Relaxamatic

Seldom Seen Sumba. Eastern Odyssey by ferry and motocycle.

merantau — Wed, 18 Jan 2023 19:32:00 GMT

The Bitter Taste of Failure.

merantau — Thu, 16 Apr 2015 17:34:00 GMT

At around 1100 metres my clutch threw in the towel. A fistful of throttle saw nothing happening at the back wheel. I dismounted and spat on the clutch housing; it was like throwing water onto a hot bar-be-que plate. What to do? I was stopped at the bottom of what was possibly the steepest stretch yet - maybe 100 metres of humps and bumps, interlaced with holes deep enough to hide an axe murderer's handiwork. Fifteen kilometres along the track up the south=west side of the Mt Tambora massif; fifteen kilometres from help should I need it. And to get back down I still had to traverse two very steep and dangerous crossings of a dry river bed. And so, probably six kilometres short of my destination - Post 3 at 1800 metres - I had a decision to make. Wait an hour or so and then press on, or head back towards what might turn out to be a very nasty encounter with the river crossing, one which might leave me stranded anyway. I found the answer in my sweat saturated shirt. Wet from exertion? No, wet from stress! I had to admit defeat and turn back.

I took a drink, removed my riding gear and sat down to wait. I consoled myself with the fact that I had already climbed Tambora in 2008. I'd stood on the crater rim, stared into the abyss and then raised my eyes to scan the opposite rim, six and a half kilometres distant. Nearly 200 years before ex-heavyweight champ Muhammed Ali, Tambora had also 'shook up the world'. Ali could bang hard but Tambora outgunned him. On April 15, 1815 an almighty explosion catapulted 150 cubic kilomtres of its innards four kilometres skywards. this cataclysmic event obliterated the Tambora civilisation, whilst, in the Northern Hemisphere, 1816 became known as 'the year without summer.' Crops failed and famine stalked the land with a terrible tenacity.

The weather began to close in. An eerie mist crept up from below enveloping me in its wraith-like embrace. I might as well have been the last sentinent being on earth so complete was the silence. I realised that even if I had made it to the top, I would not be able to see much anyway. Convincing myself of this went some way to assuaging my disappointment at again having failed to reach Post 3. In 2014, I'd made it seven kilometres along the track; this time I'd managed fifteen. Third time lucky maybe?

My thoughts turned to the job at hand. Two major obstacles lay between me and safety - the dry river crossings. Even if my clutch held up, there was still the possibility that I might take the wrong line, or, drop the bike. If I lost momentum it may well be nigh impossible to ascend the steep bank from a standing start. Without extra willing hands to give me a push from behind in the sandy going, I could well find myself marooned a long way from help. Such a scenario didn't bear thinking about. It was a bridge I'd cross when, and if, I came to it.

I looked at my watch. An hour had passed. I could rest my hand on the clutch housing. It was time to go. I turned around on the narrow track, the mist swirling around me. I set off, taking it very slowly. I tried to pick the line furthest away from the deep holes that waited to entrap me although, with the twists and turns of the track, this was not easy to do. I managed to stay upright often using my feet as outriggers.. The track was slippery and many of its ridges were not much wider than a tyre. Ten minutes passed. The clutch was holding up. So far, so good.

I reached the first river crossing and stopped. It was the easier of the two so, with the axiom: 'He who hesitates is lost', front and centre, I plunged downwards. I was like entering a tunnel. Little light penetrated the heavy foliage above. Fearful of a front wheel washout in deep sand, I went down under heavy rear braking, primed to gun the motor just before the track levelled out. With eyes the size of dinner plates, i tore up the incline and made it out of danger. Post 2 and a break was only a few minutes away.

The second river crossing was the more problematic. If I could just make it onto the large flat rock, two-thirds of the way up the far bank, I felt I would be ok.

I mounted the bike and set off. When I reached the crossing I didn't hesitate. Down I went, into the gloom. I gunned the engine, just before the river bed and, bucking and rolling, rear tyre clawing at the sand, I powered up before starting to lose momentum. Just when I thought all was lost, the flat rock appeared. My back wheel found traction and sling-shotted me upwards with enough force to get me to the top of the rise. I was a lather of sweat and it wasn't a hot day!

I reached the road without incident and made for Hu'u beach, about two hours away, south-west of Dompu; a convenient spot to lick my wounds. My old friend, Robbie at Monalisa, gave me a warm welcome. A shower, a shave and a good feed set me up for a decent night's sleep an an appointment with the dream generator.

I awoke with the roosters armed with a plan. I'd head for Maluk, 260 kms away or the south-west coast. I breezed past the Bugis fishing hamlet and took breakfast at Rasabau village. In and out of Dompu in a flash, I was soon into the sweeping bends that take you over the range and down onto the Soriuti Plain. The countryside was green and bursting with fertility; a stark contrast to when I passed this way during 2014s big dry.

I sped along the valley floor and then started the next climb. To my left the road overlooked a patchwork of fields. The harvest was in full swing and, where the verge allowed, a golden bounty of corn was spread out on tarpulins to dry.

The north coast scenery is simply stunning. Jungle-clad hills caress the mangrove encrusted shoreline of Telok Salleh, its calm waters the perfect haven for the fishing fleet that depends of its bounty.

In places troops of long-talied macaques patrolled the roadside, a white-chested sea eagle dined on the carcass of a fair-sized monitor rendered flat by a truck's Michelins - the road is rarely boring.

Around lunchtime, I pulled up at one of my favourite haunts: Warung Ikan Bakar, Telok Santong. I'd been stopping by for six years to dine on fresh fish barbequed over hot coals. Served with a salad of cucumber, cabbage, corriander, a spicy sambal and a dish of soy sauce it was the perfect way to kick back and rest for an hour.

Known to every truck driver in Sumbawa, the business had flourished over the years. Ibu Baitiri, the enterprising owner, was born in Sumbawa of Javanese parents who had migrated in the 70s. Her father started farming and then producing roof tiles. She'd set up business in 2008 with three little pavilions, their feet planted in the calm waters that lapped the shoreline of the inlet. Now there were fourteen pavillions and a staff of six. Ibu Baitiri had four kids and proudly told me that her eldest was studying at university in Java. She was a hard-working woman and smart too. She didn't go to market anymore. Instead, traders brought fish to her. Knowing that she only bought the best, they always brought the best so everyone was a winner.

After a slap up meal and a pleasant conversation with a retired agricultural officer, I made my goodbyes and headed for my bike. Whilst gearing up I was approached by three young women who asked if it would be alright if they talked to me. Is the Pope from Argentina? They were English teachers from the senior high school in Plampang, explained Kadarwati. Her colleagues, Cutradewi and Wulandani said that they rarely got a chance to meet a native speaker. They had never seen a tourist in Plampang.

By late afternoon I'd made it beyond Sumbawa Besar via the by-pass. But the weather was closing in. Dark clouds, coming from the direction I was heading, massed on the horizon. The wind sprang up; large droplets were bouncing off my cheeks. It was time to look for shelter. I found an abandoned building, complete with veranda but, by the time I got in out of the rain, I was semi-soaked.

I donned my wet weather gear and pushed on. The rain sheeted down and a veil of gloom dropped over the road. Most traffic had stopped but I battled on, for a while, until my engine began to run rough after being showered by water thrown up by a passing truck.

I took shelter again at a warung along with a dozen other riders. The rain hammered on the tin roof of the veranda; it was digging in. I had a decision to make. Maluk lay two hours away, with no guarantee that my engine would run smoothly in the drenching rain. The ferry home to Lombok was half an hour distant. Taking the latter option would see me make landfall in the dark at Kayangan Harbour and I'd still have a two hour ride to get home. Of course if it was raining in Lombok my gamble would have failed. I decided to take a punt and turn for home.

My luck was in. Kayangan had seen some rain but it had stopped well before we docked. I coasted out the port gates and swept along the corniche that led to town.

After a two hour battle with the poorly adjusted headlights of on-coming traffic, I made it home at 9.30 after a fourteen hour day. I had to accept that I had failed for the second time to reach my goal. I'd covered 1000 kilometres in three days aboard my KLX150. I'd met some lovely people and seen some glorious scenery. I'd had an adventure and I'd survived it. Travel: it's not only about the destination, it's about the trip.

Photos: 2014 Lombok, Sumbawa Flores

merantau — Sun, 8 Mar 2015 11:20:00 GMT

3000 km motorcycle trip

Flores - it drives me round the bend! Part 2. Hu'u Beach to Bajawa.

merantau — Sat, 7 Mar 2015 17:04:00 GMT

Mt. Tambora - it had defeated me this time. As I rode towards Hu'u Beach memories of my climb there in 2008 returned. It was a special place made more so because few outsiders ever got to visit it. On April 15, 1815 the world shook. Tambora exploded and 150 cubic kilometres of mountain was catapulted 43 km skywards from where it circled the globe, blotting out the sun and cancelling the northern hemisphere summer the following year. In west Sumbawa, ninety thousand people perished; famine stalked the land both there and in Europe. Standing on Tambors's rim, gazing into its gaping 6.5 km wide crater, I came face to face with my insignificance. Momentarily lost in reverie, a wheeling sea eagle apppeared overhead just in time to drag me back into my present world of engine hum and road noise.

I motored through Soriuti and made my way towards Dompu. Fields of rich green padi, criss-crossed with scare lines festooned with plastic bags, bordered the road. Before long I reached the outskirts of Dompu town; onion-domed mosques dotted the skyline. I wove through the narrow streets adjacent the market, the cackle of my exhaust mixing with the clip-clop of horse drawn dokars. I kept a sharp eye out for the road signs that would guide me to the bridge across the river and the road to Hu'u beach.

I was now deep into the afternoon and I caught myself daydreaming instead of concentrating on the road - a sure sign tiredness was kicking in. Forty kilometres to go. I motored through teak forests, farmland and scrub, only seeing the occasional vehicle but encountering numerous herds of wandering goats. I passed by Bugis settlements, with their characteristic stilt houses perched above the sea, boats pulled up on the beach, nets drying in the sun and corn cobs roasting on open fires.

I needed a break so pulled in to a warung for a coffee. A handful of people were busy skinning garlic and onions, preparing food for a selamatan. Warm smiles and friendly conversation are staples on the menu at these roadside halts and before long the neighbours appeared and some good-natured joshing took place. The woman who made my coffee was a widow: Was I looking for a wife? I explained that I already had a wife waiting my return. "No matter", they joked, "have a wife in Sumbawa and one in Lombok. Best of both worlds!" Photos were duly taken and I was on my way again.

The road took me to the coast again. The far shore of the bay played host to a jagged range of hills above which rose the smoke of distant fires. The first signs of tourist activity appeared - a crude statue of a surfer atop a plinth proclaiming: "Lakey Peak." I spotted the gateway to Monalisa Homestay and rode on in. Robbie, the manager, greeted me like an old friend and directed me to a bungalow facing the beach. It felt good to be back. A cool shower, a change of clothes and a cold beer with which to watch the sun slide away, is a trifecta that spells "Relax and Enjoy!"

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Night falls quickly in the tropics. On the search for food, I made my way carefully along the walkway that ran between the strip of modest hotels and the beach. Sometime in the previous year a massive storm had wreaked havoc and entire sections of foundation and paving had been ripped up and tossed about. Locals told me it had been the worst storm in living memory. All the beach-side warungs had been flattened and had now re-located inland. Over a meal of chicken and rice at Mamma's I got a vivid description of raging seas and winds that "roared like djins." It was a frightening couple of days. Beyond the reach of the beach-side lights the water lapped, quiet and benign - until next time. I made my way back to Monalisa and fell into an effortless sleep. It had been a long day.

I woke at dawn, went for a swim, then took a shower. Watched by an inquisitive dog, I gave the bike the once over, adjusting and lubricating the chain and checking the tyre pressures. As a reward for his supervision, I tossed Fido the remains of some bread that I'd been toting around since the day before. He seemed quite satisfied with the exchange. Robbie reckoned there was a late afternoon ferry from Sape that would get me to Labuhanbajo around midnight - not the most ideal time to make landfall but better than spending a night in Sape. So, I packed up and loaded my gear - next stop Dompu for breakfast. I bade goodbye to Robbie, one of nature's gentlemen. A native of Flores he'd managed Monalisa for years. Ever helpful, always up-beat he made people feel welcome at his modest establishment and he never forgot a face.

I made it to Dompu mid-morning which comes early in Indonesia - around 9.00am. At a stall near the market I tucked in to a leisurely breakfast whilst watching the comngs and goings of shoppers, traders and idlers. Mums, with pre-schoolers in tow, lugged their purchases from stall to stall. The meat delivery man arrived, a freshly slaughtered goat slung over his shoulder. Sacks of onions were being thrown from a truck onto a hand cart the size of a small truck. A cat, sporting a deformed tail, rummaged through a waste basket in competion with a swarm of blue-black flies, a dog wandered by, a truck started up and belched a stream of black exhaust skywards. A man hosed down the footpath outside his shop, a hand-rolled smoke clinging to the corner of his mouth. I drained the last dregs from my coffee. It was time to go.

