merantau
Senior Member
Indonesian Odyssey - beyond Bali.
As soon as we walked into the showroom I knew which one Inez was going to choose. There they were, lined up in a neatly spaced row, - Honda Vario scooters - each one a shiny-bright, 110cc, liquid-cooled, automatic, freedom machine. And the brightest of all was the PINK one!
"That one," she said pointing at ... the pink one! My heart sank. I would be riding this steed on a four week trip east of Bali. "Are you sure?" I queried hopefully. "The red looks good." But no - pink it was, and the deal was done. A massive wad - 15,700,000 Indonesian Rupiah (AUD $1,800) - was handed over, a sales note signed and the dealer had wrapped up one of the easiest sales she'd ever handled.
What she didn't know was that there was a deal within the deal. The previous year in Bali I'd befriended Inez, a young woman originally from East Timor. As a tourist visa holder I could not register a bike in my name. But Inez was happy to lend me hers. She would have use of the bike when I returned home, and I would resume possession when I returned to Bali the following year. Seeing she would be riding it for nine months, I was prepared to put up with pink for four weeks. After completing the paperwork, we left the showroom, assured that the bike would be delivered next day.
As promised, the bike - all shiny and pink - duly arrived at Inez's rooming house. It still had to be registered, so Inez made her way down to the rego office, armed with some 'readies' to cover the required 'fee' to register Pinky on-the-spot . Next, she had a set of plates made up and off we went, riding around the back lanes of Kuta and Legian. She was like a kid with a new toy and pretty adept astride the bike, so I felt relaxed enough riding pillion. I baulked, though, when her mobile rang and she took the call. "Pull up," I demanded. Inez obliged. When she finished the call, she turned to me and smiled. "Relax," she said. "I might take calls when I'm riding, but at least I don't text!" That was comforting. I had witnessed a number of people texting away whilst riding - a skill I'd not imagined existed before arriving in Bali!
Now, you might be wondering why anyone would embark on a major trip astride a pink egg-beater? Pink, I've explained. As for egg-beater? Well, it came down to this: cost, availability and practicality. Cost - I didn't want to part with a lot of coin. Availability - if I'd wanted something bigger I'd have had to go to Jakarta. Practicality - although I carried minimal gear, a backpack weighing 13kgs - l didn't want it on my back. So the Vario was perfect. The backpack sat snugly on the footplate, leaving room to plant a foot either side. In this way I felt both comfortable and balanced - important as I knew I'd be spending long hours on the road. I liked the automatic transmission on the Vario, and its lightweight was ideal. I planned to head way out, to that part of the map marked, 'Thayre be dragones', so, a mount that could easily be manhandled through mud, or sand or a dry, rocky creek bed would be ideal.
All formalities completed, I was free to go. I bade goodbye to Inez and at 7.00 on a Monday morning, I nosed out onto Jalan Padma to begin the trip. Traffic was already building on the narrow roads. A clever system of one-ways helped it flow through Legian to Kuta but it wasn't long before I found myself surrounded by a crush of bikes, scooters, trucks, pick-ups and people movers, all jostling for position, horns blaring, honking and hooting to get through a bottleneck caused by road works. The southern third of Bali is home to 3 million people. I hadn't realised they all left for work at the sametime! At the lights on Jalan Iman Bonjol I turned right for the By-Pass road that led to Sanur and onwards to Padangbai, the ferry terminal for Lombok, the next island east.
Scooting along the wide, smooth by-pass at 65-70 kph was a joy. Scything through the breeze, weaving past black-smoke-belching trucks, I found myself at ease, at last able to enjoy a little speed with some space around me. The scenery - a kaleidoscope of huge billboards, kampong houses, neat villas, factory lots and car showrooms punctuated by the occasional rice padi that had managed to resist the onward march of 'development' - fairly whistled by. Housewives were up and about sweeping their yards, and little schoolkids, resplendent in their crisp red and white uniforms, were gathering in knots on street corners or walking along, hand-in-hand, the younger ones being shepherded by older brothers and sisters.
I reached the major intersection with the road to Sanur. Every rider had the same idea - to ease their way to the front row of the grid. Trapped by the lights we waited amidst a suffocating mix of diesel fumes and carbon monoxide, blended with the wicked heat generated by the army of idling, impatiently-waiting engines. All eyes were glued on the lights to left and right, anticipating the flash of amber that would set engines revving for the 'off'! And then it would be on - the race to get ahead of the pack! Being solo on a brand new machine, I had an advantage over those who were two up, and sometimes at the lights, I managed to generate clear road ahead of me. It wasn't long though, before a half dozen Casey Stoner wannabees came screaming past on tricked-up machines emitting sufficient decibels to blow the needle off any EPA meter.
