East Timor on my British Passport I crossed the bridge to Indonesia, doubting if anything could top East Timor, one of my new favorite countries on the planet. I had actually entered Indonesia 3 times in the last 3 weeks. Once to Bali after flying from Darwin, a second time after the return flight from Bali to Brazil, and now for the 3rd and final time overland. The second occasion had led to quite an ordeal with border security, though with good reason. Other than Pablo Escobar, who touches down in Bali, leaves a few days later to Brazil only to touch down in Bali 10 days later!? Brazil is high on the drug trafficking list for Indonesia and I had been shortlisted, every single item in my pannier bags was carefully scrutinised. This 3rd passing was another long ordeal lasting over an hour, though for different reasons. I was swiftly removed from the “everybody else” queue and taken to the senior border police officer's room for a chat about the premier league and a protracted photo session with all the border control officers. It was a good start!
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| Welcome to Indonesia - invited into someone's home barely 500 metres over the border (Timor) |
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| Border police photo session - Indonesia |
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| Border crossing |
The shiny new border building was in stark contrast to the mud, gravel, and broken tarmac track that headed away from it, west into Indonesia. Rotating the pedals into a new country is always a mix of nervousness and excitement and this was no exception. Past border crossings have led to everything from savage dogs, unruly thieves and con men to being chased down by police. Though there was no reason to have doubts about entering Indonesian Timor, I was literally 50 meters across the border when a young girl and her partner called out to me from their home and invited me in. The property was a smallholding comprising a few old brick buildings with tin roofs and a chicken or two running around. Flipped 180 degrees, the main door was at the back where the whole family sat outside smoking cigarettes beneath a large porch. The man of the house, a chain smoker in his 50’s with a shiny bald head and tough-looking moustache, who made constant wisecracks, took a particular liking to me. After offering me everything from cigarettes to beer and coffee he disappeared into the house only to come back with a bag containing a collection of his prized rings. Rummaging though, he finally found one that fitted my skinny fingers, plucked it out, and promptly shoved it on my finger! It had a huge grey polished stone clamped to it the size of a testicle. Welcome to Indonesia!
My end destination for Timor was the large port city of Kupang, from where I could take a boat to the next island in the Indonesian arpeggio, Flores. There were 2 roads to Kupang, one was inland and the other coastal, unsure which to take I asked 3 groups of people, and after much debating, Inland won by 2 to 1. What I wasn't told, was quite how impossible it would be just to reach this road (maybe part of the reason for the debate). A tiny barely pathed road went literally straight up the side of the mountain, its gradient, a relentless 20 - 30 percent for hour after hour of lung-bursting, lowest gear out the saddle climbing. I can honestly say that after tens of thousands of miles cycling the planet, I have not seen roads as savage as these. Lungs on fire, the road was so steep my front wheel became airborne with each revolution of the pedal. The further the road went up the volcanic mountainside, the more it disintegrated until it was no more than a pile of broken rocks. Eventually, the road began to flatten out as it came to a small village and a bridge……that had fallen into the river!! Just as I was contemplating having to go all the way back to the coastal road, a group of kids showed up and led me through trees to a spot further downstream where it was possible to push the bike through the river. And so, with the help of a kind Indonesian lad pushing from behind, I made my water through the river. When I finally reached the road I was looking for and my tyres switched from a gravel track to a smooth tarmac road, I knew the road less travelled to get there had been worth the effort. The road to Kupang was hilly and hard work, but was made of tarmac and didn't go through any more rivers!
I arrived in Kupang on the 25th January at around midday. Boats in this remote part of the world are infrequent and unreliable, so I ceased the opportunity when the city centre ticket office said one would be leaving that very day for the port of Ende in Flores, which I could make if I left immediately. I’ve always found ferry boats and big ships interesting. My childhood holidays revolved around them and I hadn't taken a plane until I was a teenager. Family holidays had always consisted of my dad strapping canoes, bicycles and surfboards to the roof of his Red Landrover Discovery (or toeing them in a trailer behind my mum's Peugeot 205 convertible) and driving down to the port of Dover to cross the channel and go camping in France or Italy. So, with child like excitement, I raced off to the port at Kupang to make the 2pm Ferry.
