Sumatra

Mon 14/09

Our newest ferry friend says he’s seen us on TV. That’s a new one. We’re still trying to work out which one of us is Ewan McGregor and which one is Charlie.



Later that afternoon on Sumatran soil, walking up the road to Kalianda’s mini mart, it doesn’t take long before we’re reminded of what life is like for a goldfish.

Hello Mister. Becak Mister. Ojek Mister. What Is Your Name. Where Are You Going. Where Are You Come From. Honk. ...sterrrr... Honk. Good Evening. Good Morning. Good Afternoon. Honk. What Is Your Name....

That’s just the first 50 metres.

The thing is: goldfish have eency weency little brains, so really aren’t bothered by the whole world gawping at them or giving the glass a bit of a tap. We, on the other hand, were fed up with it in Flores six months ago. We’re a billion times more fed up with it now. Its harassment, pure and simple.

Tue 15/09
Getting to Krui the next day would have been simple if we’d wanted to take the highway. Or we hadn’t taken a wrong turn in Bandarlampung. But we didn’t and we did, and the GPS map of Sumatra really sucks, so it takes us most of the day, at the end of which its raining. We’ve only had to ride in the rain a handful of times this year and between us have only one good tyre, so take it pretty easy, even though we’re busting to get there and off the bikes.



We’re not even entirely sure why we headed up the west coast road in the first place. Maybe its because we’re from Oz, so when in doubt naturally head for the beach.

Wed 16/09
The coastline in this part of the world is some of the most beautiful we’ve seen, with little fishing villages wedged between palm fringed beaches, all backed by a tropical forested hinterland.

But the roads live up to Sumatra’s reputation, with potholes easily big enough to swallow two large motorbikes. Be afraid. Be very afraid... of Indo cops who pull you over in the middle of Nowhereville, Sumatra. Somehow we dodge another voluntary donation to the police social club (our luck’s gotta run out eventually). Or maybe it just throws him when one of us lets loose with the classic line “Is there a problem officer?”



Because its bucketing down coming into Manna that afternoon, we dive into the first hotel we find just to get dry. This turns out to be a big mistake, because just as we’re dumping our stuff in the room, the mosque over the road (which we’d failed to spot) lets rip with an Allah u Akbar loud enough to dislodge a filling. Maybe that’s why the hotel bathroom is a crumbling mess of broken tiles.

Thu 17/09
Or maybe its all the tremors they get around here. Sitting on the bed the next morning, still feeling grumpy from being woken earlier by the ear-splitting air raid siren (seriously) at 4.30am, things start to shake and rattle for about 10 seconds.

Its raining again as we ride into Bengkulu around midday. Apparently the English were here in the 17th century, but eventually traded it to the Dutch for Melaka because they got sick of the weather. How’s that for a damning indictment.

Indo Insight No. 42: The Indonesian Mentality

We’ve just arrived at a hotel in Bengkulu (which is being renovated) and have dumped our bags in the room. The bikes are parked around the back, so we wander back there to get the last bits and pieces, where three workmen now sit, gawping. This isn’t unusual. Everyone gawps at us and the bikes. But as Lucas goes to remove the luggage straps from his bike he notices a big white mark on the seat. “What the ...? That looks like paint.” He turns to look at the workmen. “Which one of you morons did that?” A split second later realising the one on the end has white paint all over his hands. “It was you wasn’t it?” Pointing. Incredulous that the idiot is still sitting there. “Get that shit off the seat you idiot.” Mr Painty gets up. “You’re an absolute fucking moron aren’t you?” Practically yelling now. “Stupid!” Pointing to his head. Mr Painty nods silently. He doesn’t need a translator.

Let’s examine the situation. This brain surgeon has just spotted a bike, the likes of which he may only see once in his lifetime. Its worth as much as his house. He’s got paint all over his hands, but he can’t help himself. He has to touch it. So he leans on the seat. At some point, what passes for a brain registers the fact that the paint, which was once on his hands, is now all over the seat. So he rubs it a bit. But he hears the two buleh returning to the bike. So he sits there a few feet from the scene of his crime with a gormless look on his face, hoping the big buleh won’t notice his handiwork.

Afterwards, when we try to explain what’s happened to the manager (who speaks some English), she simply can’t comprehend what’s happened or why we’re upset about it. For us, this is the final icing on the idiot cake, and it takes all of five minutes to load up our stuff and leave.

Fri 18/09
And so, sitting on the front porch of the old Dutch villa (now a wisma) the next morning, we wonder how we’re going to get out of this country. The shortest route is Dumai to Melaka, but there aren’t too many who do it that way round, and the process (and the pain) of shipping cargo from here to Malaysia is a different prospect to coming back the other way.



Later, on Bengkulu’s main beach (which is remarkably clean for an Indo beach), we contemplate the tried and tested Medan to Penang route instead. Ok, so you’re really just sticking the bikes on an onion boat, but plenty of people have done this and have published all the details on the web. However it means riding all the way to Medan, which is right up near Aceh, entering into the north of Malaysia at Penang, and then backtracking all the way back down the west coast.

But do we have anything better to do? And why are we asking you, anyway?

Sat 19/09
Its bucketing down again, and water drips from the peeling plywood ceiling into hastily arranged buckets which sit on the tiled stone floor. Ann contemplates plugging the reading lamp into the cheap Indo triple adapter, but is sensibly wary of the electrickery coursing through the old villa’s wiring. “Oh give me that.” says Lucas, impatiently shoving the plug into the socket. Phfffzzzzzt bang! Darkness. Ann looks at him with a mixture of fear and an I Told You So expression. We hear A’an in the next room get up from the TV and flick the fuse back on. This is all pretty normal.