Beyond the Sukawati turn-off the country became a little more open. To the left were fields, and to the right, sky-blue waters lapped the black sand beaches. Riding was easier and more relaxing in the thinned-out traffic. Keeping an eye out for the occasional wandering Fido, wobbling cyclist or geriatric farmer entering the road from his yard without looking, I found myself soaking up the pleasures of the ride and loving being part of the landscape.
I swept on by, eager to make the ferry terminal at Padangbai. Passing along the narrow road, shaded by clumps of giant bamboo, banyans and immense fig trees trailing vines, was very pleasant; but catching up with slow-moving, overloaded trucks presented challenges that kept me on my toes. Labouring up the slightest incline each down-change caused these mechanical oxen to belch clouds of oily black smoke. Overtaking became an exercise in patience, positioning and timing with patience being the prime requisite. When opportunity presented itself a fist full of throttle would come into play. Most times I sailed past in clean air, but, there were occasions when my timing was awry and I'd find myself momentarily enveloped in a thick cloak of the oily, black stuff.
I reached the fork in the road I was looking for - Padangbai to the right, Candidasa to the left. I swung right and began the winding descent into the little port town. A few minutes later, I pulled up at Diane's Cafe and ordered a coffee. The typed menu featured potatoes spelt three different ways, banana 'paincakes', (eat 'em or slip on 'em?), and drinks of all sorts. The ride had taken me an hour - heavy traffic for the first half and then half an hour dodging diesel smoke and weaving past trucks bound for the port and parts east. It had been a good test of patience, nerve and concentration. I was happy knowing that traffic would be less intense from now on.
I finished my drink and, refreshed, made my way into the port. Two plumpish cops sat at a small table. They called me over, examined my papers and then waved me on. I rode the short distance to join the knot of ferry-bound vehicles sitting on the quay. Waiting passengers milled around, smoking and laughing. Taxis disgorged families. A bus pulled up, brakes squeaking; a mob of back packers alighted from a mini- van. Young, blonde, suntanned and sunburnt, they looked half asleep - as if they'd been woken too early after a night out on the tear.
It was hot on the open dock. Many drivers had fired up their engines in anticipation. The air was thick with exhaust fumes. Superheated, it swilled around me like a toxic willy-willy. I made my way to some shade offered by a tiny kiosk around which squatted a number of women selling, snacks and cigarettes. In the water below plastic flotsam and jetsam washed gently back and forth between the pylons of the pier. On the rocky headland opposite stood the forlorn concrete skeleton of an abandoned South Korean resort project. Its owners had fallen foul of the appropriate authorities. Their dreams had disappeared down a black hole and now, the remaining evidence of their existence was being swallowed by the encroaching foliage. Vines had begun to wind their sinuous way around pillars and along beams - nature was reasserting itself.
The throng of restless passengers was stirring. Drivers revved engines impatiently. The harbour master, all piss and wind, arrived in a flurry of self importance, arms waving, gold-braid glistening. There was still one truck to disembark and the driver was in trouble. "Maju, maju, (Forward, forward)," bellowed gold-braid. The kid at the wheel, no more than a teenager, had stalled on the ramp. Gold-braid bellowed again. The kid looked panicked. He was making a spectacle of himself. No longer 'King of the Open Road', his inexperience was on view in some sort of grotesque overture to the commencement of the ferry ride. He attempted to re-start the engine but, in a fit of bloody-mindedness, it refused to fire. Meanwhile passengers had begun to surge on to the ferry and drivers began to toot their horns at the hapless teenage truckie. The din was intense. We'd been frying in the heat and patience was becoming Glad Wrap thin. Just when it seemed the battery would pack it in, the engine roared to life. First gear was slotted with a crash; engine gunned, the truck leapt forward like it had been stung from behind. The crowd cheered. The kid's face, grin-split from ear to ear, registered his relief - from villain to hero in the twinkling of an eye! The truck reached the level surface of the dock and lumbered off on its way to Java.
Bikes and scooters roared forward to where the waiting crew were gesturing. Engine off, up on the centre stand. Helmet off, an arm hooked through the visor opening, I grabbed my bag and made my way to the narrow staircase to the upper deck to search for a cool breeze - a cool breeze to accompany us all the way to Lombok. She was waiting, barely five hours away across the warm, blue waters. It had been twenty three years since I'd last tasted her charms and I wondered if she was still as sweet as I remembered.
