After sitting for seven hours on a hard leather saddle it was the little things that one noticed. A light bulb that lit or a toilet that flushed. A tent peg that sank easily into the earth or the fleeting draft of a cool breeze, finding its way into the tent. Maybe it was a shower, free of cockroaches or an evening stroll without flip flopping through smelly things . . . . . . . . Oh the joy of those evening strolls, blissfully trapped in sun set lit musings as newness wafted over tingling, cool showered skin. Then a thought . . . . . .
“I could have a days rest tomorrow!”A little dally, roused from a cyclist slumbering in full bellied contentment, followed by:
. . . . . . .“But really, I could have a day off, tomorrow”.Then a more conformists mental flutter through visa dates, boat time tables, friends rendezvous and other official sundries. If all went well there would be an administratively sanctioned super legs first (they usually swayed the decision). . . . . . YES!
Singapore! (the country that is) and with all considerations satisfied I was free for a week and at liberty to saunter through the delights of a sumptuous Singapore. Evening thoughts were now lit by designer lampshades illuminating bright, air conditioned, self contained shopping cities. Cool, inside air tingled skin in spotless sparkling restaurants. Affluence tickled the nose with smells of aftershaves, perfumes and new leather. After months on the saddle on mainland Asia it really was the most sumptuous, scintillating legs first YES one could imagine.
For disordered, maladjusted eyes peering into absolute order there really was an awful lot of little things to notice. It was my first ‘good morning’ to Singapore. A celebration for all that it was to have cycled off the end of Euro-Asia. Alas that first morning stroll in Singapore was all a little too expansive, too much, too soon, and quite out of range for the shell shocked eyes of a cyclists. A whole day of cerebral startles in big air conditioned glass glitz.
Concussed eyes and comedy . . . that first visit to the coffee shop . . . . . . .
1. Toilets
2. Toilets with a handle that (actually) flushes.
3. Toilets without a handle that flush sentiently as one stands up.
4. Toilets without a handle that flush sentiently when one stands up . . . and then speak!instructing one to wash ones hands before sipping ones beverage.Then. . . . . . .
5. Soap.
6. Soap dispensers with television screens and handles.
7. Soap dispensers without televisions (or handles) cognitively dolloping goo into well placed hands.
8. Taps (without handles), percipiently precipitating as hands are placed under the spout.
9. Green light is go, red light is stop, beeping towel dispensers (no handles or instructions! or the need for habitual cycle short hand drying)A few more automatic doors, lights, fans and fittings and finally a sip of fresh ground (cerebrally draining) Javan coffee. Paid for in cash, unlike the rest of the queue who have a finger print scanned as payment, then proudly collect their hi-tech, digitally recorded, automatic (no handles!) coffee point. Fingers used to pay not push, flush and switch.
A week of clean. A concussive refurnishing of dusty city slickin’ memories. Spotless museums, galleries, little India’s, little China’s and big shopping cities. A week of no cycling, no cockroaches and not one smelly flip flop fouling!
The temporary medicinal edging away of what lay ahead allowed for three, maybe even four days of unadulterated, fancy (cycle) free frolicking in a big modern city. Though slowly at first, eased in by the cleaning of Condors gears and the insides of Bags, Indonesia began to draw closer. Gently does it . . . . Little evening peaks at the map, roads here, hills over there . . . . . . . . then the rude encounter with a wall sized world map. Goodness me! Indonesia really was very big. An archipelago thousands of miles long sitting in the bottom right hand corner of my cycling world. Before the days end, Indonesia had successfully nudged its way back to the top of one thoughts on what to do tomorrow.
A soldier informs me that the thousand strips of glittering gold’s and yellows are to help provide us a safe passage. Condor, all clean and ready to go was being tightly lashed to the life lines, ready in seconds for the straights of Malacca. Lamenting, complicated knots, tight from a fabulous week in sparkling Singapore were a little less eager for the off. Great gushes of black soot towered into the air and with a small nervous sigh, knotted conundrums were forcibly slipped just as the bow carved through plastic bottles, brown sludge and into the straights. Onwards to Sumatra! Framed by massive, moored oil tankers and flaming oil refineries, I glanced back toward Singapore. Glittering, good luck gold’s sank into exhausted, bellowing, black Stern soot. From across the Straights of Mallaca Indonesia was reaching out, dirty finger nailed and thick in grunting fumes. Black smoking precedents were being set at quite a rate, an hour or so after leaving Singapore, the hubbub of boat disembarkation, would, I later realised set another. I had two wheels, a tent, a visa and had just arrived in Indonesia!
“Hello Mister!”Then another,
“Hello Mister!”A new wide eyed visitor showered with endless (and endlessly) welcome “Hello Misters”.