“Wilis” was written in black on the side of the ships gold painted hull. It looked good from afar. Though, like a Tinder date, was far from good up close and seemed to get dramatically uglier as I approached, the gold paint appeared to be holding the rust together. Stepping on board, the corridors were cramped and claustrophobic, making the many cockroaches easier to spot and the ship's sweet aroma…. A combined mix of rotten fish and stale cigarette smoke, easier to ingest. In need of a good cleanse, I went to take a wash, though after seeing the shower cubicle doubled up as a urinal decided to give it a miss, and instead opt for a piss. Out on deck, I chatted to a bloke of a similar age to myself, who was returning to Flores as a neighbour was trying to steal his land. He told me how he took the same ship as a young child, A retired German build vessel, which, unlike its upbringing in Germany, the Indonesian government had done the bare minimum to keep it afloat. The prospect of the 28-hour overnight crossing was quickly losing its appeal. The ship was full to the rafters and my last-minute ticket was cattle class, the authentic experience. Positioned on the lowest deck, I was 2 floors below sea level on a small green plastic-coated mattress, which lay in rows shoulder to shoulder with other passengers. The only way out, up 2 flights of stairs. Other than a few wooden benches on deck there was no indoor seating. In the western world, passenger sleeping accommodation is always above the water line and unused areas exist simply as ghost decks, for good reasons! I had a chat with the ship's officer, “my beds down there I said, pointing at the steep downward staircase, what happens if we capsize?” ……he didn't understand, “you know, like Titanic I said!” gesturing the motion of a sinking ship with a grin on my face. He burst out laughing!
Ende was a pleasant enough port town set amongst azure blue seas and lush green tropical mountains. I wasn't exactly well rested but with a 6am arrival, I thought the best plan was to get a strong coffee or 2, change into my cycle gear and make the most of an early start. As I did, a young man came over for a chat and complimented my body. “Very kind of you, thanks”, I replied. It's pretty hard not to be in some sort of half-decent shape if you ride a bicycle a 100 miles per day I explained. Pedalling away from Ende, I couldn't have been more than 2 or 3 kilometres out of town when the young man from the coffee shop caught me up on his moped and pulled alongside, “Hello again”, I said. “Can I sutch you Dik?” came the reply. “Can you do what sir, what did you say?” asking for clarification, not sure what he was baffling about. Oh right!! I see. Here was a young man going above and beyond to offer exceptional hospitality, I’d barely been on the Island a matter of hours and hadn't showered for at least 3 days and yet this young man was prepared to suck my penis. The man deserves a medal from the tourist board for outstanding service.
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| Boat from Gimimanuk, Bali to Java |
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| Something I forgot to mention - it rained every day (wet season in Indonesia) |
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| Flores |
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| Arriving in Ende, Flores |
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| Sleeping quarters onboard ship |
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| Final nights accommodation in Timor - hot and sticky camping |
Flores was equally as brutal as Timor and almost as beautiful. Though as much as I like punishing myself in the mountains, I was holding my breath that things would flatten out. Looking at the world map on my cell phone, I was a million miles from England with time running out, and the zig zag mountain roads were making for excruciatingly slow progress. My prayers were answered as I reached the port of Badjo in western Flores to take the 8 hour boat to Sumbawa, the boat rides getting shorter with each island completed. Had I not just cycled Timor and Flores, I’d describe Sumbawa as being mountainous, though everything is relative, and at that point it felt like kids stuff, taking just a few days to wizz across. Next was the increasingly touristic island of Lombok, seen as the Bali of 20 years ago, which took a mere couple of days to cycle across. I had initially planned to go straight from Lombok to Bali, though on reaching the port of Bangsal, I could literally see the tantalizing white sand of the Gilli islands a mile or 2 in the distance.
Being so close as well as being a Lonely Planet Guidebook highlight (the long-established bible for any self-respecting backpacker), let's give them a whirl! I thought. The 3 tiny Gilli islands are pedestrian-only with a ban on all motorised transport, not that you’d need a car, you could run around a whole island in 15 minutes. They were pretty enough, though just full of drug-fuelled backpackers off their tits at one of the increasingly frequent full moon parties that seemed to occur 3 times a week….. and always on a Friday or Saturday!. If I could divide my age by 2 I would probably have been game, though I guess I’m getting old and cynical! Sadly, It was also the place I was supposed to stay on New Year's with Daz, and it just felt weird being there given everything that had happened, so I took a boat and left the next day.