Sun 20/09
....ahh...
Hnngh mmm huh?
Oma!..... Oooohmaaaa!!!
For god’s sake. What’s the time?
Oooohmaaaa!!!
4.35am
Oma!
Shit, what’s the emergency?
Oma Oma Oooohmaaaa!!!

Its the end of Ramadhan today. The end of fasting. Today friends, family or just people in your street come by for cake and to say hello. And if, inexplicably, you’re not around to greet them at 4.30 in the morning, they’ll just stand on your doorstep and yell until you show your face. Or until a bleary-eyed, unshaven buleh comes out to kill them.

Hilda or Oma!, the lady who owns the wisma, seems a little bemused by all this. She’s originally from Manado in Sulawesi, so only keeps up local traditions out of respect for her neighbours. She’s a lovely feisty old lady who’s led an interesting life, and its wonderful to be able to just sit and talk over a coffee.



Mon 21/09
Indo Insight No.43: Water on the Brain

Its the second day of the holidays and we’re down at the beach. Which, in hindsight, is probably a dumb place to be but anyway; we’re down the quiet end. The other 500,000 are down the other end, obeying their natural herding instinct. Still, there’s a constant stream of people on motorbikes up and down the beach, most of whom slow or stop to have a good gawp at us or ask for a photo. These people are irritating beyond the realms of human endurance, but we stubbornly put up with them for a couple of hours. But that’s not the point.

There’s a little sandy track from the beach out to the dirt access road, and several people are trying to ride their bikes up through the soft sand to get to it. But because the bikes are street 125s, and because they’re carrying a pillion (usually a girlfriend), they get bogged. So they sit there revving the nuts off them, digging a big hole in the sand. But that’s not the point either.

The point is: every single one of the girlfriends just sits on the back of bike. They refuse to get off. It never seems to occur to them that the reduction in weight might play a part in their state of boggedness.

Our limit of endurance is reached when a group of kids, who have been hanging around for the last hour but have only just borrowed someone’s camera, crowd around us to take photos.

We’ve now reached the point in Indonesia where we almost don’t want to even leave the hotel. Its only due to our natural stubbornness that we’ve gotten this far. We’re two independent people with different personalities, but it’s not like one of us is dealing with this any better than the other. But in situations like this its usually Lucas who loses his cool first, and true to form he jumps up and bellows at the kids, sending them scattering in all directions.



Tue 22/09
If it weren’t for the time of year and the fact that we just want to get out of the country, Bengkulu is somewhere we’d like to hang around a bit longer. Hilda’s been great and is the sort of person who makes us feel guilty about loathing the other 250 million Indonesians. A former army wife, she loads us up to the gunnels with food for our expedition to Mukomuko, and while we joke about it at the time, are incredibly grateful 5 and a half hours and 275 gruelling kilometres later.

Wed 23/09
The ride to Padang the next day is pretty uneventful until, out of nowhere, in the middle of nowhere, we find ourselves in the midst of the Traffic Jam From Hell. Its so unexpected, that over an hour later, still stuck in the midst of a million bikes, sweat pouring off, literally barging other bikes out of the way in response to the stupidity and rudeness of the locals, the overall feeling is of disbelief. In fact we’re not even going to try and explain how this sort of thing feels.



Much later in Padang, sitting on the side of the road at the night markets in the middle of town, fresh from checking into only our 2nd posh hotel since leaving Oz, we can barely talk about it ourselves. All we will say is that we’ve both been harbouring a growing sense of anger towards these people and their stupidity, and we’re now busting to get out of here. It’s the only reason anyone would be silly enough to travel during Hari Raya. Everyone says you shouldn’t, and they’re right. We’re just choosing to ignore them.

Thu 24/09
Bukittinggi is 90ks from Padang. The roads are good, and because we’re on bikes it only takes us 3 and a half hours. The cars are doing it in 7. You do the maths. This is Hari Raya. This is Sumatra. We kid you not.



This is not the result of too much traffic. This is a by-product of selfishness, stupidity and a useless police force. This is Sumatra.

Fri 25/09
The power flickers and dies in Pekanbaru. We passed a hydro station on the way here which is supposed to supply the city, but for a few hours a day it seems like a hundred thousand gennies keep things running instead. This is an oil town; the area has the biggest reserves in Indonesia. So maybe it makes sense in a perverse sort of way, but all the oil money for the new power station goes back to Jakarta anyway. Tomorrow we’ll be following the pipeline all the way to the port of Dumai.

Sat 26/09
Dumai, our final Indonesian destination, looks like its fallen on hard times. Supposedly its the main port of trade between Sumatra and Malaysia, but it doesn’t look that way. The road in from Pekanbaru is diabolical. We won’t bore you with the details, because we’ve discovered on our travels that there are infinite varieties of diabolical. But it adds to the feeling that Dumai is a town that’s had its heyday.



We have the name of a shipping agent, but after some help from one of the locals trying to find him, discover that he’s gone out of business. This kind of leaves us floundering, but after a visit to the ticket office of the people ferry, find ourselves at customs to see if they can help. Its not really his job, but Andre bends over backwards to help us out and hopes to have someone for us by tomorrow. But for now all we know is that we can forget Melaka. Maybe there's someone who can take the bikes to Port Klang (KL) on Monday. Maybe.

So we go on the hunt for a hotel, but after riding up and down looking for this non-existent hotel we stop out front of a carpet shop of all places to ask directions. It turns out the hotel has gone bust (we’re sensing a common theme here), but an older guy who we get chatting to astounds us by offering a room at his house. “Are you serious?” Yes, I’m serious. He replies “How serious?” Very very serious. Grinning. So we follow him back to his place in the burbs of Dumai, thinking the whole time there's a nice hotel with breakfast and WiFi just up the road, what the hell are we doing?