.
As soon as we walked into the showroom I knew which one Inez was going to choose. There they were, lined up in a neatly spaced row, - Honda Vario scooters - each one a shiny-bright, 110cc, liquid-cooled, automatic, freedom machine. And the brightest of all was the PINK one!
"That one," she said pointing at ... the pink one! My heart sank. I would be riding this steed on a four week trip east of Bali. "Are you sure?" I queried hopefully. "The red looks good." But no - pink it was, and the deal was done. A massive wad - 15,700,000 Indonesian Rupiah (AUD $1,800) - was handed over, a sales note signed and the dealer had wrapped up one of the easiest sales she'd ever handled.
What she didn't know was that there was a deal within the deal. The previous year in Bali I'd befriended Inez, a young woman originally from East Timor. As a tourist visa holder I could not register a bike in my name. But Inez was happy to lend me hers. She would have use of the bike when I returned home, and I would resume possession when I returned to Bali the following year. Seeing she would be riding it for nine months, I was prepared to put up with pink for four weeks. After completing the paperwork, we left the showroom, assured that the bike would be delivered next day.
As promised, the bike - all shiny and pink - duly arrived at Inez's rooming house. It still had to be registered, so Inez made her way down to the rego office, armed with some 'readies' to cover the required 'fee' to register Pinky on-the-spot . Next, she had a set of plates made up and off we went, riding around the back lanes of Kuta and Legian. She was like a kid with a new toy and pretty adept astride the bike, so I felt relaxed enough riding pillion. I baulked, though, when her mobile rang and she took the call. "Pull up," I demanded. Inez obliged. When she finished the call, she turned to me and smiled. "Relax," she said. "I might take calls when I'm riding, but at least I don't text!" That was comforting. I had witnessed a number of people texting away whilst riding - a skill I'd not imagined existed before arriving in Bali!
Now, you might be wondering why anyone would embark on a major trip astride a pink egg-beater? Pink, I've explained. As for egg-beater? Well, it came down to this: cost, availability and practicality. Cost - I didn't want to part with a lot of coin. Availability - if I'd wanted something bigger I'd have had to go to Jakarta. Practicality - although I carried minimal gear, a backpack weighing 13kgs - l didn't want it on my back. So the Vario was perfect. The backpack sat snugly on the footplate, leaving room to plant a foot either side. In this way I felt both comfortable and balanced - important as I knew I'd be spending long hours on the road. I liked the automatic transmission on the Vario, and its lightweight was ideal. I planned to head way out, to that part of the map marked, 'Thayre be dragones', so, a mount that could easily be manhandled through mud, or sand or a dry, rocky creek bed would be ideal.
All formalities completed, I was free to go. I bade goodbye to Inez and at 7.00 on a Monday morning, I nosed out onto Jalan Padma to begin the trip. Traffic was already building on the narrow roads. A clever system of one-ways helped it flow through Legian to Kuta but it wasn't long before I found myself surrounded by a crush of bikes, scooters, trucks, pick-ups and people movers, all jostling for position, horns blaring, honking and hooting to get through a bottleneck caused by road works. The southern third of Bali is home to 3 million people. I hadn't realised they all left for work at the sametime! At the lights on Jalan Iman Bonjol I turned right for the By-Pass road that led to Sanur and onwards to Padangbai, the ferry terminal for Lombok, the next island east.
Scooting along the wide, smooth by-pass at 65-70 kph was a joy. Scything through the breeze, weaving past black-smoke-belching trucks, I found myself at ease, at last able to enjoy a little speed with some space around me. The scenery - a kaleidoscope of huge billboards, kampong houses, neat villas, factory lots and car showrooms punctuated by the occasional rice padi that had managed to resist the onward march of 'development' - fairly whistled by. Housewives were up and about sweeping their yards, and little schoolkids, resplendent in their crisp red and white uniforms, were gathering in knots on street corners or walking along, hand-in-hand, the younger ones being shepherded by older brothers and sisters.
I reached the major intersection with the road to Sanur. Every rider had the same idea - to ease their way to the front row of the grid. Trapped by the lights we waited amidst a suffocating mix of diesel fumes and carbon monoxide, blended with the wicked heat generated by the army of idling, impatiently-waiting engines. All eyes were glued on the lights to left and right, anticipating the flash of amber that would set engines revving for the 'off'! And then it would be on - the race to get ahead of the pack! Being solo on a brand new machine, I had an advantage over those who were two up, and sometimes at the lights, I managed to generate clear road ahead of me. It wasn't long though, before a half dozen Casey Stoner wannabees came screaming past on tricked-up machines emitting sufficient decibels to blow the needle off any EPA meter.