The crossing to Bali was just 90 minutes, though 5 or 6 times as expensive as my 28-hour overnight crossing from Timor to Flores aboard the government ship. Arriving at the port just in time for the 9:30 boat, I am harassed by ticket touts aggressively trying to rip me off, pulling me in different directions like a Stretch Armstrong toy towards opposing sales counters whilst bellowing overinflated prices in my ears. 700!! One guy shouts following me around like dog shit stuck to my shoe. In an effort to get the genuine price, I ask the guy at the official-looking ticket desk, “ How much?” 250 he replies. I turn around to face Mr Dog Shit, “700 you said?!.....Well you can fuck off then, can’t ya!”. He knows the game is up and finally leaves me in peace. I don’t mind a tout trying to get by in life making a few quid here and there, but when someone barks and yells with no good intent other than seeing how much money they can do me for, they can do one! After finally agreeing on the official rate of 250, the guy at the counter tries to charge me a further 250 for the bicycle, “The bicycle won’t be needing a seat” I explain. Pushed by time, we agreed on a total price of 400. Leaving the wooden jetty I’m the final person to step onto the Gilli - Bali tourist express speedboat, squeezed in like a sardine with a load of hungover holidaymakers. Moments later, my bicycle is strapped to the roof, and the boat races away. It was such a disappointment looking back at the earlier government ferries, where I had been treated like a friend, paid 90 rupiahs For an overnight crossing and an additional mere 10 rupiahs to take onboard my 2-wheeled companion. My new best Audible mate, Mick (we’re tight) Palin, describes it well when he says, “going from Traveller to Tourist, which is exactly how I felt.
I spent just one night in Bali. There's a lot to like about the place, it's just not me. My last image of the famous island was of a huge arrogant-looking Russian dude on a moped bullying his way to the front of a set of traffic lights, probably late 20s, biceps bulging and a cigarette drooping from his bottom lip. He may have been the nicest guy you’ll ever meet, I just doubt it! Infact, Bali has 1000’s of Russian people living on its shores, most I suspect avoiding conscription to war or unable to live with the direction their country is going. I can’t blame them, I would probably do exactly the same if I was them. This may be a very unfair point of view, but something just makes me feel very uncomfortable seeing Russian people enjoy this island lifestyle knowing that their Ukrainian neighbours are freezing cold and starving, living in hell without power and getting shot at.
After a much-needed nights sleep in the Balinese capital, Despenar, I headed west towards the port town of Gilimanuk for my shortest crossing so far, a 30-minute voyage aboard a creaky old ship to Java. Pedalling away for the first time on this new Island, with the renewed energy that a fresh land mass brings, the first thing that striked me about Java was the number of people. Mopeds everywhere weaving all over the road. The drivers didn’t appear to be looking where they were going, never mind doing shoulder checks. It seems miraculous how they all merged together without colliding, like videos of sperms in high school biology all finding their way. They must all have a secret sense or a third eye in the back of their heads I mused to myself as I pedaled up the busy carriageway in the early morning light. And then………. “Bang!!!!!” “Fuck!!!” 2 guys on mopeds travelling in opposite directions collide right in front of me and both go skittling down the road in opposite directions! I shouldn’t have been so in awe, it was just a question of time. The real miracle was how unscathed both came off for such a high-speed crash. With just minor scratches, both picked themselves off the road and then walked to the safety of the roadside where a group of on-lookers gathered. The younger of the men was clearly shaken and couldn’t have been older than 17. He was dressed in the distinctive red uniform of Honda, he must have been on his way to work. My mind immediately reverted back to what had happened a few weeks before and I wished another of Honda’s best employees had been so lucky. I turned around to make sure all was ok when I saw the older of the 2 men grab the younger by the throat. Instinctively I grabbed the man's fingers and started to peel them away asking for calm to try to diffuse the situation. The older man motioned that he was trying to look after the boy, It seemed doubtful though I hope this was the case.
Java’s population is apparently 152 Million which makes it the world's most densely populated island. No wonder there had been so many bloody motorbikes. It seemed the only way to get things under control was death my cigarettes. Fag advertising was everywhere, huge billboards and banners stretched across the road like an 80’s formula one race circuit. One brand, Jazzy Bold, had the slogan, “NEVER QUIT!” Jesus, I thought to myself, there’s no hope! Apparently the Indonesian government loves all the money they rake in from taxes and have little to no concern about anyone's health. My lungs didn't seem to be faring much better either, as I headed west towards the ridiculously active Volcano, Mount Semeru, whose record of ejaculating is more prolific than a horny teenage boy, I quickly found myself stuck behind the toxic thick black exhaust smoke of trucks carrying volcanic ash. This never-ending conveyor belt of old diesel trucks was moving rocks and ash from the surrounding village following its last eruption, just a few weeks ago on December 4th. This latest blast had blocked out the sun and caused devastation for an 8-kilometre radius. Only a year before the horny volcano blew its load even more violently, killing 51, destroying 3000 homes, displacing 10,000 people, and burying the village in layers of mud. Still, on this cramped island, people continue to live dangerously at the foot of the mountain. Surely even a horny teenager needs some respite, I thought to myself as I took a B-line on the ever-increasingly steep road toward the foot of the Volcano.