The town's one-way system disgorged me onto the Bima road and I soon found myself in open country. A series of sweeping bends carried me beyond a range of low hills to a broad coastal plain. Light traffic and a wide, straight highway made for good progress. Before long I was in salt making country. Flatland, criss-crossed with bunds, which the Indonesians call 'pematang', stretched to the coast. Between these artificially created ponds lay pyramids of harvested salt. Sparkling, crystaline, white, they glistened in the mid-morning light, stark contrast to the cracked brown earth of the bunds and dried out evaporation pools. All around the landscape was dotted with little huts where the workers could take shelter from the fierce midday heat. At the roadside stacks of white woven-plastic sacks of harvested salt lay awaiting collection. My boots crunched on the gravel as I made my way towards my parked bike. Surrounded by silence I put on my helmet and gloves, fired up the motor and engaged first gear - time to get moving again.

Time on my side, I was just cruising the smooth, broad, highway. With no apparent dangers I took in the scenery. Passing riders waved and when a couple of guys on a 250cc Honda overtook me they gave me the thumbs up. Around midday Bima Bay appeared. This long, narrow inlet, barely 400m wide where it met the open sea, had provided safe harbour for seafarers since ancient times. Its normally placid surface was being whipped up by a stiff onshore breeze. Fishing boats at anchor bobbed and swayed, powerless to resist the assault of the whitecaps. A massive cargo ship lay close to shore its crew busy painting the superstructure. I found a short track, which ended at a low wall adjacent to the sea, and dismounted. I took a few photos and before long was joined by a pretty, young woman. She was dressed in riding gear and had been having a coffee at a nearby stall when I pulled up. Manda was her name and she'd just returned from a ride to Surabaya where she'd visited her grandparents. She was riding a 200cc Honda Tiger, most unusual, as the vast majority of Indonesian women rode scooters. I commented on this and she replied: "My Dad encourages me to be independent and self-reliant. He wants me to forge my own path." I took a couple of photos of Manda posing with my bike, Bima Bay looking on. The wind ruffled her thick, black hair. She tossed her head so as to free up her face for the photo. What a pleasant way to while away a few minutes.

I set off again for Bima town barely thirty minutes away. My stomach told me it was lunchtime so I was on the lookout for a suitable eatery. Turning left at a tee-intersection I saw it; "Bakso Favorit" proclaimed the large professionally painred sign on a brick wall. I pulled up in the shade beneath an awning that sheltered the forecourt. Dining was alfresco and the place was humming. The crew, dressed in matching black pants and orange tee-shirts emblazoned, "Bakso Favorit", buzzed around like wasps on steroids, serving food, cleaning tables, shouting out orders to the kitchen staff, all the while laughing and joking with customers. I took a seat at a long table. The customers were mostly neatly dressed office staff with a sprinkling of women with their young kids. I ordered chicken soup and a glass of hot orange. A couple of minutes later my order appeared - a big bowl of piping hot soup with lashings of shredded chicken, bean shoots, fried onion flakes, spring onion and a fried boiled egg swimming in the most delicious spicy liquid. I ate with gusto. The hot orange served in a huge glass, with plenty of sugar, was so good I downed it and ordered another. My appetite was sated and my thirst slaked; when I threw my leg over the bike I felt ready to take on the world!

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From Bima to Sape was a leisurely two hour ride that climbed and dipped through a range of hills interlaced with deep green valleys. Passing through a forest I came face to face with a group of gamboling macaques being fed by passengers who were throwing fruit from their parked bus. The monkeys formed a roiling, rolling scrum of flying limbs and whipping tails, each morsel an object of intense desire. As soon as a prize was snared the winner would scurry off only to be confronted by would-be stand over merchants. Bared fangs and malevolent grimaces sometimes saw the muscle men off, but, more often, the fruit would be dropped in order to avoid a savage mauling; the alpha male had the cold, emotionless eyes of a serial killer. I have no trust in monkeys that have become used to human contact having seen them operate in Ubud's monkey forest where they now roam in plague proportions. When the bus food ran out a couple of the bigger, bolder ones approached me; I left them eating dust.

The ferry to Flores takes six hours and leaves from Sape which means ‘cow’. This little cattle-exporting port is peopled by Bugis settlers from South Sulawesi. Famous seafarers, and boat builders, they still ply their skills in the town, fishing and hand crafting their magnificent pinisi schooners. For centuries they sailed from Makassar in South Sulawesi to the Gulf of Carpenteria, in northern Australia, to collect teripang or sea cucumber, a delicacy among the Chinese. These adventurers would sail on the south-east monsoon, spend months collecting and smoking their bounty and then return on the north west winds with their prize. They established friendly relations with the Aborigines, took Aborigines back to Makassar and only withdrew from this trade in 1903 when the new formed Commonwealth Government put a stop to it.

Sape 3.00 pm. I pulled in for juice at a brand new servo near the port. The young woman at the pump informed me that the ferry would leave at five. Robbie had been right about a late afternoon ferry and when I breezed through the port gates there it was at the quayside. I paid my AUD$18 for a ticket and rode aboard.

Up on deck I found vacant set of seats, stowed my gear and made myself comfortable. A few minutes later, to my surprise, a couple of Caucasian faces emerged from the stairwell that led to the vehicle deck. They belonged to Marta and Veronica, a mother and daughter double-act, who were spending a month cruising around Indonesia. from the outset I knew they'd be interesting company. They wanted to see the Komodo dragons. Air fares from Denpasar to Labuhanbajo were beyond their means so, they'd got a cheap flight to Bima and taken a bus from there to Sape - problem solved. I admired their pluck. They knew no Indonesian and Marta spoke little English. Veronica was fluent having just spent a year backpacking and working in Australia. The tales she told of unscrupulous employers ripping off backpackers did not surprise me. Forced to spend 88 days working in remote or regional areas if they want to extend their visas for six months, backpackers are like lambs to the slaughter for some. In Tasmania veronica worked at an orchard where 24 youngsters were charged $100 a week each to share two dorms that were freezing cold. The hot water service was totally inadequate for the two showers and they had to supply their own blankets. The rent was paid in cash and no receipts were given. $2400 per week tax free - a nice little earner.

At around six our ferry pulled away from the dock. Water taxis chugged by carrying passeners and cargo to a stilt village across the inlet. Large fishing boats and perahus, with outriggers extending ten metres either side, rested on the placid waters. As we sailed east the sun sank lower bathing the sky in a golden radiance which changed by the minute - tangerine, then orange, deeper orange, red, blood red, violet; the day was put to rest.

We sailed over a quiet sea. The lights of Sape disappeared to stern, stars blinked overhead and a crescent moon - silver scimitar of the sky - continued on its endless journey. My fellow passengers, for the most part, slept. Some sprawled out on the seats, sarongs drawn up over heads; others dossed down on the deck atop woven cane mats. I watched a cockroach snuffle through a pile of discarded peanut shells until it lost interest and returned to the home comforts of its drain. Vendors made desultory attempts to sell their wares, moving from passenger to passenger more by force of habit than genuine hope. Marta and Veronica sat, knees up, back to back on the bench seat in front of me chasing sleep. Lulled by the steady vibration of the engine and the rhythmic swish of sea against the prow I entered the twilight zone, semi-aware of my surroundings, not sure if my stream of consciousness was real or if a was dreaming.

It was midnight when we docked in Labuanbajo – ‘the port of the sea-gypsies’. I felt less than half-human. The town was asleep. Marta and Veronica disembarked and went to look for the Bajo Beach Hotel which was supposed to be near the port. I had to wait until I could retrieve my bike. I could just see its mirrors poking up from behind a Giza-like pyramid of sacked onions. I waited patiently for them to be loaded onto a pick up by a team of sweating navvies. Once clear I geared up, ascended the ramp and entered the deserted main street, accompanied only by the cackle of my exhaust: Labuhanbajo was sleeping.

I spotted Marta and Veronica standing beneath a street lamp looking forlorn. They couldn't find the hotel and everywhere else was shut for the night - it was low season after all. I told them to sit tight and await my return. I did a quick recce of the main drag scanning the myriad signs advertising restaurants, dive shops, tourist services, fishing tours, dragon spotting, hotels - but no Bajo Beach hotel and no sign of life either.

On the return trip I spotted the "Hotel Komodo Indah" a short distance from where I'd left Marta and Veronica. I parked the bike out front and opened the door. I expected to find a sleeping peon behind the desk but when I stared over the top, bare grimy floor tiles stared back at me. I called out and the hollow sound of my voice mocked my optimism. Even the Bates Hotel had more life to it. I ventured down the hall and tried a door. It was locked so, I tried another: also locked.

I found the stairs to the first floor ventured up. The first room I tried opened. By the light from the hall I could see it was unoccupied. I found the light switch. It revealed a double bed with mattress sans sheet. Stains of various hue and provenance were concentrated in the expected locations. There was probably enough DNA to keep a lab in work for a month. I went to the next room. It was better, if you could call an airless cell with no windows better. Two single beds with sheets, grayish in colour, but smelling clean, no furniture and an attached bathroom and toilet in fair shape. I figured the women would bed down here for the night. I checked the room overlooking the street - at least it had a window. There was a double bed and a mattress even dodgier than the first; fortunately, I had a ground sheet to take care of that problem.

I returned to Marta and Veronica with the news. They picked up their bags and followed me. I took Veronica upstairs to examine the room. She took a nano-second to come to a decision. "My mother would never sleep here!" she exclaimed vehemently. She spun on her heel and exited the room as if frightened she might catch the bubonic plague - or worse. I felt a little chastened, but couldn't decide whether my expectation that they might take the room was considered to be a slur on their character or mine. Without a hint of irony Marta said, "Let's return to the lobby and decide what to do." As we trundled downstairs I knew what I was going to do.

Marta and Veronica had a short, sharp conversation in Spanish before Veronica turned to me and asked, "What are you going to do?" It was past 1.00am and I was dog-tired. I felt less than chivalrous abandoning them in this sleeping town but I was past caring. This was a hotel. There were beds, the door could be bolted from the inside, I was sleeping across the hall from them; they would be safe. There is a time and a place for squeamishness but this was neither. "I'm sleeping here," I announced flatly. I didn't have to add, 'You can do what you like.' They could work that out for themselves. I went outside and unhooked my gear from the bike. Marta and Veronica began trudging up the main street because there was nothing else to do. I never saw them again.

I went back upstairs, threw my gear in the room with sheets, switched on the fan and undressed. What I wanted more than anything was to feel cool, clean water cascading over my body, washing away the patina of the day's traveling that clung to me like a second skin. I turned on the bathroom tap. There was a gurgle, then a hiss of escaping air, then a splutter. A trikle of rust-coloured water mocked my optimism. "Don't you realise?", it was saying, "This hotel has been abandoned. The owner fled east after his wife caught him in flagrante delecto with the house boy. There's no staff here. Nothing works. This is a non-hotel." Disgusted, I flopped on the bed exhausted. A minute later the fan stopped working. It was not long before the room heated up. I tossed and turned and played the atheist's last throw of the dice - prayer; sleep came after a struggle.

I woke with a start, the room filled with noise. A mosque next door! It was 4.30 am and the muezzin was marshalling the faithful. He seemed to relish his work. Like many, who cannot and could never sing, he'd taken for real the praise of those of his felows who were too polite to confront him with his inadequacies. When he finished his toneless droning, I made a delusional attempt to return to the land of nod but soon threw in the towel. I found a bathroom down the hall. It's bak mandi, or water container, was half full so I sluiced away the shroud of drowse that enveloped me with bucket loads of cool water. I was on my way east again before sunup.

Flores – the island of a zillion flowers, a million bends and barely a kilometre of straight road. Colonised by the Portuguese in the 16th century 95% of the population is staunchly Catholic. Religious practice is a syncretic mix of local custom and traditional beliefs. The island’s mountainous spine boasts fourteen active volcanoes and countless dormant ones waiting to spring to life again. The main road east is narrow. It twists and turns and climbs and dips. Hair pins are so tight and narrow you often find yourself dropping down into first to negotiate them both descending and ascending. The nature of the road brings out a sense of fellowship among the riders. Everyone waves or toots as they pass. If you stop for a break, others stop too to inquire if you’re OK.

The early morning air was brisk enough to jolt me into wakefulness, Just as well as the road demanded total concentration. An hour or so in to the day's ride and I came across a major disaster. A monster 18 tonne tray truck had failed to take a sharp downhill corner. It had gone straight on over the edge and now lay, stranded on its side in a tangle of greenery, ten metres below the surface of the road. Fortunately no one was badly injured. The driver was on the phone to hos boss - not a pleasant conversation to have, I imagine. In such a situation it could be weeks before the truck could be salvaged, if it could be salvaged at all.

As the morning wore on I realised I needed to charge my phone. I was out in the sticks but it wasn't long before I spotted a wooden shack whose wall housed a hoarding advertising cell phones. I pulled up and explained my predicament to the owner. "No problem, you can charge here," He invited me to sit on the veranda. Soon all the family gathered. "Have you had breakfast?" I was given delicious coffee and banana fritters to eat while waiting for the phone to charge. Luis's daughter, Rosaria, had just given birth to a boy. He was only two days old and they had yet to name him. Out he came wrapped in a blanket, lots of black hair, big eyes and chocolate skin. "Do you have a name for him?" I was asked. I thought for a moment. I'd always liked the name Luke. "What about Lucas," I suggested. They began voicing the name among themselves. "Yes, that sounds good. We'll talk it over with the priest. I'm sure he will like the name too."