The sun had set, the soot had been washed away and I was once again enjoying an evening stroll on the cusp of newness. Oh! So maybe that’s the number three? . . . . . . Lots of eggs! . . . . Is that really a vegetable? . . . . . . Mosques not Churches . . . . So if one multiplies by 10,000 and divides by 2 Errrrr . . . . . . Did that meal just cost twenty pence! Maybe it was two pounds? Familiarities in the making, and just before sleep, a familiarity already made, a good night proposition toward my “pee pee”.
And so began the grand upheaval of all that it was to cycle south in South East Asia. A vast Indonesian volcanic archipelago, smothering all the familiar, moderate, mainland conventions of unpolluted, flat (wet) cycling with sludgy, drained peat bogs and rancorous trains of logging lorries, grunting up a down a relentless, sinusoidal shaped landscape, abalze and choking from burning vegetation. Such a rapid, gritty permeation into my cycling adventure. So sudden, so shockingly difficult to adjust to. With pulped (like the landscape) brain and burning lungs (like the landscape) I was quite dizzy with it all.
Sometimes I, that is to say, the solo cycling, capricious, wandering mind ‘I’ . . . had struggled considerably when presented with a week or so of timid, flat, mundane cycling. A vagarious mind, challenged by the lack of distraction, the challenge rooted ironically in its absence. And now this! Oh! how I mocked those self pitying, superfluous, bored mumblings of times spent amongst flat, fresh, green gladed horizons. For the first few days in Sumatra, if timed well, one could possibly hold ones breath in the hope that the jet black exhaust fumes would dissipate before (through lack of breath) I passed out! The cases for such breath bating were rendered quite hopeless on steep hills. Huffing, puffing, then sucking in thick black smoke from a continual train of grunting, twelve wheeled logging trucks. In infuriated, hazy bouts of disapproval, attempts to communicate some muttered, gasping displeasure at being repeatedly veiled in exhaust fumes would be consistently pacified by the gaze of some cheeky young lad peering back from the passenger window, wide eyed and beaming a smile.
“Hello Mister”The perfect parry to ones aggravated lunges and a great aid to conjuring up a smile (not grimace) and a wave (not fist). Indeed in the ensuing months these absurdly young truckers companions would serve as a constant reminder to steer ones frustrations toward the exhaust, not the men and families in the cabin. A diametric combination of good cheer and fumes, giving a most commendable wide birth to cyclists.
On the third day, there was the first rattling sign of a morning (moaning) wheeze, another precedence in the making, followed by a growing inability to hold ones breath long enough as lorrys past. Black smoke settling on shrinking lungs.
On Day Five came the first full fledged morning cough. On day seven came the first morning cough with substance, substantially elevating ones concerns to the healthiness of this progressively blackening cycle ride.
A very big Island all flaming, smoking, choking and spluttering. Equatorial heat pushing down on impermeable, forest fired smoke, all pushing down on road shaped black soot. Approaching towns at night felt like cycling toward cliffs whilst being lost in a thick sea fog. Partially penetrating beams of light swimming in meter deep, grey soups of smog. Vehicle headlights lurked into view, warning of serrated dangers like moving metallic lighthouses . . . . . A head torch would vainly probe for unlit vehicles, had they seen me? Had I seen them? Ship wrecked vehicles were impaled on concrete spikes, thrust above the fog like prophetic effigies. Half a lorry cabin or car with its roof ripped away. Hard plied, metal exclamation marks for soft vulnerable cyclists and stark reminders of that flag pole, still stuck amongst collapsed trees on a roadside in Thailand.
Roadside verges burned and smoked, Lorries coughed and smoked, People coughed and smoked (actively), I coughed and smoked (passively)! Hot Smoke, black smoke, sticky heavy smoke. Each evening black dripped from sore eyes. Dredged black displaced from stodgy clogged places and with it, the quite miraculous end (sadly only temporary) to an ex smokers eternal languishing for post lunch cigarettes. I now had a smokers cough, the first for six years.
This, of course, was not the first time I had stumbled into burning landscapes, polluted streets and other vulgar treatments of the lung. There had always been an inclination to steer, mapped or unmapped, toward some snickett of peace. A parallel track or dusty detour, some (mostly) uncharted respite where one could rest clogged lungs and mind. A little amble guided by compass or finger pointing, happy just to take in some clean silence for a few days. Somehow, in Sumatra, I had tripped, snagged by some clandestine urge to push on, to make progress around the world. It is now clear, whilst jotting down these ditties, that there had been no idea of the true wily nature of my fall. Tripped (and tricked) by a petrol fused mind, the whole adventure had tumbled into that terrible pit of finishing and rushing and reason forgetting. Indonesia had presented a brand new design for cyclists, cast into hundreds of sinusoidal (polluted, smoky) volcanic ripples and for whatever reason I was funneling straight into them with all loss of bravado to attempt an alternative passage. By the time the coughing had started in earnest, little sentimental pimples on the landscape had expanded to mental mountains of the most sordid nature. A petrol fumed, forest fire scorched mind, now tricked into thinking it had had a relatively good take on the way of the worlds peaks and troughs, with good reason, I thought. I had cried and laughed my way over the Alps, the Taurus mountains, The Pamir wall, a multitude of ridged divides and still had plenty of good cheer left for scaling the Himalaya! Very necessary cycling, mostly for the simple reason of quelling a great need to see the mountains. All said they were surely the most severe knee jerkings one would, and indeed, should endure on a world cycle trip. Now Sumatra had presented these little pimples a breed unknown. They were a menace and incredibly difficult to cope with.