His sister has a restaurant out of town, and so after getting settled at Amzadri’s place we all troop off there for a meal. There are big fish ponds out the back, complete with a monster Komodo dragon prowling around. We make two discoveries here. One, that Gourami tastes really good. Seriously, this is the most unbelievable tasting fish we've ever eaten. And two, that you can use Vics Vaporub as a mozzie repellent. Believe It... Or Not.

Later that night we find ourselves going to sleep with the thought that today sums up our entire experience with this country. The whole time we’re feeling down on these people, despising them really to be brutally honest, simultaneously we’re feeling guilty because we know there are people like Amzadri and his family who are prepared to take in two strangers and feed them. Honestly, it really does our heads in.

Sun 27/09
The next day is spent mostly organising the bikes. Andre has found us an agent who, after meeting with us and negotiating a price to Port Klang (KL), leads us out to see the boat. The big old wooden “onion” boat sits there at the dock. Who knows how old it is. If you’ve ever seen one of those illegal fishing boats torched by Oz customs on TV you get the picture. This one actually has a one-tonne crane to load the bikes, which thankfully means we’re spared The Wooden Plank Of Death this time round.



Turning our backs we say a silent goodbye to the bikes, suppressing thoughts of pirates, rickety old onion boats, and a dodgy looking onion boat crew. Tomorrow we’re outta here.

Mon 28/09
The next morning after saying goodbye to Amzadri, without whose help the last two days would have been much more difficult and whose generosity we can probably never repay, we begin the process of shipping our bodies from Dumai to KL. And it is a process. A process that we don’t recommend. Unless you enjoy the crush of The Big Day Out or football crowds, and the feeling you’re about to be trampled and killed under a mob of homo sapiens with the collective IQ of a peanut. Or unless nothing else matters except that stretch of water between you and Malaysia.

Because that’s all that matters to us. As things turned out, us and Indonesia. We simply weren’t compatible.

Actually no, that’s not really being honest. Ann probably summed it up best the other day when she likened Indonesians to rabbits, and made the observation that if reproduction wasn’t simply a hormonal response, where the males had to actually think about their erections, they’d be extinct within a few years.

In fact there are several things we’d rather do than ever wind up here again. Things like having our private parts smeared with sambal and deep fried in palm oil for instance. Or having pointy little bits of wood shoved in our eyeballs. Or being forced to watch old episodes of The Flying Nun, Hey Hey Its Saturday or Coronation Street. Or being strapped to a chair while The Best Of The Proclaimers is played on endless repeat.

Und ah wood wok fie hundred mahls... just to avoid having to return to this godforsaken country... Dah da da dah. Dah da da dah.....

Another Cup Of Java - the motorcycle maintenance post

Sun 23/08 - Mon 24/08

Its after 5 in Jember and Ramadhan continues in earnest. Ann tries to make a recording of the wailing on her mp3 player, but unfortunately the mic isn’t much good. Its a shame because its something we’d love to share with you guys, something we can’t really put into words. Maybe a hundred years ago, before each mosque had multi-directional, concert-level amplification, sitting out on a rooftop listening to the call to prayer go out across the city would’ve been a magical experience. Tonight however, its difficult to pick our jaws up off the floor. You’d need triple glazing if you had a house here.

Tue 25/08


Two nights of it are enough for us, but after setting off for Blitar we realise the headlight on Ann’s bike has stopped working. We don’t ride at night, but during the day its the only way Lucas can keep an eye on her in traffic, so this is pretty annoying. Apart from that we’re convinced its safer here; the oncoming trucks and buses tend to give us more room when they spot the headlights. What is it with bikes anyway? They seem to start falling apart as soon as you ride them out of the showroom.

Wed 26/08
The road to Pacitan the next day starts out a weekend warrior’s wet dream, but ends up a punishing, narrow, twisty, bumpy, dangerous place to be. We were pretty fit before we left, so can’t believe how tired rides like this are making us and we find ourselves needing the next day just to recover. You probably think we’re just wusses, but that’s how it is.

Thu 27/08
So the last thing either of us needs the next morning is another mountain ride out to see some caves. But that’s the whole point of being here so...



Having been to plenty of caves over the years they still continue to fascinate, and Goa Gong is supposedly the most impressive in an area famous for its caves.



But because we stopped believing the Indo hype a long time ago, this place takes us completely by surprise and actually does impress us.



Sure, the lighting guy was on acid but still... the photos exaggerate things a little bit.



Later on, back at Pacitan, its nasi goreng time again, and while parking the bike next to a warung we notice smoke coming from the exhaust. Oil seems to be leaking from near the water pump, something which we’d been monitoring for months as a slow buildup of sooty gunk on the left side of the bike. This is suddenly a lot worse though, with oil now visibly dripping on the exhaust and catching fire.

That night, after figuring out exactly where the leak is coming from, we do a bit of research and are pretty confident its a water pump seal. We knew before we left this was a weak point on these bikes, but its still a bit of a surprise after only 22,000ks. Knowing that its a massive job on an F650, we decide to make 100% sure and email Morgan and Wacker in Brisbane, sending them a photo and a description of the problem.

Fri 28/08
Pacitan isn’t really the place to attempt to fix anything, so we head relentlessly westwards to meet up with George in Jakarta, stopping in Yogyakarta along the way. Yogya’s backpacker hotels prove to be a bit of a pain for parking, but we find a place that’ll let us use their basement to work on the bike if we want to.

The beer on the rooftop is good. Not for making major mechanical decisions, but beer is always good.