The mountains stretched to the horizon, the volcanoes marched to the coast, the flowers blanketed the roadsides and the candlenut trees bathed the hillsides with their sugar-coated greenery. What a joy it was to ride that road east. I skirted pristine beaches, I passed through forests of giant bamboo, plunged down canyons to cross rock-strewn river bed via narrow bridges and climbed up again into the clouds to reach upland savannahs where, briefly, the road would straighten before continuing its sinuous journey to Bajawa. I reached the town in the late afternoon and found the perfect place to stay: Lucas Authentic Homestay and Resaurant. There was a secure spot to park the bike, the room was sparkling new, the restaurant had an extensive menu and the staff had friendly smiles. What more could a rider want after a day's travel across an island wonderland? And the beauty of it all? - there was still more to come!

END of Part 2

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This will become part 3 soon.

A restful night’s sleep saw me on the road early next day. I made my way across the island’s spine striking the north coast at Riung. It was there I met up with Yo-Yo and his mates - he riding a WLA Harley from 1942, the others on British iron from the early 60s – two Beezers and an AJS. They’d been cruising around for a month to celebrate Yo-Yo turning 60. It was great to spend time with these wayfarers.
I made a big circular sweep returning to Bajawa via a little used minor road. It was badly cut up in places and ate away at the daylight. I made it back to the hotel through the evening chill thirty minutes into the dark.
My penultimate day in Flores was a memorable one. I headed south this time to Waebela. The road wends its way downwards skirting the foot of Inerie whose perfect cone looms over the village and the adjacent port of Aimere. I made a detour to a deserted stretch of white sand beach and swam naked in the translucent water – there wasn’t a soul about.
I continued on to Aimere along a distempered track that followed the coast. I passed the occasional village and came across the odd road gang resting in the shade for the midday heat was intense. I rolled into Ruteng on dark feeling weary, but exhilarated, after riding through a brief shower – the first rain I’d experienced in three months.
My last day in Flores saw me head to the north coast again. I made for Reo a small fishing port. From there my map showed some minor roads back over the mountains to ‘Bajo. I made it to Reo by noon, the final hour of the trip taking me through a beautiful wide valley whose floor played host to a swiftly flowing stream.
Turning west at Reo I reached Kedindi. I took a break at asked directions from a Javanese shopkeeper. He looked at the list of towns I’d jotted down from my map and shook his head. He gave me different directions. I struck out as told but could not find the tee-intersection he told me to look for. I barrelled on asking directions as I went. There were no cars and only a few bikes. I was on a goat track. In five hours I saw two trucks and two 4WDs. The scenery, the adventure and the friendly locals are something I’ll never forget. People were wildly inaccurate in their estimations of distances and times but it didn’t matter. They were pointing me in the right direction. I only got lost once and when I did a young guy jumped on his bike and guided me for 10 km to set me straight again.
After a five hour trip I emerged from the mountains and struck a half-way decent road. It was only an hour to ‘Bajo; I’d make it just in time to see the sun sink over the horizon after bathing that pretty little bay in its glorious light. If you ever make it to Indonesia take my advice: “Head east – the east is where it’s at.”

Flores - it drives me around the bend! Part 1: Lombok to Mt Tambora

merantau — Thu, 29 Jan 2015 12:18:00 GMT

There is no better feeling than riding out the gate and hitting the highway astride a motorcycle. I'm beginning a road trip east. East, the exotic east! My imagination, fuelled by the exploits of explorers and adventurers past, and by the writings of literary giants, such as Burgess, Kipling, Conrad and Maugham, has always led me to believe that the further east you venture, the closer you get to being, 'out there', beyond the reach of the hum-drum. Am I indulging in romanticism gone mad? Or, will I indeed find myself in a new and exciting reality, as I, in the words of 60s rock giants Steppenwolf, "Head out on the highway, lookin' for adventure, and whatever comes my way."? The future is a blank canvas before me, one which I intend to decorate by drawing from a vivid pallete of anticipated adventures. The engine hums, the tyres thrum, the wind retreats as I slice through the cool morning and lean into the first bend. Does it get any better than this? You bet it does! The trip is underway!

I'm in Kuta, Lombok, heading two islands east to Flores. I've not been there for six years, I've never ridden there. It's an island of obscene beauty, 500 km long, 150 km wide. It sports a mountainous spine containing fourteen active volcanoes whose lower slopes are clothed in verdant jungle. The coast is indented with a myriad little bays and inlets, the valleys play host to rushing streams. The population is an eclectic mix of Indo-Malay and Melanesian types. Throw in an assortment of Javanese, Arabs and Chinese as well as 350 years of Portuguese colonialism and you have a combination guaranteed to set any ethnographer's pulse galloping..

I've set my bike up well with a home-made rack to which I've attached a PVC storage tube to contain spares and tools. My seat sports a self-made booster pad of 150mm thick, high-density foam. With this beneath me, numb posterior in the early afternoon should be dispatched to the dustbin of history - that's the theory anyway! Each item in my pack has been carefully chosen for utility and weight. I'm a minimalist by heart, which is just as well because you can't carry much aboard a KLX150. As it is, my pack, strapped to the tank and weighing just 11 kgs, still seems bulky. Whether or not it would pose a problem occpied my thoughts for a fleeting moment but such pre-occupation was soon replaced by sight of a signpost: "Kopang, turn left."

I began the long gentle climb between the fields of tobacco and padi. The road, smooth and straight, was shaded by clumps of bamboo. I came across a tangle of senior high school students let loose for a sports morning. They spilled from the schoolyard and commandeered most of the road, laughing and shouting, full of the exhuberance of youth. A couple of tearaways had managed to climb aboard a farmer's pick up. They yelled and gesticulated to their mates as they rode by in style while their compatriots Shank's ponied it to the sportsfield. Heroes for the moment, but maybe they'd be made to pay for their little adventure later in the day.

I reached the main west-east road and swung right into the busy traffic. Pelabuhan Kayangan, the "Port of Heaven", lay an hour away on the edge of the Alas Strait which separates Lombok from Sumbawa. To get there I still had to pass through some major conurbations - Tarare, Masbagik, Aikmel and Pringabaya. With a keen eye, and brake 'in hand', I plunged into stream of traffic determined to make it in and out of each bottleneck in one piece.

The scene alongside markets sometimes resembled a collapsed rugby scrum. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes jostled for space, drivers eager to load or unload passengers and goods. Hapless parking officials, their smart uniforms mocking their lack of authority, blew whistles to which no one paid any heed. Horses sweated in quiet resignation seemingly oblivious to the din swirling around them - I guess they'd seen it all before.

It was with relief that I left Pringabaya behind. The trip from here to the port was a doddle. I swung right at Kayangan's crossroads and cruised along the road following the shoreline of the pretty bay. Graceful fishing boats lay at anchor, scarcely moving on the sheltered waters. The foothills of Rinjani, draped in a filmy haze of blue-grey smoke, watched over the waters. I swept through the port gates, happy to see a ferry tied up to the quay, its ramp down, disgorging the last vehicles. I bought a ticket from a smiling clerk who wished me a safe journey. Five dollars got me aboard for the 90 minute trip to Poto Tano and Sumbawa, neglected by tourists but beloved by those who seek the road less travelled. I rode up the ramp and was directed to a spot where I could tie up. I busied myself with making the bike safe and unpacking my gear. Before long I was on deck and seated in the shade ready for the next leg of the journey.

Indonesian ferries may be tiny and aged but, nevertheless, they play a vital role in linking the islands of this vast nation together. In 2014, KM Munawar, a ferry I'd boarded a number of times, went down with the loss of three lives. I asked my fellow passengers what they knew about it. It was news to them. News, it seems, travels slowly in these parts. We were soon underway. A spruiker grabbed a mike and gave us a run-down of the safety and evacuation procedures emphasising, in particular, the dangers of smoking on board. As soon as he finished his spiel he lit up a smoke – I travel to experience something different and I wasn’t being short changed!

Kayangan – the Port of Heaven - lived up to its name if you ignored the grey pitted expanse of the car park and the cyclone wire fence against which lay a thousand discarded plastic bags driven there by the wind. As the dock retreated to stern the white hull of a ferry tied up for repairs glistened against the backdrop of the cascading foothills. The Alas Straiit shimmered under an azure sky. Little islets, some no more than sand bars really, poked their heads up to port. We slid over the tranquil sea accompanied by the steady beat of the engines. Hawkers with their trays of snacks, smokes and bottled water made the occasional sale. Passengers squatted in circles on the deck surrounded by cases and cartons.

I spent my time chatting with a wiry middle aged fellow on his way to a project in the Taliwang district accompanied by a couple of his apprentices. These two kids smoked constantly. I suspected this was their first venture into the adult world and they were trying to convince themselves that they fitted in. Their boss was a man of vast experience. As a young fellow in the 80s, he walked for 5 days through the Kalimantan jungle to free himself from the tyranny of an up-country timber camp where, gambling, fighting, fever and disease were ever present. Tough times breed tough people. He'd seen it all, he said, and now felt he was on easy street as project manager for a small constuction firm.

Poto Tano appeared, clinging to a barren stretch of coast, the jetty being its only reason for being. A few hardy souls scratched for gold in the denuded hillocks that poked up here and there. Upon disembarking I breezed out the port gates happy to be heading east. Sumbawa Besar city, and a bed for the night, lay two hours away along a good road that straddled the coast before winding inland through farming country and low scrubby hills. I zinged along feeling relaxed, enervated and free.

The road struck the coast again 15 km west of the city at a place called Batu Gong. Up until late 2013 this had been the site of a 200 metre long strip of what are euphemistically dubbed 'cafes' - read honky-tonks, cat houses, brothels - disguised as kareoke bars. It now looked like a bomb site. Quiet by day, racous by night, they'd been built on re-claimed land and rumour had it were the fifedom of the city constabulary. Be that as it may, the strip had attracted the ire of the religiously inclined who'd been agitating for the authorities to shut the eyesore down. In such an atmosphere it only needs an 'incident' to spark an inferno and towards the end of that year it happened. A Samawa Muslim woman died after a motorcycle, driven by her Balinese policeman boyfriend, crashed on its way back to town after an evening's carousing. Next morning the rumour mill went into overdrive powered by SMS. The girl had 'been raped and murdered'; the 'police were involved in a cover up'. A mob gathered, the police were caught off-guard and the local Balinese population, some third generation residents, became the hapless victims of hysteria. Businesses and houses were torched and the people fled for the nearest sanctuary they could find. Police reinforcements were flown in from Lombok and eventually order was restored. Fortunately there was no loss of life. Batu Gong was flattened by an excavator the next day. A little bit of religion can be a dangerous thing.

I headed straight for Hotel Tambora. The damage from the 2013 madness was still evident. Workers were busy in the foyer putting up a new ceiling. Enroute to my room I passed a wing of six rooms, gutted and destroyed by fire. Smoke-blackened walls enclosed roofless rooms whose floors were littered with boken tiles and the assorted flotsam and jetsom of mayhem. It must have been a terrifying few hours for the unfortunate victims of this madness.

My room was a cool oasis overlooking a pleasant garden. I showered and took a seat outside on the porch to unwind and enjoy the stillness of early evening. It had been a perfect start to the trip and I was looking forward to many more days of the same. The light faded quickly. Soon the sound of azan could be heard calling the faithful to a mosque in the middle distance. I've always thought it to be a very beautiful sound. It seemed to float over the city momentarily quieting other sounds - as if to establish its pre-eminence.

I took my evening meal in a nearby restaurant. Plain rice, tempeh manis, cassava leaves in coconut, mixed vegetables and fried chcken with a dollop of delicious sambal. The young waitress fancied herself as a budding femme fatale as she inquired langrously, "Where you from Mister?" "Where you go, Mister?" "Where your wife, Mister?" Satisfied with my answers, she sashayed off to the kitchen, turning her head as she went: "You want anything, you call me, OK?"

The meal was delicious. I paid my bill. "You come again Mister when you go back Lombok, OK?" I suppose I was a bit of a diversion as I can't remember the last time I saw a tourist in Sumbawa Besar city and I've been there many times over the years. Back at the hotel I cranked up the air con, and hit the sack. I slept the sleep of ten men, walking the street of dreams in blissful solitude.

The next day saw me up with the street sweepers, the early morning walkers and the foraging crows. I rode east down Diponegoro and soon found myself marooned in a hive of activity outside the market. Trucks, bemos, dokars, hand carts and motorcycles jostled for space in which to load and unload passengers and goods. Sarong-clad women moved gracefully between the chaos, purchases balanced on their heads. Stalls laden with melons and pineapples lined the roadside, tarpulins of whitebait glistened beside cane baskets brimful of sardines and woven mats piled with scarlet chillis. The noise of commerce reverberated around me duelling with the honking of horns and shouted imprecations of the traders. I slowed to walking pace, edging my way through the throng, wary of kids and the elderly whose judgment might lacking. Soon the road opened up; released from the clutches of the throng I was on my way!