Beyond the Sukawati turn-off the country became a little more open. To the left were fields, and to the right, sky-blue waters lapped the black sand beaches. Riding was easier and more relaxing in the thinned-out traffic. Keeping an eye out for the occasional wandering Fido, wobbling cyclist or geriatric farmer entering the road from his yard without looking, I found myself soaking up the pleasures of the ride and loving being part of the landscape.
I swept on by, eager to make the ferry terminal at Padangbai. Passing along the narrow road, shaded by clumps of giant bamboo, banyans and immense fig trees trailing vines, was very pleasant; but catching up with slow-moving, overloaded trucks presented challenges that kept me on my toes. Labouring up the slightest incline each down-change caused these mechanical oxen to belch clouds of oily black smoke. Overtaking became an exercise in patience, positioning and timing with patience being the prime requisite. When opportunity presented itself a fist full of throttle would come into play. Most times I sailed past in clean air, but, there were occasions when my timing was awry and I'd find myself momentarily enveloped in a thick cloak of the oily, black stuff.
I reached the fork in the road I was looking for - Padangbai to the right, Candidasa to the left. I swung right and began the winding descent into the little port town. A few minutes later, I pulled up at Diane's Cafe and ordered a coffee. The typed menu featured potatoes spelt three different ways, banana 'paincakes', (eat 'em or slip on 'em?), and drinks of all sorts. The ride had taken me an hour - heavy traffic for the first half and then half an hour dodging diesel smoke and weaving past trucks bound for the port and parts east. It had been a good test of patience, nerve and concentration. I was happy knowing that traffic would be less intense from now on.
I finished my drink and, refreshed, made my way into the port. Two plumpish cops sat at a small table. They called me over, examined my papers and then waved me on. I rode the short distance to join the knot of ferry-bound vehicles sitting on the quay. Waiting passengers milled around, smoking and laughing. Taxis disgorged families. A bus pulled up, brakes squeaking; a mob of back packers alighted from a mini- van. Young, blonde, suntanned and sunburnt, they looked half asleep - as if they'd been woken too early after a night out on the tear.
It was hot on the open dock. Many drivers had fired up their engines in anticipation. The air was thick with exhaust fumes. Superheated, it swilled around me like a toxic willy-willy. I made my way to some shade offered by a tiny kiosk around which squatted a number of women selling, snacks and cigarettes. In the water below plastic flotsam and jetsam washed gently back and forth between the pylons of the pier. On the rocky headland opposite stood the forlorn concrete skeleton of an abandoned South Korean resort project. Its owners had fallen foul of the appropriate authorities. Their dreams had disappeared down a black hole and now, the remaining evidence of their existence was being swallowed by the encroaching foliage. Vines had begun to wind their sinuous way around pillars and along beams - nature was reasserting itself.
The throng of restless passengers was stirring. Drivers revved engines impatiently. The harbour master, all piss and wind, arrived in a flurry of self importance, arms waving, gold-braid glistening. There was still one truck to disembark and the driver was in trouble. "Maju, maju, (Forward, forward)," bellowed gold-braid. The kid at the wheel, no more than a teenager, had stalled on the ramp. Gold-braid bellowed again. The kid looked panicked. He was making a spectacle of himself. No longer 'King of the Open Road', his inexperience was on view in some sort of grotesque overture to the commencement of the ferry ride. He attempted to re-start the engine but, in a fit of bloody-mindedness, it refused to fire. Meanwhile passengers had begun to surge on to the ferry and drivers began to toot their horns at the hapless teenage truckie. The din was intense. We'd been frying in the heat and patience was becoming Glad Wrap thin. Just when it seemed the battery would pack it in, the engine roared to life. First gear was slotted with a crash; engine gunned, the truck leapt forward like it had been stung from behind. The crowd cheered. The kid's face, grin-split from ear to ear, registered his relief - from villain to hero in the twinkling of an eye! The truck reached the level surface of the dock and lumbered off on its way to Java.
Bikes and scooters roared forward to where the waiting crew were gesturing. Engine off, up on the centre stand. Helmet off, an arm hooked through the visor opening, I grabbed my bag and made my way to the narrow staircase to the upper deck to search for a cool breeze - a cool breeze to accompany us all the way to Lombok. She was waiting, barely five hours away across the warm, blue waters. It had been twenty three years since I'd last tasted her charms and I wondered if she was still as sweet as I remembered.
.