I have had to clear many things from the bottom of my bike over the years, Alaskan snow, Sudanese desert sand, even the fur of a Panama cat (Not hat!) that ran out in front of me, went under my wheel and became scooped up and lodged in my mudguard, throwing me somersaulting over the handlebars. Though volcanic ash had to be a first. Out of nowhere, I felt as though I was cycling across the surface of the moon. No more lush green plants, just the baron site of black ash all around and a dozen or so spooky war-like remains of obliterated buildings. I was heading in the direction of Malang, a large city across the other side of Mt Semeru, my idea was to take the smaller roads and skirt around the base of the mountain to avoid the heavily congested highways which ran the length of Java, highway 3 along the bottom and 1 at the top. Flying by the seat of my pants and doing absolutely no research whatsoever as always, the fact I was approaching the devastation zone from a volcano blast was quite a pleasant surprise! The road (a term I use very loosely) sat on top of metres of black ash and worked its way up and down like a rollercoaster, frequently passing through large newly formed streams and rivers up to knee high, the scars of intense streams of lava flow down the mountainside.
Rejoining the main road to Malang I was once again reunited with the never-ending centipede of dirty diesel trucks. Sprinting out of the saddle I could just about perform a suicidal overtake on the downhill sections, only for a fresh blast of black fumes in the face as they crept past me as the road returned to a climb. Truck drivers the world over have been extremely friendly to me, always giving me thumbs up. They no-doubt look at the state of me and my bruised and battered bike and feel a shared sense of comradery that comes with spending life on the open road. To reinforce that friendship drivers would often pull right alongside me and give a huge blast on the bull horn, often followed by a second or third to ensure my ear drums were definitely perforated! I’d look up with a grimace and fake smile and return the thumbs up, cheers, just what the doctor ordered! Some of the horns were modified to sound like an aggressive barking dog “RRRWOOF”, giving me nightmares of South American dog chases. The only thing that could top it was being followed for hours on end by odd-looking men on mopeds. It would often happen on big climbs, I’d look over my shoulder to see the same bloke sitting there a metre behind me trying to look casual as if they always rode their mopeds at walking pace! I’m breathing through my arsehole on a 20 percent gradient travelling at about 4mph! Come off it mate, this hill is so steep your waving all over the road your going that slowly! Despite the intense corridors of pollution surrounding Java’s roads, the countryside that surrounds them is a lush green tropical oasis.. Nearing Malang, a small sign by the roadside pointed towards a waterfall. Its name…………… , located unceremoniously at the end of a small dirt track just off the main road, the hugely understated entrance led to arguably the most incredible waterfall on the planet, and unlike the 1000s of daily visitors to Niagara Falls, I pretty much had the place to myself.
Arriving in Malang at around 6pm I was keen to visit nearby Mt Bromo. A beautiful active volcano whose crater is a stone's throw from Mt Semeru. I’m not normally a tour sort of guy, though after 1000’s of miles on the bike and no easy way of accessing Bromo, I had no objections to someone else getting me there. “We have a tour leaving at 12”, the lady at the hostel reception told me. Perfect I thought, a lazy morning and a late breakfast for my day off was just what I needed. “No, 12 midnight tonight!” Not so ideal! After a forced hours sleep, I was picked up in a 1980’s Toyota Landcruiser alongside a German bloke and a lass from Holland. I figured the rugged 4x4 was for adventurous effect, though driving across sand, rocks, and several metre deep pools of water a couple of hours later the 4x4 was definitely a necessity and came into its own. There must have been close to 100 aging Landcruisers all making their way to Mt Bromo that morning, all painted different colours and in varying states of repair. One was stranded by the roadside with steam pumping out from the radiator while another lay in a ditch after rolling backward for at least 100 metres. Hopefully, the other 98 made it.