The ride passed alternately through rock-pocked, parched hills and alongside a pristine indented coast, deserted save for tiny fishing villages their perahus drawn up the beach beyond the caress of the waves. Being dry season the hills had been put to the torch. Blackened knobs, criss-crossed with the dun-coloured tracery of goat tracks, took on a jigsaw-like appearance. Every now and then I'd come across burning fields. Bands of thick smoke rose from the cracking stubble to blanket the road and reduce visibility. Naked flames licked at the verge; ancient stumps glowed and fizzed red hot when stuck by the gusting wind. My exposed face burned as I passed by. Thirsty, I kept up the fluids taking generous swigs from my Camel Back. Plampang, a regional town, came and went, then Empang did the same. Then the road reached the coast again prior to climbing high above the sea. Salleh Bay, blue and wide, stretched below me its surface rippling and glinting in the sun. I pulled over. A lone fishing boat, the chug-chug of its single cylinder diesel the only sound, save for the whisper of the breeze through nearby kapok trees. The little craft made for an islet off shore a vee-shaped wash marking its progress. It's moments of peaceful solitude, such as this, that remain vivid and alive in the mind's eye long after the last kilometre of the journey has been racked up.

I continued on my way climbing ever upward to a pass that opened up the way to a broad, fertile valley watered by a wide river. On either side a patchwork of padi fields bore witness to the richness of the soil. Enterprising women had set up stalls selling snacks, drinks and cigarettes. I took another break and enjoyed some casual banter. Refreshed by lively conversation, and a strong balck coffee, I bade my good byes and commenced the descent to the valley floor. A succession of sweeping bends, each one accompanied by a perceptible rise in ambient temperature, finally ended in a straight stretch of road. My Kawasaki hummed along at ease with the world. Before long I was at Soriuti where I would turn left for Mt Tambora. I bought fuel from a roadside stall, never a problem in Indonesia, and inquired about the road. To my delight it had been upgraded the previous year. I'd made a nightmare trip along it in 2008 aboard a Honda Vario scooter, so, this was welcome news.

With a full tank, and the wind at my back, I headed north-west for Mt Tambora. I was looking for a turn off to the east, about 50 km down the road, which would take me to a spot called "Post 3", a rude shelter in which to rest up for the night. From there it was only three hours climb to the 2800 metre summit. The road was, indeed in excellent condition. It passed through sparsely populated savannah country; the occasional shack and a few wandering black goats, were the only signs of life. The sun beat down and my tyres sang as I cut through the breeze.

As anticipated, after travelling about 50 km, I found the track into the scrubby forest and turned east. It was sandy. And when not sandy it was covered in powdery dust. Staying upright became a focus. About 7 km in I came to the first steep incline. Sandy and rocky I made it half way up before picking the wrong line and coming to a halt, front wheel snookered by a boulder. I tried to wriggle sideways a little but in doing so found myself sliding backwards. I managed to keep the bike upright for a few metres but then it lay over with me flailing beneath it. I got out from under, freed my pack from the tank, chucked it aside and got the bike upright. Flooded, it wouldn’t start. I turned the petrol off and lay it over slightly on the opposite side. It was midday and hot. There was no one around; my progress – or lack of it – witnessed only by a few wild horses and a couple of glossy black pheasant.

I took a drink. Refreshed, I had another go at the bike. The engine roared to life. With no gear aboard, to play havoc with my centre of gravity, I found the bike easier to handle so made it to better, flatter going without a hitch. I reloaded and set off again.

A couple of kilometres later I hit a steeper, longer stretch in worse condition than the first. Foolishly, I charged up fully loaded. Same result, only this time I took some bark off my shin. I cleaned the wound with water and applied antiseptic and a plaster. Beads of perspiration dripped from my nose. I unloaded the bike. Again she wouldn’t start. I left her and went for a walk further up the track. It looked OK but logic told me it had to get steeper and tougher. I still had maybe 25 km to go. Help was a long way off if I found myself in extremis.

I walked back to the bike. She started first go. I would have to go up as there was no easy way to turn around. I picked a line and gunned the motor. Lurching and bucking over large rocks I made it to the top of the rise and turned around. I could see back down to the coast. I knew a cool beach hangout that I could make before dark. I may be old but I’m not a fool. You have to know your limits and I was giving mine a right old nudge. I decided to turn back and head for Hu’u Beach. Mt Tambora would have to wait another day.

(Mar. 7/15. Part 1 is now finished. TO BE CONTINUED

Through the Badlands to Bangko- Bangko

merantau — Wed, 11 Sep 2013 18:36:00 GMT

BACK ROADS TO BANGKO-BANGKO

Every road trip begins with a fistful of throttle and this one was no different. I roared out the gate and swept over the 100 metres of powdered dust that separates home from the bitumen. On to the by-pass road I swung a left, making a bee-line for the first break in the median strip. A quick U-turn and off I went, heading for the big roundabout opposite Triputri Homestay and Store. I negotiated the roundabout wrong-way-round, Indonesian-style, past the yet to be occupied ‘Art Market’ and turned right at the tee-intersection. I rode past Warung Jawa and the Magic Bar and past the smoked fish sellers, their fires giving off ribbons of grey-blue smoke in the early morning air. I slowed to walking pace at the main intersection opposite Lombok Discovery – all clear, I charged across heading west for Bangko-Bangko via the badlands of the south-west, whose hills were populated by a rag-tag army of gold fossickers from all points of the compass. I was looking forward to the trip.

I swept past the Prabhu headland and wound my way through a succession of tiny hamlets, the road climbing at first gently, then steeply to a sharp left-hand hairpin that announced the beginning of the spectacular climb to the pass. Over my left shoulder a blindingly blue ocean rose and fell. Lines of waves rolled forward exhausting themselves on the reef in a timeless symphony of movement and spray.

At the top of the pass the road levelled out before beginning its long descent to Are Goling. To the left I passed the caves where, according to legend, a giant once lived. To the right the hills and valleys marched to the horizon. The glorious sweep of the coast appeared along with the first major gold workings. Ramshackle huts held together with rope and vines and covered with blue plastic canopies dotted the hillside. I’m not sure that the million dollar view was much compensation for the men who toiled all day in the heat and dust urged on by gold fever and sustained only by a diet of rice and ... whatever. These hardy souls are risking all and some will pay a high price for the gold they glean from the stubborn hills. Using mercury and cyanide to process the auriferous slurry in a crude smelting process bereft of any safety equipment is risky business. Talk among the locals is of an increase in stillbirths and cattle getting sick but who knows the real story? There are no Health Department officials collecting statistics here.

I left the miners to their game of roulette. Not long after I came across an accident. A young French couple on a scooter had hit the deck after striking a thin layer of sand atop a left-hander. Inexperience trumps enthusiasm every time. It might seem like fun to be trundling around back roads in a land far from your native Lyon but if you don’t know how to ride you often end up oozing blood and nursing a damaged ego – if you’re lucky. If you’re not, you might end up dead.

I stopped to lend assistance. Pascal was bleeding quietly; he’d managed to wound three out of four limbs. Trembling a little he was still seated in the dirt. His girlfriend, Aimee, was a little better off with just a cut on her foot. The scooter was ok apart from the obligatory scratches. An English couple, John and Susan, had stopped too, and between us we hatched a rescue mission. We’d take the wounded back to town while Susan would wait for our return.

We doubled up. I enjoyed a lively conversation with Aimee about French film and politics, my aim being to distract her from their current woe – it was their first day in Lombok. We reached their homestay in no time, left Pascal and Aimee in the capable hands of the owners, and bade them all farewell.

We found Susan sitting patiently reading a book on Quantum Physics – as you do. She was so engrossed – such is the attraction of the Higg’s Bosun - she barely looked up when we rocked up. We gave her an update and I said my goodbyes knowing, although it was highly unlikely we’d ever meet again, we were united forever until this shared experience faded from one of our memories: the fleeting encounter that leaves a lasting impression.

The sun was climbing the blue-sky backdrop as I rode west. Beyond the Mawi Beach turn off the road began its lovely sinuous climb up through what I called ‘The Green valley’ – a tear in the hills populated by monkeys, alang-alang and fresh air. Being dry season ‘Green Valley’ had a distinctly brown tinge to its flanks. At the top of the pass women worked away at the alang-alang cutting and assembling roofs for the next monsoon. The road then made a steep plunge through a guard of honour comprised of stately acacias before levelling out on the coastal plain.

At Selong Blanack I turned north climbing steadily for a few k, the land to each side dry and thirsty, the rains still months away. At the top of a rise I came to a roundabout built around a magnificent old beringin tree. I asked the way and was pointed in the right direction.

Twenty kilometres of gravel road slowed me. Caution rewards the cautious. At age 64 my years of ripping and tearing at the road in order to get somewhere faster than the next guy are long gone. I take pride in not having to put a foot down if I can help it. In addition I travel wearing shorts and my favourite travel shirt with its secret Velcro-sealed pockets beneath the armpits. I know that if I come off and hit the ground hard I’m going to lose lots of bark. So, I ride within my limits, keep my eyes skinned and ramp up the concentration on steep downhill sections.

There was little traffic. A few trucks kicking up the dust were passed on the climbs. There were no cars or pick-ups, just the occasional motorbike heading into market or heading home. This was an area of no electricity but it was on its way. Concrete poles lined the road – lives were about to be changed.

Just when I was getting a bit fed up with the gravel I struck bitumen. This road would take me south again to reach the coast at Pengatap. It rose and climbed and then reached a ridge which afforded glorious views of the coast. It was all downhill now. I roared into Pengatap and turned west again, the road hugging the coast. Brown cattle grazed not bothering to look up as I passed. In contrast, the gangs of schoolkids, in their brown and mustard uniforms, greeted me with a chorus of “Hello Misters”.

The bitumen ended when the road turned its back on the coast and climbed into the low hills. It was lumpy, bumpy and dusty, kitted out with lots of loose rocks and sand traps for the unwary. Sepi Bay appeared over my left shoulder; a sheltered backwater, it sparkled and shimmered beneath the sun’s gaze, a solitary perahu making its way towards the beach at Pangsin. The waters below me were crystal clear and the reef looked to be in good shape – a likely snorkelling spot to return to one day.

I breezed past Sepi and Kombang each little settlement supporting an impressive mosque; the devout were paying their dues on this stretch of coast. Around midday I pulled up at a warung in Slodong and ordered a black coffee.

Siti, the owner, was a garrulous woman. She was surrounded by her kids and grandkids and was content with her little business and the company of neighbours and passers-by. She made a wicked black coffee so I had another prior to taking a few photographs of her with the grandkids and heading off for the most challenging part of the trip – the climb to the high ridge and the journey along it to the west.

A distempered strip of bitumen took me to the end of town. Then the road became a track as it climbed and climbed and climbed. I was happy climbing. Gunning the engine, seeking the safest route, shifting between second and first and back to second, shifting weight from side-to-side or forward-to-rear was exhilarating. I met a couple of riders going the other way and gave them clear passage as they tip-toed downhill negotiating a wash-away. It felt fantastic to be in the back of beyond of nowhere. To the north lay rugged scrubby hills, their tops denuded and pocked with the aftermath of gold mining. Blue roofed canopies covering still active operations were plentiful.

To the south lay the sea – Batu Jonggot Bay and Mekaki Bay. Hundreds of metres below me this azure mass rose and fell propelling its waters against the rocky coast to release a maelstrom of white water and spray. Grey-black headlands stared down the sea coldly indifferent to its efforts to obliterate them. "We've been here a billion years. Do your best but we're not in a hurry to go anywhere." I marveled at this stupendous coastline. It has never been mentioned in any guidebook, never made a list of ‘World’s Most Beautiful ...’ , and I had it all to myself. I felt privileged.

I continued on stopping frequently to take photos. I came upon a rude dwelling and stopped to chat with the three folk shooting the breeze on the veranda. Dahlan, Misbik and Inak Idin had a million dollar view but had to scratch a living from the earth surviving on the corn, cassava and bananas they planted on their patch. Life was not easy in their world but it had its compensations – peace, quiet, no nosy neighbours to gossip about you, the cool breeze blew every day and the view was like a drug you couldn’t tear yourself away from.

I asked them about life in the hills. Had they ever been tempted to try their luck with the pick and cangkul? No, it was dangerous work and the risks were many. There was nothing out there except hard work and hope. No guarantees of anything. No police, no medical, no nothing – ‘Just the ‘law of the jungle and lots of holes to get rid of the bodies’.

I took a few photos and promised to drop by again which i will for sure. Dahlan surprised me with the news that the bitumen began again at Rambutpetung and it was only a few kilometres away. I waved goodbye and headed out of their compound. Sure enough fifteen minutes later I reached the promised road, a newly-laid blacktop. This was a bit of an anti-climax as I wasn’t expecting to strike good road for at least another twenty kilometres.

I sped north and soon struck the coast near Kayuputih. From there to Bangko-Bangko was a doddle. The road clung to the side of the bay, fishing boats bobbed, waves lapped gently, cattle grazed and villagers lolled about lazy-afternoon style. Labuhan Poh came and went, Bangko-Bangko arrived. I travelled the last few kilometres of unmade road and ended up in a fishing village. After a brief chat with Putu, a visiting Balinese, I headed off again along the sandy track that skirted the shore. The sea was pancake flat – not a wave or board to be seen.

So this was Bangko-Bangko. I’d made it by the back roads – just as I’d set out to do. I was satisfied. The trip had rewarded me with some spectacular views and some memorable encounters. I’d met some lovely people on the way, managed to keep all bark intact by remaining upright, and now I had the pleasure of returning home by an alternate route. I made it back to Kuta just after 5 pm. I’d been away all day and although tired and dusty the blood was still coursing through my veins. I was alive and full of the love of life. Give me an open road, a blue sky and a motorbike – the rest will take care of itself.