Sat 29/08
GPS is mostly good, but being complete GPS virgins before we left, the thought of needing a separate cradle to mount one on the other bike never crossed our minds. It never occurred to us that, for example, all the temples would be listed. Or how handy it would prove in getting back to the hotel at the end of the day. Now that the Dakar needs some TLC, the only way to use it is to shove it in the tank bag on Ann’s bike and run it off the battery.

We skirt round Prambanan, checking it out from the road as we’d heard it was covered in scaffolding after the earthquake in 2006. You can’t even get near the temples anymore, and Lucas doesn’t see the point in photographing scaffolding, so its off to nearby Plaosan instead.



Candi Plaosan is impressive in its own right and even better, we have it all to ourselves.

Or almost. There’s a photo shoot going on, and at one point when we’re inside one of the temples, we hear a scream from outside. It seems one of the guys has whipped out his pet python and the male model is freaking out about it. We laugh at him and tell him what a pussy he is, taking turns to hold the snake ourselves.



Later, the beer on the rooftop is still good and we’re still putting off the decision on the water pump. Do we fix it here ourselves, or limp to Jakarta and find someone there to do it for us? Morgan and Wanker haven’t bothered returning our email (surprise surprise), so it looks like we’re on our own.

Sun 30/08
Ann’s come down with a stomach bug this morning, so after double-checking we’ve got all the tools for the job, decide to go ahead and change the pump ourselves tomorrow if she’s up to it. This leaves Lucas with the job of tracking down some oil and coolant. Oh joy, because again its a case of the things you think will be easy...

Riddle me this Batman. When is coolant not coolant? When its nitrite and silicate free coolant of course. We have no idea what this means, but what the bike wants the bike has to have. This would be fine if any of the stuff had the spec written on the bottle, but it doesn’t. So the bike ends up with Yamaha coolant which, going on the theory you get what you pay for, is possibly the best money can buy. Litre for litre its the same price as a good bottle of 15W50.

Mon 31/08 – Thu 03/09
If you’re still with us, but can’t face anymore bike stuff, look away now. In fact, maybe just look away anyway. Things are about to get ugly.

As we’ve said, the 650 Rotax engine has a nasty habit of eating water pumps. For some reason the shaft wears, which in turn wrecks the seals, which in turn means the engine either leaks water or oil, or both. For some reason, over 10 years and three variations of the engine, Rotax and BMW not only decided it wasn’t a priority to redesign the pump, but as the engine and the bike evolved, actually made it more difficult to repair. Thanks a lot you bastards.

So here’s the procedure for installing a new F650GS water pump kit, including one or two of the many pitfalls you’re likely encounter:

Remove fairing
Remove engine guard
Drain coolant
Drain oil How’s that sump plug? Did you tighten it, or did that 200lb gorilla at your dealer do it? This alloy piece of junk can ruin your day.
Remove and clean stainless oil filter Wondering the whole time whether this is the best piece of engineering on the engine. Oh... that’s right, its aftermarket. You bought it over the internet.
Remove left foot peg
Remove oxygen sensor Bastard, piece of shit, bastard, get off there you piece of...
Remove exhaust header Yes, you read that correctly. And yes by the way, you’d better hope that bit of pipe (extender bar) is handy. Your 15mm spanner won’t be man enough for this job.
Remove water pump cover
Remove gearshift lever
Remove clutch cable from release lever There doesn’t seem to be enough slack in the cable to make this possible, so you’ll probably be removing the whole lever.
Disconnect oil return pipe from cylinder head and bottom of engine The cylinder head bolt is possibly the most awkwardly placed bolt on the bike, and can anyone explain why it needs to be a torx head? Do you morons at BMW have any idea how difficult it is to find a 25T torx key in Shitwater Indonesia?
Remove clutch cover Even with the oil pipe finally loose this is like deconstructing a Chinese puzzle, and tearing that gasket would be really annoying.
Remove water pump This is finally the reason you’re here folks. And of course, when you come to remove the water pump drive gear, it refuses to budge. The picture on the BMW manual is different to what’s in your hands, and all the documentation you have says the drive just slips off. But it doesn’t. So you tap the shaft and pull on the drive, knowing full well that its plastic and to destroy it will turn your bike into an instant lump of wood. But you can’t get it off, so you decide that the next best thing is to knock out the pin holding the impeller to the other end of the shaft. So you scrounge around for something like a punch to punch it out. But you can’t find anything in the dark, filthy hotel basement where your bike sits in pieces. So you head out into the Shitwater traffic to try and find a punch, or even just someone who’ll knock it out for you. But the language barrier, the lack of decent hardware stores barrier and the barrier of wankers at bike dealers who refuse to help defeats you. So in desperation you co-opt the lady back at the hotel who tracks down a little bike shop and acts as an interpreter for you. Of course the mechanic has a bit of metal lying around that’s just the right size, so soon has the impeller off. But he gives the drive gear a worried look. He doesn’t want to wreck it either. But after a bit of duck and chicken, where you tell him you think its a press fit on the pin and will just snap off now, he gives it a couple of taps and its off.
Replace water pump shaft and seals
Install clutch cover Getting this off is stupidly hard. Getting it on again, while lining up the shift lever shaft, the drive gear and the clutch release, while manoeuvring the oil pipe back into position and not tearing the gasket is... a challenge.
Install Everything Else Except that annoying little screw holding the oil pipe onto the cylinder head. Its an impossibility with your Shitwater torx key, so after the bike’s rideable again you’ll be heading back to your friendly neighbourhood mechanic who’ll... fail to get it back on as well. Bloody thing will have to stay that way.
Add oil
Bleed cooling system and top up with coolant Because you can’t be 100% sure your Shitwater coolant is the real deal, this is the blind faith part of the job. This is also yet another part of the job where you’re faced with the absurdity of the BMW design. The coolant needs to be bled to remove air from the cooling system, so the entire 1.3L of coolant can get back in. But BMW removed the bleed nipple years ago, so you’ll be wasting a day running the bike up to temperature, waiting for it to cool down, and then burping the radiator hose while slowly trickling in the coolant, and then repeating until full.
Hold onto handlebars in confusion while bike rocks back and forwards on centre stand Ok, so that’s not strictly part of the procedure. But Wednesday’s earthquake is felt all the way to Yogya, and considering we’re in the basement when it happens, is a tiny bit scary.