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| Stunning Tumpak Sewu waterfall, Java |
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| Good spirits despite waiting 2 hours on top of a mountain for a view of thick fog! |
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| Incredible Mount Bromo |
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| Need a mask - you pussy! |
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| Coffee break with a friendly group of women |
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| My daily coconut - cheaper than drinking bottled water |
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| A bit of luxury at the Crown Hotel! |
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| Let's try and get the whole nation smoking! |
The guide drove us as far as the road would allow, guided us up a mountain path, and ditched us at a nearby mountain peak, huddled together with a 100 or so mainly Indonesian tourists. “Wait here till sunrise, I go back to the car to sleep”. “What time is sunrise!?” I replied, 5:45AM. . Jesus I thought! You're leaving me standing on top of a 3000-metre mountain for 2 hours freezing my tits off waiting for the sun to rise, couldn’t we have had 2 hours extra kip and left at 2!? And the best part, when the sun finally did rise the cloud was so thick you could hardly see your hand in front of your face, never mind Bromo on the horizon! I thought about clapping and cheering anyway to see if everyone else would copy - BRO-MO BRO-MO! As a child, I used to cheer when the plane wheels touched down to wind up my father, it worked a treat. I guess the idea was the dramatic off-road voyage and hike in the night built suspense until the incredible Mt Bromo is dramatically presented for the first time like the opening of curtains in a theatre. An hour or so later the clouds did part, the only clear day that week apparently……and the view of Bromo was outstanding. Next, We hiked up to the volcanic rim, being warned by an American tourist coming the other way, “You need a mask!”....... Drama Queen! “What a pussy!” I thought, until I found myself coughing away like a covid patient as I peered down into the huge crater, gaggling away and pumping burning sulfur dioxide Into the sky like a fire-breathing dragon.
Avoiding main roads meant yet again more relentless big climbs as I took the small inland roads that threaded in-between volcanic peaks, of which Indonesia has 128. The top of the passes were covered with literally hundreds of eateries and coffee shops, all balancing precariously on stilts competing for the best view down the mountainside, perfect selfie spots for local tourists on weekends. My next target was the historic city of Yogyakarta, the only Indonesian city run by the monarchy and a Unesco world heritage site famous for its temples. I’m not particularly superstitious, but since it was the 13th of the month, (February) and I was taking extra care. Nearing Yogyakarta, a city of half a million people, the traffic intensified and I found myself on a fast-flowing dual carriageway. Then, without warning, Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a lady cross the busy highway immediately in front of me on a moped, making a perfect collision course with my bicycle. I screamed out to her and jerked at my brakes, certain I was about to crash to the floor, she had just enough time to look up when my bike struck the rear of her moped, sending her and the bike hurtling towards the tarmac! God only knows how, the body's incredible autopilot kicked in (for which I can take no credit) and the blue bullet weaved dramatically from side to side…..and stayed upright. I ditched my bike by the road and ran back to the lady who was being helped to her feet by a passerby. Miraculously, she was unhurt, luckily it was the moped that had sustained the injuries. I initially went to apologise, then stopped myself, “Are you ok??” I instead asked. What sort of idiot crosses a 70mph dual carriageway without looking!! I couldn’t help thinking to myself. It was the equivalent of walking blindly across the M1 because you couldn't hear any traffic! Though I kept those thoughts to myself, no point in being angry. Another cat's life lost, but nobody was badly hurt.
Yogyakarta was a good place for a day off, I’ve become pretty templed out over the years, though managed to find time to see one. Its name escaped me, but is basically a small 2 story building next to an ornate swimming pool with a solid stone build bed at the top, The idea, apparently was for the king to peer down and choose any women from the poolside and demand she makes a visit to his bedroom. I’m not sure the same approach from my terrace house in London would have the same success rate? After visiting the temple I returned to the bike shop where a mechanic, with a gun tattooed on his cheek and the word “vegan” across his chin, had been attempting to carry out some repairs on my bike. I don’t know what the word is for someone that’s pre judgemental about scary tattoos, but I had no right to be, it was probably the slickest repair job I’ve had carried out all trip. After several posh-looking bike shops making a right hash (whose main clientele are yuppy businessmen with all the gear no idea - and a beer belly weighing more than their overpriced 6kg carbon race bike), the only other competitor was a fat kid in Lakes Entrance east of Melbourne. In an outdoor canoe hire shop, an overweight spotty teenager claiming to ride BMX was tasked with repairing a wheel with 5 broken spokes (at which point a wheel is often structurally doomed). “It might get you to Sydney” I recall him saying after doing his best to repair it. 8000 miles into the trip and that wheel is still as straight as a die! Never judge a book by its cover, I continue to remind myself.