Photos: Back Roads to Bangko-Bangko

merantau — Tue, 3 Sep 2013 22:27:00 GMT

Road trip through the badlands of SW Lombok

Horizons Unlimited - the go-to site for Motorcycle Adventurers

merantau — Thu, 15 Aug 2013 00:06:00 GMT

Around the World Travellers Grant and Susan Johnson, 11 years on the road and not finished yet, run a website for motorcycle travellers, featuring the 'Horizons Unlimited Motorcycle Travellers' e-zine,' delivered to your e-mail box free for the latest Travellers' News, and a Bulletin Board to keep in touch with other travellers and ask all the questions you want! There's hints and tips and plenty of info to help you get on the road yourself. A must site for the traveller!

Horizons Unlimited World Motorcycle Travel:
Home page for everything you could need!
http://www.HorizonsUnlimited.com

Photos: Sumbawa Hard Way Round. Tepal - Sumbawa's Timbuktu

merantau — Fri, 9 Aug 2013 19:16:00 GMT

Road Trip

Sumbawa Hard Way Round. Tepal - Sumbawa's Timbuktu

merantau — Fri, 9 Aug 2013 18:49:00 GMT

SUMBAWA HARD WAY ROUND. TEPAL – SUBAWA’S TIMBUKTU

My wrists and arms ached as I slowly negotiated another torturous descent some way along the track to Tepal, a remote village deep in the mountainous hinterland behind Sumbawa Besar city. I’d been tackling the dirt, rocks, slush and challenging gradients for an hour and guessed I might be half way but really had no idea. The guesstimates of locals in the last village before the bitumen ran out – Batu Dulang – had varied wildly. I was on my own in the forest and was likely to remain so for a while yet; just me and the road. And that’s the way I liked it unless, of course, trouble reared its ugly head - then I’d be on the lookout for the first friendly local to rock up and lend me a hand!

The day had begun well. I’d breakfasted at my mate Eric’s bakery in Jalan Hasanuddin. A plate of delicious lumpia and curry puffs washed down with a black coffee had sent the blood coursing through my veins. I was reminded of the old Shoshone Indian saying: 'The man whose spirit is not lifted by having a full stomach has been watching too much commercial television.'

So,I was set for the Tepal Track. I’d been on it the previous year but it had bested me. I was on a Honda Vario scooter. A good machine that had taken me down many a long, lonely track in the backblocks of Sumbawa. But the Tepal had a character all its own. It was an up, down, turn around, climb a little, dive a little, twist a little, squirm a little, scare-a-lot type of track. After tackling it for half an hour on the Vario I had to throw in the towel. The Vario’s combi-brake system might be OK on the Sanur By-Pass, or the Tangerang Toll Road, but out on the Tepal it was a nightmare. Imagine trying to negotiate a 35 degree downhill comprised of dirt, sand, and loose rocks, golf ball to grapefruit in size, and not being able to use the back brake independently of the front. And, with an automatic gearbox thrown in for good measure. I must have been mad even to think about it. The penny finally dropped when I spent the last 10 metres of a particularly steep downhill in a semi-controlled slide legs out, like the pontoons of a catamaran, in a desperate attempt to keep the bike upright while slowing its progress.

But this time round I was better prepared. My steed was a Kawasaki KLX150 road/trail bought new a couple of months previously and just run in. The KLX was light, at only 108 kgs, and agile. The single cylinder 4-stroke packed plenty of punch and, as it’s always been my policy to travel light, there was no extra weight for it to lug around. The bike had already proven itself on the south coast track between Sekongkan and Lunyuk so, when I left the mango-tree shade of Eric’s front yard, I was feeling as confident as Mungo Park must have felt back in 1795 as he waved goodbye to Gao, on the Niger, to strike north for fabled Timbuktu.

I fairly zinged through the early morning traffic, crossing the bridge over the Brang Rea and heading out beyond the city’s environs. It wasn’t long before I was making my way steadily uphill between fields bordered by bamboo fences and the occasional rock wall. The road was good, the traffic as good as non-existent and the sun was climbing up a blue-sky staircase. All was well with my world.

I reached the beginning of the forest. Surrounded by greenery, sheltered by shade, the road began to wend its way downhill past the turn–off to Semongkat B, a village which could be reached via a beautiful sawah-encrusted valley. I’d passed that way the previous year but this time round I gave it a miss – Tepal was waiting for me somewhere ahead, perched atop a mountain ridge shrouded in early morning mist.

Deeper and deeper into the valley I went. I'd entered a world of giant ferns and almost perpetual gloom inhabited by nightjars and the spirits of the forest. Eventually the road bottomed out and I crossed a pretty stone bridge to begin the climb up the other side of the valley to Semongkat. I passed a number of fallen forest giants that had been rendered harmless by Husquvarnas. The road climbed steadily, carried upwards by a series of hairpin bends. After a long haul I spied the first houses clinging to the hillside, their red-tiled roofs prominent against the green backdrop of the slopes. I swept on through, and out the other side, heading for Batu Dulang.

Immediately the road became much narrower. There were many blind corners as it climbed upwards through the forest. Away to the west the hills rolled in an unbroken line, blue to the horizon. The air was fresh and crisp. I pulled up to enjoy the morning. The air was full of birdsong and beyond my view I could hear a tribe of monkeys chattering in a clump of giant bamboo. I stood there taking in the view through a window in the greenery, soaking up the solitude. My reverie was broken by the sound of an approaching rider - the first for quite a while. The rider waved as he passed by. It was time to move, so I fired up the bike, clicked into first and took off towards Batu Dulang.

I pulled up outside a house. The family were spreading coffee beans out onto a woven cane mat. They didn’t look at all surprised to see me. Tepal was 3-4 hours away they said. It had rained two days ago so the road might be a bit slippery they warned. I thanked them for their warning and rode off.

At the end of the village the road took a sharp right turn and the bitumen came to an abrupt end. This was it – the main event. True to form the road began a steep descent to a valley bottom. I was in first gear using engine braking and the back brake only. My eyes were pretty much focused just ahead of my front wheel seeking out the loose rocks that had to be avoided at all cost. A quick glance up every few seconds to assess the best route through the mire or the sand or the loose rock, seemed to be the way to go, so that was the way I went. I must say I felt a lot more comfortable heading uphill. Not having to worry about a front wheel lock-up, or sideways lurch due to an errant loose rock, was a relief.

I met a truck travelling in the opposite direction and stopped to chat. It was two hours to Tepal, the driver said. The road was bad he added, ‘so be careful’. We parted company and I started climbing again. At the top of the rise the road flattened out and I found myself in slippery red-earth country the road sliced up with deep wheel ruts separated by ridges of varying thickness. I couldn’t ride in the ruts. They were too deep and not wide enough to accommodate the bike. So I took my chances with the ridges hoping that I would not slip off the top of one and end up arse over.

I did ok for a while but then the inevitable happened. In a maze of ridges I picked one that, unknowingly, narrowed to a razor’s edge. The bike dropped off to the left. I threw out my right leg but found only the space of a wheel rut. Somehow I found terra firma but my left calf found the hot alternator cover. Ouch, that hurt! Somehow, and I really don’t know how, I managed to get the bike upright again without getting off. Apart from the angry red mark on my calf all was well with me and the bike so I carried on stiff-upper-lip style.

I reached a scattering of shacks – this was quite unexpected as nothing was recorded on my map. I pulled up beside three youths lolling about on a veranda and learnt that the hamlet was called ‘Punik”. They said Tepal was still two hours away. They smirked and draped themselves over each other revealing perhaps the familiarity that might arise when young men have too much time on their hands and not enough diversions. I left them for the beckoning road.

I came to a morass and stayed hard left adjacent the bank, brushing up against the foliage. A narrow ledge took me beyond the muck and onto some good going. I rounded a bend and passed a platform atop the bank above the road. A pretty woman called out asking where I was headed. She told me that Posu village was just ahead – another surprise. Shortly after, I came to a clutch of houses opposite a small school beside a soccer pitch. Posu was home to sixty families who grew coffee and kemiri nuts on small holdings in the nearby hills. Tepal was an hour away – maybe.

The track steepened and worsened. On the most precipitous sections I encountered the remains of what had once been bitumen. Some parts that had been concreted had stood up to the punishing monsoon rains a lot better. If these sections had not been concreted no vehicle could ever pass that way in the wet – sliding down, out of control, bank on the left, steep drop on the right, every driver’s nightmare.

I came to a bridge. A couple of young blokes were tying loads of sticks to the seats of their Honda Supras. Tepal, they informed me, was at the top of the hill. I raced up the broken concrete ribbon, eager to reach my goal. I’d been on the road nearly four hours and had covered 60 kilometres. I pulled up outside the primary school and took a photo. Some kids came along and the teacher appeared. A tiny old man fronted up. He proudly told me that “Tepal village is the ancestral home of all the people of West Sumbawa.’ I looked around. The village had one main unpaved street. The houses had steeply pitched roofs and walls of woven bamboo. The people cooked on open fires using wood gathered from the forest. They grew coffee and kemiri nuts, they’d had electricity for four years, four-wheel drive Toyotas, which they called ‘hard-tops’, had been able to reach the village for the last six years. Before that people carried the sick to Batu Dulang to seek transport to Sumbawa Besar for any medical emergency - a lot of people didn’t make it. Only the toughest could survive the cold and isolation of Tepal, Sumbawa’s Timbuktu.

Pak Mardan, the school teacher, invited me back to his house in Posu so I followed him back the way I’d just come. We pulled up in front of his simple wooden home and climbed the steps to enter the living area. The season’s coffee crop was drying on a tarp spread out in the yard. Mina, Pak Mardan’s wife, greeted me with a smile. They were gracious hosts and kindly invited me to stay the night. I declined their invitation but promised to drop in again next year. Pak Mardan gave me some of his coffee powder as a memento of my visit and, when I left, the entire village had assembled to wave goodbye.

The ride back was equally taxing. I stopped at the top of a steep descent to allow a 'hard top' to make its way up from the bottom. Its driver weaved expertly along the wheel ruts. Three passengers were in front, three were in back, including one atop the spare wheel and it was loaded to the gunnels with supplies, Tepal's three 'hard tops' were its lifeline to the outside world. Every item bought and sold in the village arrived by 'hard top'. Their drivers enjoyed immense status and wielded great power. I was reminded of a saying of the Walpiri people of Australia's Western Desert: 'The man who insults a 'hard top' driver won't be watching any new DVDs for a month.'

I found the steep downhills hard on my wrists and arms and was thankful when I made it to the bottom of each valley. When I got to the morass I took the same route crawling forward via the narrow ledge; this time the foliage was on my right. It was the narrowest of squeezes. Inevitably, a trailing vine caught my brake handle bringing me to an abrupt halt and throwing the back wheel to the left and down into the morass. I pulled up on the bars and got my front wheel down into the muck too. Then, putting as much of my body weight over the back wheel as I could, I gunned the engine and clutched my way steadily forward. I made it on to firm going, feet and lower legs covered in muck, but I was over the last major obstacle. The rest of the trip was easy. I knew that as long as I concentrated on the road and lived in the now, as long as I didn’t puncture, I’d make it back to Sumbawa Besar by late afternoon.

On the way back I stopped by a rocky stream to wash the mud from my legs. Feet dangling in the water, surrounded by the cool of the forest, my thoughts wandered over the events of the day. What a great day it had been. I’d met some lovely people, I’d experienced a pristine environment, I’d seen some wonderful vistas – rolling, forested hills, giant trees, rushing creeks with crystal clear water coursing along their boulder-strewn beds, and I’d made it to Tepal – Sumbawa’s very own Timbuktu.

I arrived back in Sumbawa Besar at 3.30 and pulled in to Eric’s bakery.

“How was It?” he asked

“Couldn’t have been better,” I answered.

“I made it all the way to Tepal. And look here,” I added, pointing to the red burn mark on my calf. “I even came back with a souvenir - and some coffee! Put the kettle on and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Photos: Wadu Pa'a: Remote Hindu/Buddhist Carvings

merantau — Mon, 29 Jul 2013 09:53:00 GMT

Road trip to the mouth of Bima Bay, Sumbawa

Sumbawa Hard way Round. Wadu Pa'a: Remote Hindu/Buddhist Outpost.

merantau — Sun, 28 Jul 2013 05:24:00 GMT

BUDDHISM'S EASTERN FRONTIER - WADU PA'A BIMA BAY.

He sideled up beside me hand outstretched. I was in Mataram Mall, Lombok's sole concession to the god's of 21st century consumerism. My first thought was: 'He's selling timeshare.' But I was wrong. Husni was an English teacher from Bima, in Mataram for an in-service activity. When I told him I intended to visit Bima he whipped out his mobile and said, "Make sure you go to Wadu Pa'a." I'd never heard of the place. His photos intrigued me. Shivaite lingams, merus, meditating Buddhas and Ganeshas, carved into an isolated escarpment at the mouth of Bima Bay. The die was cast. I had to see them for myself.

