Leg 11 - Indonesia & Timor

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As much as I thought I had a vague route pre-planned through Indonesia, I should have known better than to believe I'd stick to it. In theory this was the easy leg, as travel through Indonesia to East Timor would mainly involve island hopping, with a pitter patter of port to port pedalling in between. But the Indonesian ferry timetables are sketchy at best, and so I would literally have to just board the next east or south bound ferry, wherever that may be going, or risk waiting for days for a specific ferry that may well end up being cancelled anyway.

Luckily for me there was a lot of time aboard ferries and less time cycling in the midday swelter, as I had definitely become dis-acclimatised and dis-conditioned during my enforced lay-off. I had lost (and quickly re-gained) a lot of weight during the Dengue days, but my belly had refilled quicker than my scraggly arms and legs, and my “rock-solid” thighs could no longer be described as defined, but more declined. At least my skin had unyellowed, so I looked less like a character from The Simpsons. What with my saggy skin too, it was probably Grandpa.

Having been several days ahead of schedule, I was now nearly 2 weeks behind, but Indonesian island hopping was the most achieveable way to catch this up. This did mean sacrificing some of the sightseeing I wanted to do on dry land - most disappointingly I had to skip Komodo island, home to the world's largest lizards, the Komodo dragon.

I finally left Tawau behind, and with it the hospital and claustrophobic town I had been stranded in. I took the fast-ferry from Malaysian Borneo to Indonesian Borneo, which is primarily a trading route and not often used by tourists. Therefore I was not able to obtain a visa on entry like at other entry points into Indonesia, and had to leap through several bureaucratic loopholes to get my stamp whilst avoiding the nooses. The cross-border ferry drops you at an outlying island called Tarakan, where it was another 36 hour ferry to Balikpapan in southern Borneo, another day across the Makassar Strait to Sulawesi. A short token bike ride along the Sulawesi coast and then yet another 24 hours on a ferry south across the Flores Sea to Maumere. The port city of Maumere still betrays scars from a devastating earthquake and subsequent 20 metre tsunami that hit in 1992, killing thousands and destroying much of the city.

Outside of Maumere, Flores is one of the prettier islands in Indonesia, and I rode from the north coast to the south coast across the volcanic backbone. In the middle of which are the Kelimutu lakes - 3 volcanic lakes side-by-side in separate craters, but all are different colours due the unique combination minerals that brew in each. In fact, the colours are forever changing. Now and for the last few years they are dark green, turquoise and brown, but a decade ago were dark red, blue and black. Climbing to the peak for sunrise to capture the moment the first shafts of light illuminate the tri-lateral littoral landscape, I had the full panorama to myself. Except for the entrepreneurial coffee-seller who tracked me all the way up just to convince me to buy a 25p cup of Nescafe. I obliged.

From Ende on the south coast of Flores, it was one last ferry to Timor island. The quality of ferries I have used to cross the wet parts of this ride have become more and more decrepit since Day 1 of the trip. Each of the ten or so boats has been a shadow of the last. Starting out with a thoroughly modern cross-channel Sea France job, to a couple of decent sails to and from Sweden, then a well-organised freighter across the Black Sea, and a less well-organised version across the Caspian Sea. I then had a very, very long overland run until the Philippines, where I took the basic but efficient “Superferry” to Cebu. Even the down and dirty rust bucket that took me from Zamboanga to Borneo was a step up from the Indonesian ferry rides.

In many places in the world, being old and decrepit earns a badge of “Heritage” and funding from UNESCO. If only this was the case here, as boosted hygiene, sanitation, and cleanliness conditions might make sailing more human-like. Somewhere between 300 to 500 Indonesians would cram shoulder to shoulder inside sleeping quarters, seemingly all smoking and ignoring or ignorant of the No Smoking signs. On no less than 3 occasions I saw one of the huge metal garbage bins ablaze. One time I would say the fire was large enough to be a significant concern, especially with the dubious safety record of these Indonesian passenger ships. When not on fire these bins would overflow with plastic items, before someone took the initiative to empty them. This meant tipping the entire contents over the side of the ship into the clear blue ocean. Our white-water wake was strewn with a steady stream of polystyrene lunch boxes, plastic noodle cups and polythene bags, a trail like something from Hansel and Gretel, only far less biodegradable than breadcrumbs. Any amount of morally-superior tutting on my behalf was not going to change the attitude of 499 fellow crammees who had bigger fish to worry about.

I chose to spend most of my time, including sleeping, outside on top deck. I cannot for the life of me work out why hardly anyone else was willing to join me sleeping on the outside deck, which was breezy and spacious. There was the occasional thunderstorm to shelter from and the morning sun that burnt the eyelids open, but it sure beat trying to sleep in a smoky sardine tin (that analogy works for both the crampiness and the smelliness of the lower quarters). The thunderstorms only really started when we crossed the equator. Having pedalled through dry-seasons in the Northern Hemisphere I had not seen anything resembling rain since the day I arrived in Kazakhstan, 6 months ago. But as my GPS went from 001N degrees latitude to 000 to 001S - surprisingly rapidly - the sporadic downpours started. Incidentally we crossed the equator on the day of the vernal equinox, though I have not been able to work out the geo-orbital significance of that yet.