There’s a 40 year old Honda CB100 parked opposite our hotel. Lovingly preserved, it sits there sparkling in the morning sun. Everything’s exposed. No need to remove fairings, oil pipes or exhausts just to get to a non-existent water pump. We eye it off longingly.

Fri 04/09
Borobudur is about 40ks from Yogya and high on many people’s shortlists of things to see before they die, so today we finally escape the hotel basement and take the bike out for its first real test drive with the new seals. We make it there by about 7am, which is probably the quietest you’re going to get Borobudur during opening hours.



Unfortunately, and yes we know we’re harping on about this now, everything immediately surrounding the entrance is pure Indo tacksville. The hawkers who follow you don’t understand the word no, let alone tidak terima kasih. These assholes only understand rudeness.



The stupa itself is massive, but since the Indos have seen fit to hide it behind trees, you can’t really put it into perspective with the surrounding landscape. According to photographic records things were different a hundred years ago, when Borobudur dominated the surrounding countryside from the top of the hill. It must have been a truly awesome sight.



Making our way clockwise around and up the monument, we quickly realise tacksville has infiltrated here as well. It seems to be festooned with green plastic signs warning the public against committing any number of offences. These include smoking, climbing, littering and, believe it or not, scratching. They’re everywhere, they’re incredibly ugly and they detract from the whole experience.



As we’ve said before, the Indos just don’t get it. They’re hopeless at this sort of stuff. Borobudur is one of the wonders of the world, alongside places such as Angkor Wat and yet it took UNESCO to actually restore it from the crumbling ruin it had become. It could be transformed into a really awe-inspiring experience, because god knows they charge foreigners enough to see it. US$12 per head is a relatively massive sum of money here and is far and away the most expensive tourist attraction in the country. Locals pay $1 which, considering they don’t get hassled by the hawkers, beggars, taksi drivers and sarong salesmen and seem to have such little regard for the monument that they need shouty green signs telling them not to scratch it, seems like a great big fucking piss-take at our expense.



The bike on the other hand is good as gold.

Sat 05/09
Cilacap. There’s nothing we can add to what little has already been said about Cilacap.

Sun 06/09
Bandung on the other hand is a traffic nightmare; the roads here really aren’t the place to be on a late Sunday afternoon during Ramadhan. But each successive hotel is either full or has no parking, so each time we hang our heads wearily, mount the bikes and head off into the next stretch of gridlock. Ann is really copping it, having been sideswiped twice by other bikes, and Lucas well, he’s just homicidal, feeling for the first time in his life like he wants to nail a pedestrian just for the hell of it.

Another hotel looms up on the right so we pull in, before realising the place is too posh for us. Sigh. This is insane. Its getting dark and Ann is still minus a headlight. We’ll be sleeping on the street at this rate.

So tonight, unexpectedly, there’s plenty of uniformed guys to help us with our bags, a king sized bed, free mini-bar, cable TV, western bathroom with a toilet that actually flushes, oh and a rarity in Indonesia, free WIFI in the lobby.

The sink runs black as we wash today’s diesel fumes from our faces.

Mon 07/09
Our visas are running out and George is leaving for Kuching on the 10th, so we push on for Jakarta this morning after stuffing our faces at breakfast. Because its Ramadhan and there aren’t many guests here it seems like the kitchen staff are cooking for our benefit, wheeling out plate after plate until we look at the table debris in embarrassment. God we need it though.

Because motorbikes aren’t allowed on the tollways, a relatively straightforward trip turns into another relatively nightmarish trip. Once the road comes down from the Puncak Pass, you’re really into Jakarta’s outer suburbs, which means you’re into the thick of some of the worst traffic on earth with almost 70ks still to go. There are times along the way when we just want to hang our heads over the tank and weep.

It takes over two hours to fight our way through Jakarta’s suburbs, during which we stop twice, Ann is hit by another bike and Lucas by a 4x4. Its just pannier scrapes for us, but through his own stupidity the driver of the shiny new 4x4 winds up with a big scratch up his fender. And even though it happens right in front of half a dozen traffic cops, the thought of pulling over and sorting things out is so laughable its... laughable. Previously we’ve labelled the average Indo driver a moron, but in the last two days Ann’s been hit four times and Lucas once. This is after seven months on the road with no contact. What does that make the average Jakartan driver?

The plan was to find a cheap hotel on Jalan Jaksa before meeting up with George, but because his office is on the way and the traffic is so bad we decide to see him first. About 10 minutes after meeting us for the first time he’s offering us the spare room in his apartment. The offer floors us, and after the nightmare of the last two days we both feel like hugging him for it.

Tue 08/09
Because George is the Finance VP for a large company fabricating oil rigs, stepping into his world is like stepping off planet Indonesia and stepping into an alternate reality. He’s got a driver, so today we do too. Watching Jakarta wiz by from the window of his 4x4 is hilarious. The bikes seem to ebb and flow around the cars which, by driving so close together, manage to compress three lanes into four. Its difficult to imagine that yesterday we were part of this mayhem.