A couple of weeks later and I was heading out of the gates at Monalisa Cottages on Hu'u Beach, 43 km from Dompu. It was early. The cool breeze shook free the cobwebs of a good night's sleep and before long I was rolling along on my trusty KLX150. I surged past the Bugis fishing village facing Cempi Bay. The previous day's catch of white bait was already salted and laid out on mats waiting on the sun to do its job. Kids frollicked in the shallows, the men tended their nets and the women were hanging out the washing. People waved as I passed by.

The road left the shore line and climbed into teak country. Extensive plantings ensured that when the kids grew up and married there would be plenty of timber to buikd a house and some more to sell to get the newly-weds off to a good start.

Traffic was light, the road good. I motored through Rasabau village always on the lookout for a runaway kid, meandering geriatric or mangy hound on the prowl who's thinking about his next meal instead of what's coming around the bend. Adu village came and went and before long I was in Dompu's suburbs winding my way past the slow-moving bemos trawling the road for fares. Over the bridge, turn right, up the hill, follow the sign - Bima straight ahead. Into the Pertamina servo to fill up and then on again - next stop Sila. The road dropped down through a series of sweeping bends before leveling out to pass through farmland for the final blast into Sila, a largish market town where I'd have to turn left.

I pulled up to ask directions. The turn off was just ahead, marked with a sign that pointed the way to Donggo, ancestral home of the Dou Donggo people - Sumbawa's original inhabitants. They had resisted conversion to Islam since 1640. They retreated to the mountains when the Ruler of Bima, Ruma Ta Mu Batu Wadu, embraced Islam to become Sultan Abdul Kadir. However, in the 1930s they succumbed to the sugar-coated blandishments of Dutch missionaries. Their status today is somewhat ambivalent, their traditions slowly being eroded and there have been some conflicts with the local authorities in recent years.

The road north took me through tiny villages. The further I went, the drier the country became. The road narrowed and the population thinned out. I wound inland, traversing dry hills capable of supporting goats and snakes - but little else. Bima Bay appeared in the east a narrow finger of sea, sheltered and secluded: safe haven for centuries of seafarers. Blue water lapped the scrubby shoreline watched over by the occasional white-faced sea eagle.

I reached Bajo, a village inhabited by sea gypsies turned landlubbers. But the rthyhm of the waves still thrummed in their veins and the waters of Bima Bay lapped at their front steps. I asked directions and was told to keep heading north beyond Soromandi village.

I pressed on for a few more kilometres and asked directions from some teenage girls babysitting youngsters out front of their house. They looked a bit taken aback being approached by this lone rider out in the backblocks of Sumbawa. They pointed north. I continued on. The road became narrower and led to a village. Then it ended with a sharp left turn into a narrow cobbled street that ran between houses. This was not the way.

I asked the first person I met and he directed me back to whence I'd come. More enquiries, this time at a tiny shopfront where a tyre was being repaired. A young bloke offered to show me the way. It wasn't far so he jumped on his bike and I followed.

We went back past the babysitters. The road wound inland rising over a ridge and then down to run alongside a small inlet. My guide turned right off the road and carried on across dry mud flats adjacent to the sea and bordered by mangroves. We parked the bikes and walked a short distance to a man-made path that ran below a spur, the sea lapping at its base.

Before long we came to a wire fence and a gate. A few steps led up to a narrow, flat shelf at the base of a low escarpment. This was Wadu Pa'a - "Carved Stone' in the Bimanese language. The first group of merus were badly eroded but other carvings were in very good condition, especially the seated Buddha. The lingams had been executed with the usual degree of artistic licence that accompanies such efforts. There were carvings of candi in the typical Hindu style - reminiscent of Prambanan temple in Java - and one badly eroded Ganesha.

Standing there I could not help but wonder what life would have been like back in the 700s when the first monks entered the narrow mouth of Bima Bay to establish their hermitage; it later became a far flung oupost of the Kingdom of Airlangga. Lost to time for hundreds of years, visited now and then by the seafarers who plied the coast, the carvings existence only became known to a wider audience in 1910 when a Dutchman catalogued the first investigation of the site. Since then it has continued to exist on this lonely shore, forgotten and undistubed except for the few visitors who stop by to admire and pay homage to the ghosts of the past. I felt privileged to be able to count myself as one of them.

Photos: Sumbawa: Valley of the Forgotten Chiefs

merantau — Fri, 26 Jul 2013 13:42:00 GMT

Ancients sarcophagi in a peaceful valley

Sumbawa - Valley of the Forgotten Chiefs.

merantau — Fri, 26 Jul 2013 11:55:00 GMT

SUMBAWA HARD WAY ROUND - VALLEY OF THE FORGOTTEN CHIEFS

We left at 10 am sharp. My mate Eric, from Cipta Sari Bakery Jalan Hasanuddin No. 47 Sumbawa Besar, on his Honda Beat scooter and me on a Kawasaki KLX150 Roadtrail. Before setting off I fueled up on Cipta Sari's most excellent lumpia washed down with a strong black. If there's a bakery that serves better cakes and snacks in NTB/NTT then I'm yet to find it. And Eric's workforce of charming, ebullient young women make any breakfast there a memorable experience.

We bid adieu and headed out of town - destination Aik Renung, the Valley of the Forgotten Chiefs. The scene at the Pertamina servo on the outskirts of town was the usual busy one, with a dozen bikes queued up at the pumps. With full tanks and full bellies we hit the highway and threw a right at the T-intersection. This road would take us south towards Semamung. We'd have to turn left somewhere before Semamung but neither of us knew where and, in the absence of signs, we were toatally reliant on our GPS's - the tongues in our heads.

We passed a likely looking road branching left and continued on for a while. I signalled Eric to pull alongside and we decided it was time to employ the GPS. We rocked up to a couple of women on bikes and, sure enough, the likely looking road we'd passed was the one we needed.

Backtracking saw us heading south-west. After about 5km the blacktop ended and we hit a potholed mess. A few kilometres of this took us to a small village. More GPS work. We'd missed the turn. Another U turn, back track a couple of kilometers and there it was - a goat track leading into the scrub.

We forged on heading uphill, lots of rocky rises with loose stones eager to bring us undone. But we prevailed, sometimes riding with legs out, ready to get the feet down 'just in case.' We asked a farmer about the 'kuburan batu' or stone tombs. He looked back at us stony faced, bemused by the question. We rode on and pulled up by a rude shack. A dog barked. We called out. There was no answer.

The track got steeper. We were riding between low hills. The undergrowth was thick and at times brushed up against us as we picked our way along the track. Eric spotted a more substantial house in a clearing. We called out and from afar a voice answered. An old man appeared and confirmed we were on the right track. Another three sawahs, each one separated by scruby, low forest, and we'd come to some coconut trees. From there it was only a little bit further. We'd see a bamboo gate and a large house a couple of hundred metres away set beneath a huge mango tree. THe man living there could take us to the tombs.

The old man knew what he was talking about. At the bamboo gate we called out and a voice answered. A man appeared and beckoned us enter. Pak Slamet was employed to plant oranges - a new venture. He lived a spartan existence in this beautiful valley. 'Yes." he said, "I'm lonely here. I suppose I could go and talk to the Chiefs though. Do you want to see them now?"

We set off into the forest making our way upwards. The path was littered with dry leaves which crackled underfoot. It was dark and cool under the canopy. Then we emerged into the open. Before us stood a metal gate and beyond lay the tombs. In we went. They weren't huge, there weren't magnificent, but they were ancient. Who were these people, I wondered. What were their lives like all those thousands of years ago? What did they believe in? What did they achieve in life to be remembered so?

The tombs were tiny. Hollowed out of solid rock, a corpse would have had to be shoe-horned in to fit. Perhaps the bodies were cremated first, then entombed. The tops were carved with a simple geometric motif. The rocks themseves bore impressive carvings of human and animal figures, the most impressive being the crocodile. But there were no crocodiles in Sumbawa now and anyway these people lived far from the sea. And how did they carve the stone? They must have had metal tools but with whom did they trade? So many questions - so few answers.

Before long the caretaker of the site turned up. He'd been out in his fields. He invited us to sign the visitors book. Eric and I were the 10th and 11th visitors for the year - the date was July 17, 2013. Only one other non-Indonesian, an Aussie, had visited.

We went back to Pak Slamet's house and tucked in to the lumpia and cakes Eric had packed. Sitting under the giant mango tree in that peaceful valley I could not escape my thoughts. I was a world away, in time and place, from the everyday world I usually inhabited. The spirit of the Forgotten Chiefs lived on. Their names may have faded from history but their presence was still there, palpable and immortal, watching over the valley and imprinting itself on the conscienceness of the few souls who passed by to pay their respects.

Photos: Day trip to Tanjung Ringgit

merantau — Wed, 24 Jul 2013 17:20:00 GMT

Road trip to the S-E tip of Lombok

Photos: Sumbawa: Hard Way Round

merantau — Fri, 19 Jul 2013 15:22:00 GMT

Road Trip by Kawasaki KLX150

Sumbawa Hard Way Round: Part 1 Kamikaze Canine

merantau — Fri, 19 Jul 2013 15:14:00 GMT

KAMIKAZE CANINE – SUMBAWA: THE HARD WAY ROUND

He came barrelling out of the scrub to my right, a white flash against the greenery. In situations like this your mind slots into overdrive. I knew this big white dog wasn’t stopping to look to his left, look to his right and look to his left again. The third actor in this impending tragedy was another motorcyclist coming from the opposite direction. Either he was going to hit Fido, or swerve into my path to avoid Fido or, if by some miracle Fido managed to cross his path unscathed, I was going to hit Fido. We both hit the anchors at the same time. Miraculously, Fido made it past the first bike, and somehow got beyond my front wheel too, so as to live another day. I hope the lady he was rushing to see was as pleased to see him arrive as I was to see him disappear!

No matter how careful you are, riding in Indonesia can still surprise you. I was on my way home to Lombok after a 1500 km ride through some of the more remote regions of Sumbawa, two islands east of Bali. Astride a Kawasaki KLX150 road trail, I’d been enjoying an incident-free ride - balmy weather, smooth bitumen, light traffic, few villages – until the near miss with Fido quickened my heart rate a tad. In hindsight, although I cursed Fido at the time, he did me a favour, as for the rest of the day’s riding I set my vigilance meter to ‘High Alert’. As things transpired, later in the day, between Aikmel and Masbagik in Lombok, I witnessed a head-on between a Fuso 15-tonner and a small people mover, whose driver, sadly, was killed instantly.

Driving in Indonesia - it is what it is. In heavily populated areas your survival can sometimes be just a matter of dumb luck. On the first day of the trip an impatient car driver pulled out to overtake, forcing me to veer left. At the point of passing there was a vehicle parked at the side of the road. If its driver opened his door half a metre at that instant it would have been ‘all over Red Rover for me’. But it didn’t happen and I’m still alive to ride another day. I do it because I love it. I control what I can control and let my fate take care of the rest. If I didn’t think like this then I would have missed out on making a marvellous trip around Sumbawa.

I left with four goals in mind, two of which I’d failed to achieve in the past. In 2008 I’d walked the south-west coast until I reached a village from where I was able to get a ride in a truck to Lunyuk. In ’12 I attempted to reach Lunyuk on a Honda Vario but failed. I’d also tried to reach Tepal, a traditional village high in the interior but the road beat me. This time round I had the bike for the job. I also wanted to visit Wadu Pa’a, a collection of Hindu/Buddhist rock carvings hewn out of a lonely rock face at the narrow mouth to Bima Bay. And lastly I wanted to see the megalithic tombs of ancient chiefs located in a pretty valley in the hinterland of Sumbawa Besar city.

The ferry crossing from Lombok to Sumbawa was as smooth as silk. IDR 53,000 (AUD$6) got me and the bike on board for the 90 minute trip. Zinging out along the curving port road, a cool breeze taking the edge off the midday sun, I was soon heading south on a newly paved black top. Winding up through the hills around sweeping bends was a joy and once I reached the top of the range a stunning vista greeted me: a blue ocean, its waves collapsing on to the waiting shore.

I spent the night in Maluk a small town set beside a fine beach dominated by a stunning jungle-covered headland. I ate at a newly opened restaurant, tucking in to a mountain of rice accompanied by cassava leaves in coconut milk, spinach in tamarind water, bean shoots, tofu,, jack fruit curry chicken done in black bean sauce and a memorable chilli sambal, both spicy and piquant.

I hit the road next day at 7.00, gassed up with a litre of water hanging off my belt and another in my pack. Lunyuk was about 100 km away – a three or four hours trip. The bitumen ended after 30 km at Tongo. After that – I was expecting some fun because it had been raining in the area recently.

I passed along a flat ribbon of track littered with loose blue metal. Fortunately little of it was deep and treacherous. The countryside reminded me of North Queensland with fields a pineapples being watched over by low hills. I passed through Tartar village and waved good-bye to settled country, for the next 50 km to Lunyuk was through the uninhabited forest. The road rose and fell steepling down to pristine rivers that had cut deep gorges between the hills. Massive trees and stands of giant bamboo kept me in perpetual shade for long periods at a stretch. I spied a decent waterfall issuing from a rock face high above the road, my only company, the music of rushing water and birdsong.

Rain had made the red earth slippery so steep downhills meant first gear and lots of back brake. I felt much more comfortable going uphill. This was my first serious off-road experience so i was learning the intricacies by the seat of my pants. I kept my centre of gravity low and my feet ever ready in case of mishap. There were lots of loose round stones, just the size to throw your front wheel into a head-spin and land you the wrong way up. Luckily, i kept out of their way.