From Yogyakarta, I took a B-line passing through the cities of Tasikmalaya, Bandung and onto the nation's capital, Jakarta. One of the great things about cycling in a cheap country like Indonesia is the affordability of giving yourself a cheap bit of Luxury when you need it. Camping was no longer necessary and coffee breaks didn't have to be rationed. I would often pop into a 5-star hotel by the highway, leave my old bicycle with the concierge parked next to the gleaming new cars of Indonesia's mega-rich and sip a western cappuccino in an iced chilled air-conditioned hotel foyer, looking up at elaborately decorated 10 metre high ceilings. Leaving the hotel, Indonesia's equivalent of a lolly pop lady would appear from nowhere, furiously waving flags in all directions like a rhythmic gymnast then blasting on a whistle with dramatic effect as if the world cup final had just finished, dramatically stopping the traffic so I could rejoin the highway. The queuing traffic must have been expecting a presidential limo, not a tramp on a rusty bicycle! I loved it, going to Starbucks will never be the same again. Being white definitely had its privileges...even when I looked and smelt like a tramp. Arriving in Tasikmalaya I thought I'd check myself into the Crown Hotel for a bit more luxury. The name may have been fit for a king, though the glamorous foyer with its oversized plant pots and paintings was deceiving. The bed sheets looked like they hadn't been changed in months! So filthy the maid wouldn't have released if I wiped my arse with them. Saying that I'm probably being generous, I'm not sure they've been changed period, I could have left a poo on the bed and it would remain until the next guest arrived. Then again, for 11 quid what was I expecting? The water in the old tiled swimming pool was a similar colour to the bed sheets, though any opportunity to swim on a long cycle trip is a real luxury and does wonders for weary legs.
My last day in Indonesia would be a 123-mile ride from the city of Bandung to the capital, Jakarta, on Java's northern coast. Java is the most heavily populated and polluted country I've ever cycled in (I never thought India and Bangladesh would ever be topped) and leaving Bandung in stop-start snail-like smog was no exception. Looking across to the right I spotted the entrance to a glorious traffic-free toll motorway, directly to Jakarta. Police fine or lung cancer I thought, a no-brainer! There was a sign for "No Motorbikes, No motorbikes and sidecars...or any other motorbikes street vendor contraption, but nothing about bicycles! Although the other car drivers on the motorway clearly hadn't interrupted the sign quite as I had, and it wasn't long before numerous cars pulled alongside me to advise I needed to leave the motorway. I managed to fob most off with a thumbs up and smile, though there was no getting around the security guards who were waiting for me at the first exit. Approaching the barrier and pay booth yet more security guards were awaiting my arrival, these ones looked even angrier and repeatedly directed me to the police security office in front. Not a good place to be I thought.....all sorts of bribery and fines could be brought upon me cornered in that Police porta cabin! "I'm going to Jakarta!" I shouted, pretending not to understand, and darted off weaving through a dense traffic jam! Luckily, the police were not to be seen again, though what was slightly frustrating was that after an hour on small congested roads trying to find an alternative route, I passed under the very section of the toll highway I had exited from an hour ago, someone was trying to teach me a lesson!
One final climb up and over a dual carriageway mountain pass, with dirty lorries ejaculating fumes in my face for good measure, (and a perfectly flat toll road cutting through the landscape teasing me to my right) and it was all downhill to Jakarta. The last 40 miles of the ride were a picture-perfect beautiful.......you've guessed it......traffic jam! Jakarta, population 10.5 million, had an impressive mix of modern skyscrapers, their lights switching on as I arrived just before dusk. It was in dramatic contrast to the poverty that remains in huge swathes of Indonesia and I was keen to spend a few days there to explore. For some reason, I decided to call my young genius Austrian friend, Max, who was taking a different route through Borneo. "You arrived from Timor to Indonesia on January 23rd, your visa lasts just 30 days, it expires in 3 days". How on earth Max remembers the exact date I crossed the border from East Timor, I'll never know! Maybe that explains why he studies Quantum physics and wants to be an astronaut and I work for the Fire Brigade! Either way, the next boat out of Jakarta wasn't till the following week, my choices were:
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