Jakarta itself seems massive, far bigger than its supposed population of 13 million. Huge shopping malls squat on every corner, but we wonder how anyone except the expats can afford most of the stuff on sale.

We crisscross the city on another fruitless search for tyres, and after visiting every place that seems even half-likely, including Bridgestone, KTM and even Harley, feel like we’re in a position to make it official. If you’re ever foolish enough to come to Indonesia with a big dual-sport bike, make your tyres last. You will not find replacements.

Amazingly we find a new headlight for Ann’s bike.

Wed 09/09
At some stage during your travels here, the odds are pretty high you’ll encounter official corruption, usually via the cops or immigration officials. Today its our turn.

We decided a couple of days ago that we’d had enough of Indonesia and didn’t want to renew our visas, just wanted to get the hell out of here as soon as possible. The trouble is, with the detour to Bali and the time in Yogya fixing the bike, we’d left ourselves less than a week to get all the way from Bandung to Belawan in Sumatra and put the bikes on a boat to Malaysia. That’s a killer timetable, and because we’re already half dead from the ride across Java, our only alternative is to renew the visas.

Putting us nicely into the lap of the Jakarta Immigration office, which seems to be staffed by the sorts of people typical of all the Indo government employees we’ve met so far. Lazy, barely competent, and working with systems and processes which are outmoded and inefficient. One of them casually enters our data into his terminal, while the other sits behind her desk reading the Koran and chatting to our driver. The boss just sits in the corner surfing the net.

At some point during this four hour pantomime, one of the officials takes our driver aside out of earshot and has an earnest, whispered conversation with him. We look at each other and shake our heads. Its pretty obvious they’re discussing “The Fee”.

We’re still not sure who got what out of this transaction, but the net cost to us is just under AU$200 for extending two visas for one month. In comparison, the original two month visas we got at the Indo consulate in Malaysia cost us AU$115.

Oh, and we’re not sure if this is a new Indo security thing, but having our fingerprints scanned into their immigration database does not please us. Not One Little Fucking Bit.



There are people who try to rationalise official corruption by telling us about the poor underpaid workers who are barely making ends meet. Or that payoffs are just the price you pay for doing business here. And that we shouldn’t judge these people by western standards. Well it doesn’t wash with us. We’re both highly skilled people capable of working under constant pressure, and worked our asses off for every cent we have. So we’re going to spell things out, so there’s absolutely no confusion.

Almost every single Indonesian we’ve met in the past four months is either working an unskilled job, bone idle, incompetent, or just plain stupid. Every system we’ve seen them use is inefficient, and in nearly every situation where we’ve seen two, three, or maybe four workers in the same area, their jobs could easily be covered by one hard working person.

And yet they all want western wages, with a western standard of living to go with it. Well if that’s the case, we’ll feel free to judge them by whatever standards we feel like.

Maybe if their taxation system wasn’t so completely ineffective, public services and infrastructure would be funded properly. But its a mess, so nobody seems to pay much tax at all.

Finally, we’re not here to do business. We have nothing to gain financially from being here. In fact the reverse is true, having in the past four months spent a lot of money here. On hotels, food, petrol, tourist attractions, you name it... And yet they still feel its their god-given right to rip us off.

You suck Indonesia. You suck big time.

Thu 10/09 – Sun 13/09
Maybe we should’ve shown a bit more enthusiasm for Jakarta, after all it is the capital. Admittedly, its so unlike anywhere else in Indonesia, its probably worth a look for that fact alone. But to be honest, at this point in our journey we really don’t give a shit. The hot tub in George’s apartment complex is far more interesting, and we spend countless hours alternating between it and the pool. Pool, hot tub, hot tub, pool, pool, hot tub....



Mon 14/09
So thanks to George, we leave the alternate universe of Jakarta refreshed, blasting a hole through the peak hour traffic to reach the Sumatra ferry by midday. Standing at the stern of the boat, munching on a lunch of melted Tim Tams, we watch Merak sink slowly out of sight in the thick smog.

We’re not about to get all gushy and sentimental about Java. In fact our verdict is: well... if you’ve read this far you can probably figure it out for yourselves. Interestingly though, every single Indonesian we’ve met seems fiercely proud of their country and would be astonished and offended to hear what we actually think about it. So anytime we’re asked, we just smile politely and say its beautiful.

No doubt Sumatra will be more of the same, after all most Indonesians seem to fit a limited number of moulds. However we’re always prepared to be astonished...

Bali

Sat 08/08

Pemuteran is touted as the unspoiled, uncrowded bit of Bali’s north coast. We should’ve twigged that unspoiled and uncrowded in Bali would translate to exclusive and expensive, but we’re new-ish here and are usually optimistic about these sorts of things.

So after a brief pit stop, we decide to make for Lovina instead which, late in the day, when we’re both tired and need food, is a surreal experience. We see more tourists in the first half an hour than we have in the past six months. Do they really all look like that? Do we really look like that? God. We really do look like two-headed monsters from outer space.



Sun 09/08
The centre of Lovina is party town, and after a night where the clubs are pounding until 4am, a parade of marchers (the Indos have a thing for marching) taking it through to 6, we decide to find somewhere up the road where we can actually sleep.

Anturan is that place, and while its relatively peaceful with only a few hotels, they’re mostly full. Of the French. Who seem to be everywhere. In fact if you meet tourists anywhere in Indonesia, they’re bound to be French. We have no idea why. They have no idea why.

Mon 10/08
The beach at Anturan is a quieter version of all Bali’s resort beaches, which means if you’re not here to buy a sarong or get a massage you’ll need to utter one or more tidak terima kasihs before you get enough peace to actually do your own thing. The more prosperous you look, the more you’ll get hassled, so in our case only one no thank you is necessary.