Half-way in I met a road crew gouging out a new alignment with Cat and Komatsu graders and excavators; mud and slush completed the scene. I forged on making slow but steady progress. Occasionally, another bike would pass in the opposite direction. I heard the only bus to ply the route long before I saw it come labouring up the hill towards me the driver sounding his horn in greeting as we passed.

The road began to improve a little and, as I came out of the hills, the first shacks appeared. There were fields of corn and padi fields and rows of coconut palms flanked the roadside – Eden on Sumbawa's southernmost shore. And then I hit newly-laid Mcadam – Lunyuk was not far away. I crested a rise and there before me was the coast. A back drop of mountains witnessed the ceaseless waves pounding the shore for between this spot and the Kimberly coast lay 1400 km of unencumbered ocean.

I’d made it to Lunyuk without mishap. The rest of the trip – about 110km over a good gravel road that ran across the spine of Sumbawa to reach the north coast – would be a snip.

And what was at Lunyuk? Not much to be honest. A few shops, a mosque, a collection of houses - some sound, some ramshackle – and the usual suspects were lolling about streets looking for some diversion. Was I disappointed? Hell no, because as one long-lost sage of the highways and byways once said: “Travel, my friends, is not about the destination. It’s about the trip.”

Sand slog: Sumbawa's south-west coast.

merantau — Tue, 27 Nov 2012 14:24:00 GMT

SAND SLOG: SUMBAWA’S SOUTH-WEST COAST

We emerged from the jungle after a three hour slog to find ourselves atop a rocky, wind-battered headland high above the sea. To the south lay the open ocean; a vast, heaving, ultramarine mass. Waves were rolling towards the beach where a reef lurked, ready to play havoc with their symmetry. To the immediate east the pristine water of a river estuary, emerged from beneath the green wall of jungle. Flowing swiftly, 100 metres wide, it lapped against the base of the headland: our way east was blocked. Behind us, and to the west, lay the jungle we had just traversed. My heart sank. After crossing waist-deep creeks, scrambling up and down slippery spurs and picking our way through the jungle, there was no way forward. We were finished.

A host of thoughts and emotions erupted. I was angry, disappointed, and suspicious. Why had I undertaken this adventure on a whim? Why try something when so ill-prepared? Why trust the word of someone I’d just met by chance? Or maybe I’d been duped? Maybe there was no short-cut to this village? Maybe the village didn’t even exist! And now I’d have to back track three hours. And then I’d have to find transport back to Maluk. What a mess!

My dismay was palpable. “That’s it then. Journey over. We can’t cross that!” I said, pointing angrily at the river. Ali seemed unconcerned. “Be patient,” he said. “We must wait. In an hour the tide will drop. Then we’ll be able to cross.

I was unconvinced. “But how are we going to get down to the beach?” Ali beckoned me to follow him. He walked to the edge of the cliff and pointed. “Look,” he said, “there’s a path down.” I looked. The ‘path’ was a narrow, almost vertical, erosion gully. It looked crumbly and ready to disintegrate. It led to a shelf of wave-swept rock 30 metres below. I looked out to sea. The Australian coast lay due south across 1400 km of unencumbered ocean. I felt a long way from home. Ali began the descent. Before following I said to myself: “This is not the day I’m going to die.”

**********************************************************************************

The idea of travelling the south coast of Sumbawa to reach Lunyuk ignited my sense of adventure. I was in Maluk and didn’t feel like back-tracking to Sumbawa Besar. However, maps indicated there was no road beyond Sekongkan. Lunyuk, most locals assured me, was impossible to reach but some said a motorcycle might make it through, “if the bridges have been finished.”

I began to inquire about getting a ride and I was put in touch with John. He lived in a village near the south coast, was going home on leave and was willing to take me along. I could ask about further transport to Lunyuk when he dropped me off. So it was arranged: John would pick me up at daylight the next day.

Around 6.00am John pulled up. I was ready. He secured my pack and we set off. Traffic was sparse but the road was rough. There were many potholes, especially on the inclines and declines, and we zig-zagged between them at snail’s pace.

After 15 minutes the bitumen ended and the gravel began. Being dry season it was firm and we fairly zinged along. There were no kampongs. We saw the occasional rough shack, its occupants somehow scratching a living from the wilderness. We passed through Sekongkan Atas then turned right to detour to Sekongkan Bawah, a small village by the sea on a pretty bay. After a quick smoke for John and a stretch of the legs for me, we set off again.

The countryside was rugged and spectacular. We travelled through primary jungle, the steep hillsides festooned in greenery. Occasionally we saw gangs of macaques moving along the road. Most fled as soon as they saw us but the alpha males often managed a malevolent stare as we cruised past. We saw some very large lizards lumbering along, poor man’s Komodo Dragon-style, and one brilliantly coloured, banded snake. Apart from the wildlife, we had the road to ourselves. It clung to the hillside following the contours. Little gullies were bridged by neatly-wrought stonework and our progress was shaded by stands of teak and kapok trees. Below us, and to the left, we spotted the giant pipe that deposited waste from Newmont's copper and gold mine out to sea; the tailings were disgorged about 1.5 km offshore. I wondered how thoroughly treated they were. Eventually the road descended taking us closer to a rendezvous with the pipe and we crossed over the top of it at a tee-intersection – we had arrived in Tongo.

We bought some fuel and took a break before continuing the journey along a rutted, dusty track that ran parallel to the coast. It was scrubby, salt-blasted country and the sun was beginning to bite even though it was still early. I was relieved when we turned inland again and entered the forest.

Another thirty minute’s riding saw us reach a hamlet. We stopped adjacent a cluster of neat houses, their gardens alive with multi-coloured bougainvilleas. Almost immediately, a teenager about 17 approached and asked us what was up. He listened carefully as I explained my plan.

The news was bad. The road was impassable. “I know a short cut though. I can take you to SP3, a settlement of transmigrants from Lombok. My uncle lives there. You can get motorbike transport from there to Lunyuk.”

We talked. It was a 9-10 hour walk. We would be lucky to make it before nightfall. I only had six bananas and 2 litres of water. Ali, for that was his name, assured me that he did not need food and that we could get water from the rivers.

“Well,” I thought, “you wanted an adventure - this is your chance!” Ali and I reached an agreement. I paid John and wished him all the best. We watched him wheel around on his motorbike and tear off down the track - he hadn't been home for a month. Ali stepped into the jungle. I followed – but to where?

We entered a gloomy, silent world. The air was dank and steamy. Scant rays penetrated the thick canopy. A myriad of plants grew on the forest floor, each reaching up for its share of the available light.

Ali walked swiftly. There was no visible track. I wondered how he knew the way. I looked carefully. Every so often a sapling had been cut off about a metre above the ground. This pointed the way as it twisted and turned, rose and fell. We scrambled up steep inclines, grabbing vines to pull ourselves up. It was hot, sweaty, hard, work. We pressed on. We descended into a valley and came to a shallow creek. I took off my shoes and waded across. Ali pointed out the rocks on the far bank. Shaded by over hanging bushes they were covered by millions of, baby shrimp each about 10 mm long. I had never seen anything like it in my life.

We pushed on and reached a muddy river. This time the water was waist deep. We took off our trousers and waded across. On the far bank, we stopped for a rest, a banana and a drink.

We emerged from the jungle after a three hour slog to find ourselves atop a rocky wind-battered headland high above the sea ...

The descent was going to be dangerous. Ali had only gone 5 metres when he turned and inquired. “Can you do it?”

“Yeah” I replied. “Let’s go”

Ali set off again carefully choosing his foot falls. I lived in the now, concentrating on keeping three points in touch with the cliff at all times. I didn’t look down. It took about three minutes to reach the safety of the rock shelf. Ali was laughing at the look of relief on my face. It felt good to be out of danger.

We picked our way around the bottom of the cliff via a narrow rocky path. The breaking waves showered us with spray. The big wide river was emptying itself into the sea. It looked very deep.

We found a sheltered spot and waited. It was after midday; time for sohur. Ali performed his ablutions, took himself off to one side and prayed. I wondered if he was praying for our deliverance. It did not seem a good sign.

When he finished we had a sip of water, shared a banana and waited. The tide receded to expose more and more of a rock anchored in mid-stream. Ali jumped in to check the water’s depth. He called out to me but his voice was whisked away by the wind. He returned and we waited some more.

Thirty minutes later Ali plunged in again. He swam across as it was still too deep for him to walk but he reckoned I could make it. I put my camera into a plastic bag and tied it tight. I stripped off and hauled my backpack and daypack on to my head. I waded in. Pretty soon the water was up to my armpits. I shuffled forward another twenty metres: so far, so good. Twenty more and the level began dropping. I was on my way out. A big smile spread across my face. Ali was laughing.

“Can you handle it?” he inquired.

I made it up the bank and wondered what the next hurdle would be.

The sun was beating down as we dried ourselves after the river crossing. We were thirsty. We took a sip of our precious water. Ali had been wrong about being able to fill up from the rivers. The water, so close to the sea, was salty. There was nothing we could do except press on and ration our supply.

We faced a long beach which stretched for miles before disappearing against the base of a rocky outcrop. We trudged on. The sand, yellow, coarse and yielding made each step an effort. My shoes began to fill with sand. I stopped to shake it out. Blisters would have spelt the end of me. Ali could see I was struggling – he was too. “Don’t worry,” he said. “No more rivers. Just walk.” I felt guilty about doubting him before. He was a good kid – tough and brave.

We soldiered on rationing our water strictly. To the right waves broke ceaselessly over the reef. An occasional seabird circled overhead, its lonely cries struggling to be heard over the din of the breakers. I felt as if I was far, far away from all that I knew and from all who knew me. We didn’t talk. We just kept putting one foot in front of the other. We never saw a soul.

Hour after hour we trudged along stopping occasionally to rest, change over back packs and take a sip of our precious water; we were down to our last litre.

Around 3.00pm the beach ended. We were confronted by a rocky headland around which we had to clamber. The rocks were jagged and sharp so any mishap was guaranteed to end in gashed skin and lots of claret. We picked our way using great care. At times we had to climb high above the sea - I’m not that fond of heights.

We clambered back down onto another beach and began sand-slogging again. I could feel cramp lurking just waiting to pounce. I took each step carefully. Steady, steady, I tramped, occasionally looking across at Ali, his face a mask of quiet determination.

Around four the beach ended. We climbed a sand dune. At the top it levelled out into thick scrub. We followed a faint track. Ahead of us we could see what looked like cultivation. Sure enough we came to fields of corn, cassava and bananas. We were nearing our destination – the village of SP3.

It wasn’t long before we saw our first house - a hut made of woven bamboo strips with an alang-alang roof . A few minutes later we arrived in SP3. We saw a warung selling bottled water. We headed straight for it and slaked the thirst which had dogged us as we trudged that lonely coast. The feel of that cool, smooth water as it slid down our gullets was sheer bliss. The women and children who had gathered to witness our arrival looked on bemused as we guzzled it down.

Ali bade me farewell and made his way to his uncle’s house. I found myself in the company of a buxom matron whose family owned the only motorbike in the village. She demanded an outrageous sum for the trip to Lunyuk and refused to haggle.

“That’s my final price” she kept repeating.

Then she said something that got my back up.

“You don’t have choice, we own the only motorbike!”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I said. “I can still walk.”

So, I bought 4 litres of water and a couple of packets of biscuits and hit the road.

I hadn’t gone too far when I began to think that maybe I’d been a bit hasty. I’d just walked nine, tough hours on a few bananas, battling thirst all the way. It would soon be dark, I had to find a place to sleep and severe cramp was lurking.

Beyond the last houses the road became a track, increasingly rocky and uneven. Although very tired I felt I could keep walking as long as the going was level. But as soon as the track rose or fell the cramp would stir in the calves or quads. I massaged my legs vigorously and drank as much water as I dared. But I couldn’t keep the cramps at bay. I started walking backwards up the inclines but it was hopeless – I just had to stop soon.

Darkness was descending. Fortunately it wasn’t long before I found what I was looking for – an area of flat ground sheltered by some low bushes. I took my backpack off and began to pull out a ground sheet. Just as I did so I heard the unmistakable roar of an engine being borne on the wind from the valley below; minute by minute it came closer. And then it appeared – the most beaten-up, rust-riddled 3-tonner I’d ever seen. It was held together with fencing wire and had no windscreen.

The driver, Will, greeted me cheerily and offered to take me to Lunyuk but warned we wouldn’t get there before midnight as he, and his crew, had to pick up produce from farms on the way.

Needless to say I climbed up into the cab and was immediately gripped with the most incredible cramps in both legs. I was screaming in agony. Will must have wondered what had hit him! Eventually with his help I was able to unlock my legs. I stuck them out front where the windscreen should have been and lay back totally drained.

For the next couple of hours Will treated me to a fantastic display of off-road driving as he piloted that old truck across washaways, up and down gullies and through rocky stream beds. In the black of night we raced from farm to farm picking up sacks of padi and corn and hands of bananas.

Around 10 we stopped at a mill in a village called Sukamaju to unload the padi. After that the next thing I remember is being woken up. We had arrived at Will’s house. I was ushered inside to meet his wife and son. Food was ready and the entire crew tucked in – it had been a long night.