I cannot fault the friendliness of Indonesians. Everyone wanted to speak to me, despite very few of them knowing any English beyond, “Hello Mister”. Wandering around the decks and docks was a chorus of Hello Misters. As the lone stand-out foreigner, I was afforded celebrity status for those days on board, and I would estimate I had to pose for no less than 50 separate photos. I made a lot of friends (in the smile and wave sense), and I think many of them recognised me during my stays on Sulawesi, Flores and Timor, judging by the number of cars and motorbikes that seemed to beep in recognition along the road. Not that I actually recognised a single one of them back.

I lost my sunglasses on one of the ferry journeys so had to visit the market in Makassar to buy a new pair. Many of the stalls were selling what they claimed to be genuine goods - including Adadas t-shirts, Sonny MP3 players, and Oakey sunglasses. At the equivalent of £4, I couldn't resist buying a pair of these genuine Oakey's. And the seller assured me they were UV protective and polarised too. As bad luck would have it he had just run out of paper, so were unable to give me a proof of purchase receipt though.

I'll let you into a little trick of the trade I've learned when negotiating abroad - be it for for a taxi, a room, or a pair of Oakey's. Always carry a packet of cigarettes, ideally local brand, and before you even begin discussions, offer him a smoke - in this part of the world it will almost always be a Him and he will almost always smoke - even if you don't. The gesture alone usually puts you in a position of inclusiveness and helps remove the You-and-Them factor. But you do still have to play the game and there will always be some dishonest, mischievous characters prepared to rip you off for simply being white. If these past 9 months have taught me anything at all, then it has developed my instincts on who to trust. And who not to. To intuitively unscramble the bad eggs from the top-notch omelettes.

The last of the islands on my Indonesian hopscotch was Timor. The island is split into the Indonesian west and the newly recognised country of East Timor (Timor Leste). I landed in Kupang in the Indonesian west, sailing into Bolok harbour - yes, it's ok, I sniggered too. I stayed for a couple of nights, enjoying the great seafood market stalls and asking around if anyone knew of any ships sailing to Australia. Here I met Ahmed, a local from Kupang. He spoke half-decent broken English. He was interested in my journey and I told him that I was looking to find a boat to Australia. He said he had done the trip himself in 2001, and then spent a year in Darwin. Oh, great, I said. How did you arrange the boat? What is Darwin like? What is there to see? Where did you stay?
“I stayed in prison for a year”. Turns out he was an illegal immigrant aboard one of the many boats sneaking to Australian shores. He then got deported back from whence he came. I decided not to ask for further recommendations and also abandoned my search for an elusive ferry.

Timor is topographically tortuous, and as I crossed the island my lagging legs struggled up the steep climbs in the suffocating heat. Whereas 3 weeks ago it would have been a mere deep breath and a steady push to the top, now I felt every kilo I was dragging. Like Sisyphus hauling that stone uphill, only to roll back down and start over for all eternity Nonetheless I reached the East Timor border in the number of days I set myself.

East Timor is one of the world's youngest nations (Only Montenegro and arguably Kosovo gained independence more recently). Born on 20th May 2002, East Timor is no older than a decent dark rum. It emerged from years of bitter conflict with Indonesia, having been left to fend for itself when Portugal, its old colonial master, abandoned it in 1975 and its domineering neighbour absorbed it into its multi-island republic. Uprisings and riots ravaged the poorest country in Asia for many years since, highlighted by the enormous UN presence here. It seems almost every second vehicle is a UN jeep, with half of the other half belonging to other various aid agencies with their particular and peculiar acronyms - OIM, IMO, USHA, NZAID, etc. The familiar white UN portacabins, which look distinctly like a Glastonbury toilet block, are stacked around Dili, the capital. Dili itself feels like a giant refugee camp, which in many ways it is.

But look beyond the crumbling egg-shells of buildings and there is a buzzing yolk to the city. I wish I had more time to spend in Dili, as I was just getting to know it when I had to leave. My first port of call was to call at the port. Again I asked if there were any ships going to Australia - or New Zealand or Fiji, or anywhere in the south Pacific really. Again there were not. One guy told me that about half a dozen motorbikers and cyclists had likewise tried to find an onwards boat in the past year. He had not heard of anyone being successful. So reluctantly I had to book me and my bike onto the next available flight to Australia.

But not before I had one last night out on Asian soil. As such I avoided the temptation of eating at one of the UN western food joints to have something traditionally Asian. The little side-cafe I chose only had 3 options: Rice with chicken, rice with vegetables or rice with RW. I didn't know what RW was, had seen it on the menus before, so decided I'd try it. It was a dark meat, looked like beef, tasted more like liver, but contained a lot of bones. It dawned on me I didn't know what type of meat this was and suspected it was something I had not consciously eaten before. I asked what RW was.
“Woof woof” was the reply.
Ah!
Now the dogs here are not your fluffy Dulux or Pampers types, nor are they vigilante Lassies or Littlest Hobos. They are street vermin. But the thought of them eating nothing but the rotting sewage was enough for me to put my fork down and head over the road for a pizza.

Keep movin' on,
Tim
www.fullcycle.org.uk

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Photos

Trying on some Oakey's for size
Definitely NOT Oakley's

Comments

[Ed Hernandez]

So glad you are better!
As always really enjoyed reading your travelblog. Was quite concerned when I read last time you had managed to contract dengue fever (but not worried enough to do anything about it). The volcanic lakes fascinate me and, as you know, I always carry a pack of fags with me -- I think I'll try your tip next time I'm shopping in Letchworth. Very glad to hear you are recovered and I am sure Australia will have amazing recuperative powers for your flagging muscles... (There were several egg analogies in this issue...is there something you are trying to tell us? Have you been captured by a terrorist chicken?)