Which reminds us, a great big thank you to Luis, Grant, George and James for helping us out with the credit cards and licenses. The whole experience would have been a huge logistical nightmare otherwise.

Tue 11/08
Its taken six months, but Lucas finally cracks and decides to escalate the mosquito battle to Defcon 1. The can of Baygon is Indo Baygon, but its still Baygon and gratifyingly, while the mozzies fall out of the sky almost instantly, they seem to take forever to die, writhing around in agony for nearly an hour. After stating how pleased he is with this, Ann begins to wonder whether she’s been living with an axe-murderer all these years.

Oh, and the death toll for one average sized hotel room: 25-30.



Speaking of which, driving in Bali is possibly more dangerous than the rest of Indonesia. You’ve got all the usual Indo ingredients here, plus the tourists, the twisty roads, the fact that half the locals drive like they’re on valium and the other half on speed, and more school kids riding scooters than we’ve ever seen. The more we travel Indo, the more we believe that most of these morons shouldn’t be allowed on the roads. They certainly wouldn’t pass a driving test in Oz.

Ok, forget that. Maybe its just a checks and balances thing. Something to counterbalance their breeding habits. Maybe its a good thing. For them. Come to think of it, its probably why cigarettes are so cheap here. Anyway... the fact that we have to risk our lives every time we get on the bikes really pisses us off. Talk to some of the expats living here and you’ll get a similar response.



Wed 12/08
We decide to escape the heat of the north coast today and head for the hills. In contrast, Candikuning is cool and shrouded in mist when we arrive, running the gauntlet of strawberry sellers who line the roads. The main concentration is next to the markets, which exist almost wholly for the tourists now. The sarong salesmen say Bonjour to us as we make our way down to a little warung for lunch.



The LP raves about Pura Ulun Danu Bratan which is a nearby 13th century Buddhist/Hindu temple, and it seems by the number of tourists that nearly every tour bus stops here. But to us its a little underwhelming, probably because the Indos just don’t understand how to do this stuff. In comparison the French, who seem to have adopted this place as their summer holiday house, do. Go to Paris and wander through Notre Dame or Sainte Chapel, just like millions do every year, and you’ll still be impressed. You’ll still be able to imagine what these places must’ve been like hundreds of years ago. Even if there’s a horde of Japanese tourists over your left shoulder and a bunch of Americans blathering on underneath the pulpit. The Indos on the other hand, seem to have a knack for making the whole experience tacky.



Sorry, but there’s something else we need to get off our chests. Tonight is the first hot shower we’ve had since May.

MmmmmmOhhAwwwwAhhhhhAwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!!!!!!

Thu 13/08
Its also refreshing to find the Candikuning Botanical Gardens are Two Week Tourist free and could almost be any gardens in any big city. We like that. It makes us feel normal for a few hours.



Lately we’ve found ourselves wanting to share our experiences with fellow long-term travellers. Ones with bikes would be good, but we’ll settle for the French couple we meet later, who are taking a break from travelling around Oz. Its funny, because we’ve been taking the piss out of the French for weeks, but can really relate to these guys.

Fri 14/08


Its great also talking to people who don’t try to give us advice about driving in Indonesia. Honestly, if you don’t do it day in day out, you’ve got no idea. The adrenaline rushes you get from repeated near-misses, the mental effort needed to cut through the traffic on a long ride, or the stupid situations you get yourselves into, like today, when we’re two-up and the bike is sideways overtaking a truck down a blind hairpin, really wear you out. Some of you may not want to hear this, but we find ourselves shoving piles of donuts, fried rice, fried chicken or whatever into our mouths just to keep the weight on. Who needs the gym?

Central Bali’s all about rice terraces and temples, so while managing to survive the ride, we also manage to see plenty of both north of Tabunan.



The smell of drying cloves is everywhere as we ride through little the villages. Indonesia used to be a net clove exporter until the demand for kretek cigarettes became so high. Its torture for us, as all we can think of is the hot slice of apple pie we’re never gonna get here.

Sat 15/08
Somewhere a little more off the beaten track, past Munduk, we spend most of the day wandering through more rice fields, chatting to the farmers and stirring up the local ducks.



Mon 17/08
Its Independence Day, something for which it seems the Indos have been gearing up for for months, so we’re not sure if there are going to be parades or road blocks, or even if anyone will be at work. But we decide we don’t care and so take the scenic route to Bangli, via Gunung Batur. The road is partly steep twisty hairpins, with some dirt thrown in for good measure. Scenic though.



We finally track down what is now an Inn, but used to be the residence of the former King of Bangli and his family. It must have been grand once, but now just seems like an ordinary, large Indo family compound with a couple of basic rooms for rent. But its still run by the king’s decendants, is very secluded, and oh joy, the last tourist came through here in June.

Tue 18/08
It was sometime after June, we’re not sure when, that Indonesia really started getting under our skin, up our noses, whatever. Take the internet cafes, or warnets. You’d assume that a. they’d have a reasonable internet connection and b. maybe not be actual cafes, but at least be somewhere you could relax. In reality, nearly all of these places are cramped shit-holes, full of cigarette smoke, blaring Indo music, virus-ridden computers that almost always need a reboot, and a pipe to the internet about as wide as a drinking straw.

After trying fruitlessly for apparently an hour and five minutes to update the blog, Lucas takes it out on the unsuspecting warnet guy, over 1000 rupiah. At the current exchange rate, 1000 rupiah is about AU$0.12. This is what the Indos have reduced us to.