Will showed me a vacant bed and I crashed. I slept the sleep of ten men and when I woke next morning I felt rested and sore but very satisfied. I showered and had breakfast with the family. Will’s crew were still sleeping off the previous night’s exertions.

After breakfast Will took me for a spin around Lunyuk on the back of his motorbike. There was nothing to see. Just a series of hamlets scattered about and a few shops. There was no town centre. No monuments, no clock towers, no big markets, no impressive buildings - just a cluster of settlements clinging to a storm-lashed coast. Was I disappointed? No, not at all, for as I stood on Lunyuk’s deserted beach, watching the waves roll in, I was reminded of the sage words of my old pal, Eight-finger Eddie: “Travel. It’s not about the destination, man. It’s about the trip.”

Tambora - the mountain that blew its top. Part 6 Bali, Lombok, Sumbawa - a motorcycle odyssey

merantau — Wed, 21 Nov 2012 12:03:00 GMT

TAMBORA – THE MOUNTAIN THAT BLEW ITS TOP

I’d been travelling east of Bali for less than two weeks but a lot had happened. At 6.00 am on a Monday morning, I’d nosed out into the traffic on Jalan Padma, Legian, Bali and headed east to catch the ferry to Lombok, a little wary but, nevertheless, eager to immerse myself in whatever might come my way in the weeks ahead. Now I was on Sumbawa, two islands east of Bali, and I’d just had a minor accident but the bike and I had come away virtually unscathed, so ... it was time to move on! I crawled along, determined to stay upright. A little while later a rider breasted a low hill and weaved his way towards me waving as he drew alongside. Then I spotted him in the rear vision mirror as he braked and did a U-turn.

He pulled up alongside and yelled out, “Tambora?” I stopped and we began to chat in Indonesian. The young bloke’s name was Haris and he had been up Tambora a few times. He told me of the organisation – K-PATA – set up to co-ordinate ascents. Haris was a mine of information. He looked fit and capable and answered all my questions in a straight forward manner. He’d been on his way to Dompu, ‘But that can wait,’ he said. He’d much rather be my guide, so we struck a deal, shook hands and headed off for Calabai, the last village where supplies could be purchased.

Within an hour we reached the village – a couple of small government agencies and an assortment of shops and rude dwellings strung out along a narrow, pock-marked main street. Chickens roamed freely and the occasional dog nosed through the garbage in competition with a herd of wild-eyed goats. Not much happened in Calabai. Not even the arrival of a foreigner in this far-off place could stir the locals as they slumbered through the afternoon heat. In a store crammed with foodstuffs and farmers’ supplies, we stocked up with instant noodles, bananas, eggs, sweet buns, and bottled water. Three pretty teenagers busied themselves assembling our purchases. The owner, an elderly matron, was pleased to fill this unexpected order on a slow afternoon. Laden with plastic bags we headed for the bikes and after securing our loads we set sail.

The track to Pancasila, passed by cultivated fields and pastures where cattle grazed contentedly. The road provided a stark counterpoint to this bucolic scene. A nightmare of mud and washaways, punctuated with deeply rutted sections, it rose steadily, winding its way around Tambora’s lower contours. Haris led the way unerringly. I followed in his wake. An hour beyond Calabai and we were there. We crossed the football field, where a mob of bare foot boys played a spirited game, and stopped in front of a sign board announcing that this was the headquarters of K-PATA – Kelompok Pencinta Alam Tambora – the Nature Lovers’ Group of Tambora.

We were met by the ranger, Saiful, who invited us inside. Ordering his daughter Dinda to prepare coffee, he ushered us into a small room where we sat on mats and began to talk. Saiful explained his role as custodian of the Park. He produced the visitors’ book and a pamphlet about the mountain and its famous eruption. Tambora saw few visitors. On average about 30 people a year made the climb - mostly Indonesian students from university adventure clubs. Saiful explained the dangers of the trek and insisted I take two guides – common sense really as, if anything untoward happened, there was no phone coverage and the injured person would have to be left while the other went for help. Seldom visited, the track was heavily overgrown. The ascent, let alone any rescue mission, was sure to be a challenge.

And so, I was introduced to Farouk, a married man in his 30s. Wiry and compact, he’d made the trip many times. He looked at me warily wondering if, at age 60, I’d be up for the journey. I assured him that I’d be fine and that I’d be carrying my own gear too. We agreed to set out at 7.00 next morning. The plan was to reach ‘Post 3’ in the afternoon. There we would rest, eat and sleep before the final push to the summit which would begin at 1.00 am and hopefully terminate at the crater rim at dawn. A few hours up top and then it was back down with the expectation of reaching K-PATA headquarters by nightfall.

We shook hands and, after a good meal of rice, cassava leaves, spinach and salted fish, Farouk and Haris departed. I headed off for a shower and bed. My wounded knee, from the bike accident, had stiffened up a bit but the cut was clean with no redness – the tell-tale sign of infection - so I’d get by.

Sleep came easily that night; it had been a long day. I was awake with the village roosters. Coffee and pisang goreng, (banana fritters), were on the go and, before long, the four of us, Haris and Farouk having arrived at 6.30 am, were being served by Dinda and her mother. All was in readiness and refreshed with full bellies, and the stimulation provided by glasses of thick, black, coffee, we made our farewells and stepped out onto the track beside the house.

It felt good to get underway. The air was chill and the grass wet with dew. The track rose gently, passing by a coffee plantation, the trees laden with berries. After thirty minutes we came to a bamboo gate which announced the Park entrance. We slipped past and began to climb more steeply. This was indeed a footpath only. Narrow and ill-defined it was totally overgrown with trailing creepers and bracken. It was not long before the parangs (machetes)came out and Farouk and Haris began slashing vigorously at the dew-laden vegetation. We were soon saturated. The greenery was like a thick curtain, trying to swallow us up. Our choices were stark - we either resist or succumb to our verdant host. We pressed on.

We were now deep in primary jungle. It had become increasingly difficult for light to penetrate the canopy overhead. Forest giants, home to a riot of climbing vines, with lush, bushy epiphytes clinging to their trunks, reached skywards, their crowns melding into the curtain of greenery which blocked out the sky. An occasional opening, revealed a dense blanket of rainclouds. It wasn’t long before we heard thunder rolling over the mountain. We trudged on wondering how long it would be before the storm broke. The peals of thunder came closer splitting the air with their reverberations.

The first droplets to reach us were refreshing; we had been straining our way up a steep incline fit for the labours of Sisyphus. But within minutes we were drenched as water streamed from every tendril. And so it continued for three hours as we hacked our way up the forested slopes. At each rest point we’d remove our shoes to get rid of the leeches. Haris used his parang to make sure they would not return for second helpings! It was pointless changing into dry gear – we didn’t have any! I later discovered that even my passport, which I’d placed in a zip-lock bag inside my money belt, did not escape the deluge; it remains water damaged to this day.

At 3.00 pm, eight hours after setting out, we staggered into Post 3, a rude shelter fashioned out of bush timber and roofed with corrugated iron that some hardy souls had dragged up from below. Built on stumps and set in a tiny clearing surrounded by giant ferns, it was as welcome as any Hilton. By now the rain had ceased. Farouk found some dry wood beneath the shelter and lit a fire. I rigged up a line to dry clothes. In the steamy afternoon humidity this was more a gesture of hope than of expectation.

The exertions of the day had left us ravenous and we attacked our food with relish. Rice, noodles, eggs and sweet buns were washed down with coffee. Haris and Farouk luxuriated in their first smoke for a few hours. We stoked the fire, producing a cheery blaze, and tried to dry some clothes. We chatted about our plan for the night ascent. Farouk and Haris were agreed. We should rise at midnight, eat a hot meal, drink plenty of coffee and leave before 1.00. I asked about the going and was dismayed to learn we still had some work to do before we got above the tree line. What’s more we were yet to reach the region of the dreaded jelantik, or stinging nettle. Brushing against this nasty was, according to Haris, like being seared with a welder’s torch. To make our way through it we would have to shinny up two fallen forest giants. Each lay against the mountainside at a 30 degree angle and, on either side, the jelantik lay waiting to enclose a fallen climber in its poisonous embrace. The thought of this happening under torchlight at 3.00 am was, needless to say, sobering.

It was time to rest. We lay down on the teak boards and tried to get comfortable. Damp clothes, hard boards, a coolish breeze and, just on dusk, the arrival of a squadron of mosquitoes, conspired to keep us awake. Furthermore, every time I made a move to seek some comfort, I’d cramp in the quadriceps, or hamstring or calf – at times it seemed like all three at once! It’s very difficult to sleep and massage your screaming muscles at the same time.

Darkness closed over us with the rapidity of a stage curtain and we were left to contemplate the night sounds of the ever-present jungle. Far off we heard the faint rumble of thunder; each of us secretly hoped it was not coming our way. Close by, a burung hantu, which literally means ghost bird, began to hoot eerily. The undergrowth rustled with the passage of a large beast – maybe a wild pig or a small deer. Sleep would not come and I began to worry about the hours ahead. Would this enterprise end in failure or, even worse, end disastrously with one of us injured precipitating an emergency rescue? Thankfully, my wounded knee had not troubled me so far. Or, by some conspiracy of the clouds, would we be denied a view of Tambora’s awesome crater by the onset of more atrocious weather? I pushed the thoughts from my mind and entered the twilight zone of dozeland – unsure if I was dreaming or thinking, vaguely aware of my physical discomfort, but unwilling, to move lest I jerk myself back into wakefulness.

In this way I cobbled together an hour’s rest before my mobile’s alarm came to life with The Eagles crooning, ‘Welcome to the Hotel California’. I stirred, moving gingerly so as to not bring on cramp. The breeze had abated but the air was cold. Haris blew on the embers and soon had a blaze going, its halo a red glow pushing against the black night. Our clothes – and most importantly – shoes and socks had dried, so, at least we would be comfortable for a while. Plenty of warm food and hot coffee primed us, and at 1.00 am precisely we left camp and struck out into the green curtain ahead.

The narrow trail wound steadily on. We climbed under and over fallen trees eventually reaching the first fallen giant that would carry us safely above the jelantik. The tree was too slippery to walk along. Perhaps 40 meters long we could just straddle it and, using our hands, drag ourselves along. On either side, a metre below, the jelantik lay waiting. My head torch lighting the way, I inched myself forward after the others. Its silvery beam illuminating the seemingly endless wall of greenery, I wondered aloud: “When will this forest end?” The answer came back from Farouk, “One more hour.” Could I hang on until we reached the easier going?

True to his word, shortly after negotiating a second fallen monster, we found ourselves in flatter, more open country. Trees were smaller, thinner – a different species altogether – and instead of alang grass and trailing creepers, we were pushing our way through tussocky grass and could feel scoria, not slippery earth, beneath our feet– at last some easier going! The lightening sky brought promise of a soon-to-come rendezvous with the summit. Our hopes rose. We quickened our pace, eager to take in the long-anticipated vista. The open sky above was clear. The firmament blinked and twinkled a greeting to the first rays of dawn – we were assured of clear, uninterrupted views all the way to Lombok!

The last few hundred metres were a scramble over a moonlike surface of, scoria and small rocks. With perfect timing we reached the crater’s edge. In the dim light we could sense we were standing, looking down into an awesome chamber. Gradually the sky lightened and our eyes feasted on a stupendous sight – Tambora’s crater bathed in the sun’s first rays. Seven kilometres wide, 21 kilometres in circumference, 350 metres deep, its sombre presence defied description. It was simply – THERE - the result of the most cataclysmic event in modern history. No words were needed to describe our feelings. We smiled and embraced; my steadfast companions lit up a smoke. Below us the mountain fell away to the coast, beyond which lay the islet of Satonda with its salt water lake, created courtesy of the tsunami which followed the explosion – the explosion ‘that shook up the world.’ Far away to the west, waves caressed the fractured, indented northern Sumbawa coastline whilst we contemplated the massive power of nature and the inevitability of the trip back down the mountain.

We stayed up top for a couple of hours, resting, eating and congratulating ourselves. Then it was time to go. We stepped away strongly, invigorated by our success. We rested upon reaching the tree line. Starting out again was tough. The descent became a war of attrition – us against the endless forest. I set on a method and stuck to it. Born of sheer bloody-mindedness it was a simple one. Pick out a target 50 metres ahead, achieve it, then, pick out the next one. Hour after hour my achievements built up, but by late afternoon I was really wilting. Resisting the desire to lay down and sleep, I knew we had to keep going for the weather was closing in and darkness was close by, waiting in the wings. Grim-faced we struggled on, each step a victory of sorts.

For hours I had resisted the temptation to ask the bleeding obvious: ‘How much further?’ but finally I gave in. The answer came back: ‘Another hour’. I told myself I could hang on. And I did. We reached the bamboo gate and collapsed on the track. Haris phoned his mates to come and pick us up with their motorbikes.

And so we would travel the last few kilometres riding pillion. In 33 hours we’d walked for 24 and had about an hour’s sleep. I figured we’d done our share of walking for a while! Exhausted, but happy, we lay back and waited for the sound of the approaching engines that would close the chapter on our successful slog up the forested slopes of far-off, seldom-seen Tambora.

Steve Campbell

Photos: Sumbawa's seldom seen south-west coast.

merantau — Mon, 22 Oct 2012 13:46:00 GMT

Trekking a deserted pristine coast.