The fluid in the Dakar’s rear brakes has also suddenly reduced so, suckers for punishment that we are, find ourselves embarking upon a quest for DOT4 brake fluid. This is another one of those things we thought nothing of before we left. Why would you? Its brake fluid for chrissake. Um no... DOT4 is high temperature brake fluid, and since all the little Yamahas running around here weigh next to nothing, their brakes only need DOT3.

We’re spotted by a young furniture salesman of all people at a bike shop, who decides to befriend us and runs us all over Bangli looking for the stuff. Bangli’s pretty small however, so it takes a trip to an automotive supplier in the next town before we find some. Thanks Aaron.



Because Bangli is a solid Hindu town, later on for makan malam, babi isn’t too difficult to find. Its nice to get a bit pork on our forks for a change.

Wed 19/08
You won’t find much of that in Kupang, but it was there six months ago that we met the owner of a backpackers in Padang Bai, so ride down there today to say hi and see his place. Unfortunately Padang Bai is full like everywhere else, unless you want to stay in a dorm. We’re not snobs, but one of us did the dorm thing 20 years ago and is well and truly over it. So out of curiosity we ride up the road to check out Candidasa, which seems like a pointless excuse for a resort. It doesn’t even have a beach.



Later we find out that the Eastern Times in Kuching has done another article on us. It blows us away that its a two page feature with loads of our travel photos, but the last part has Lucas rolling around on the floor laughing. It seems Wil misheard the bit where Ann said she’d like to stop and do some volunteer work. The article says she’d like to volunteer in (choke) Leicester. Of course, being a good Essex girl, Leicester is somewhere she’d actually like to blow up. The quote should have read Timor Leste, but thanks for the laugh anyway Wil.

Thu 20/08
Sanur is kind of a trip down memory lane for us, as we stayed here and in Ubud 15 years ago. As you’d expect, things turn out to be the same, but different. It seems like the same green garbage truck is still here, with the same guys collecting the rubbish. The shops are much more hoity toity though, and the hotel we’d stayed in back then (which at the time we thought was cheap) now costs five times what we’ve been paying in Bali this time round.



The rest are full. Bummer.

So an easy day on the bikes turns into a slog through Denpasar and up the truck-congested West Coast road. We end up finally at Medewi, supposedly a surfing mecca. Its not really our scene, but the bungalows are right on the beach, and we’re knackered anyway.

Fri 21/08
So the next morning we end up on a black sand beach in Bali’s southwest, which seems to be merely an extension of local farm land. Indonesian cows are beautiful animals, but distrustful of tourists. These ones grudgingly share their patch of sand with us, keeping a watchful eye over their calves. This isn’t Kuta. Cows are in the majority here. By the way, for our rurally challenged viewers, the one below is a buffalo.



Ohhhh yeah... By the way. Its Ramadhan (apologies to any of our Muslim friends, you might want to look away now).

We thought we’d be safe from the wailing here in Bali. Boy, were we wrong.

In fact the wailing during Ramadhan, after about 5 o’clock in the afternoon, can carry on all night. That’s right. All Fucking Night. And if you happen to be staying near one or more mosques (you could easily be surrounded by half a dozen), your earplugs will not save you. You will be going without sleep.

So lately we’ve been dreaming up ways to strike back at the mad mullahs, urban guerrilla style. Not blowing things up, fundamentalist style, but maybe something a little less destructive. Firstly, we’re thinking you’d pick a city in Java somewhere. Somewhere maybe... dunno, like Jember for instance. Then, right about say... 5 o’clock in the afternoon, cut the power to every mosque in the city. Sure, you’re still not gonna get complete silence, they’ll probably still climb the parapets and wail unamplified, but the level of noise will be bearable.



Or maybe (and this has been a dream of Ann’s better half for a while) if you were really clever with electronics you could knock together some sort of portable EMP device. Something you could just point at a piece of electrical equipment, press a button, and fry it. You’d obviously integrate it into a mobile phone like everything else, and patent it with a catchy name. Something like maybe... Directional Universal Magnetic Pulse. Or DUMP for short. So then every time someone’s pissing you off – maybe its your neighbour’s stereo at 2am, maybe its the Indo across the hall with the annoying ring tone, maybe its just your local mad mullah – you can now take matters into your own hands... and take a DUMP on `em.

Neighbours giving you the hump? Just go take a DUMP. Really, there are endless applications.

Seriously, what is it with the tannoys anyway? Its like industrial strength brain-washing. Zim zim zim zalabim zim... Or it would be if any of these people understood Arabic, because really, that’s our only saving grace.

Sat 22/08
Fireworks are also a big thing around this time of year, especially after fasting finishes for the day. There’s a child outside the warung where we’re having dinner, letting off crackers next to two 44 gallon drums of fuel. Two drunken Ozzies stagger past, prostitute in one hand, Bintang in the other. Its kind of embarrassing, and we wonder if this is really what they came all this way for.



You wouldn’t come all this way for the surf. Or the beaches. If that’s all you’re after, the only reason you’d come to Bali (or Indonesia for that matter) is the exchange rate. We love the beach, so can tell you from years of experience that there’s nothing we’ve seen in the last seven months that can hold a candle to the beaches of Qld and northern NSW. They’re in a completely different league.

The wailing continues into the wee hours...

Sun 23/08
... and blurs seamlessly into the next day.

We’re heading back to Java today, our two weeks are up. Last time the flight back on the Garuda airbus was agony, as we both had an excruciating case of Bali belly. We bypassed the duty-free at Brisbane airport and headed straight for the toilets.

This time its simply a matter of surviving Bali’s south coast road and hopping on a 45 minute ferry to Java. Hmmm... flying Garuda or... riding Bali’s south coast road. The risks are probably a toss-up.



Its a weird feeling leaving Bali behind, but hey, at least we don’t have to face the office on Monday morning...