Up . . . . . . Down . . . Up, down, up . . . . . Cough.Such a terrible state to be in. A closed mind all coughing and counting sentimental pimples the size of mental mountains. Fifteen in the first hour following breakfast.
Down, up . . . . . . Cough . . . Down, up.
Thirty before brunch . . . . . . . . Fourty before . . . . . . . . I was counting hills and subconsciously counting down to not wanting to cycle anymore . . . . . 20, 19, 18, 17 . . . . Sad days on a bicycle wondering how many days one must endure peaking the summit of a wave to then peer fearfully ahead at the endless combination of smog doused, deforested troughs and peaks . . . . . . .
Up, down, up, down, Up . . . . . . .Down. . . . . . .STOP.
Before their alarming shift in behaviour there had been an hour of scooter revving, mysterious arm grabbing and miscellaneous bag pointing. An exhausting, pensive hour of teenage men pushing me down whilst I grind up and iniquitous men, smiling toothlessly as I attempt to consolidate fraught nerves in a downward breeze. It was different this time. They had all waited at the top of the next hill, were de-scootered and gaited, like impatient, lock gated animals. I had my trough they had their peak. If this rather odd, yellow bagged Condor corral should go the wrong way, better that the fray be confronted without gasping lungs and dizzy head from a climb. So I waited, I nut nibbled from Condors bottle (read anxiety) and feigned casual glances at the map whilst counting down (some more) to not wanting cycle anymore. . . . .10, 9, 8, 7, . . . In a rush of unlocked animal revving, red eyed verve (oh! they were drunk) they descended into my nut nibbling trough, now clearly intent on mischief. Circling, pushing pulling, grabbing. No knives, no Guns (phew) and NO WAY! A passive out numbered stand against revving engines, tightening Bahasan expletives and then in a crunch of disbelief (and the second time in a month) my cheek was scraping against bits of road, nudged up against another sad pointy flag pole. With an aching jaw and jerked arms bent on holding onto (MY!) Condor, red eyes and one toothed grimaces tugged at the unsuspected weight of a loaded bicycle. I had taken a good thumping. The Condor yellow bagged Corral certainly had gone the wrong way. Pannier clips were failing, one by one. Hands were tugging at straps, bars, bags and anything that may yield to foul play. Bags would soon be lost, off on some pirated steed. Surely there was some doubt in the ranks, some sense of wrong doing that might undo this madness. In a spring of no knives, no guns bravado, furious, bright blue eyes met rotten red ones. On ‘yer’ feet lad! Furious ‘one foot higher than you’ blue eyes peered down at smaller, doubting, red ones. Then, as if sent to redress some karmic imbalance or fractured harmony, three large guzzling lorries fumed over fore and aft hills sinking into my trough with black exhaust fumes rising into the air like absurd rescue flares, accompanied by the screeching battle cries of halting breaks. The grunting, honking cavalry had arrived! One handed waves (a completely unclipped bag was now only a hands grip away from the off) and then a rapid dash to one of my twelve wheeled rescuers and I was (safety in numbers) safe. I started shaking, shaking peoples hands and shaking from shock. The Condor corral had held.
After fifteen vulnerable minutes of dreadfully exposed cycling the same spectral rasp of revving engines returned. I was so tired of it. When would it stop? It was here again, by my side, revving and red eyed. It, them, had reduced to only one teenaged young man. There was no pushing, just an offered hand. Eyes were now sad not sadistic and hands were open not closed. It really had stopped. As I peddled the young man touched me on the shoulder, his eyes began to well up with windswept tears before a rather dramatic career toward me, I careered with him and we both came to a halt.
Such peaks and troughs! Physically draining peaks, emotionally draining troughs. A physically static, emotionally spinning roadside mess. Then, rising up from the tangled state of things my assailant spoke a word, an English word, the first I heard for some time . . . .
“Sorry”His open hearted return was an immensely touching gesture. I don’t think he ever knew the acrimonious tension he had released with his kind peace offerings. As I rested safe on Condors cross bar, feeling a little calmer, it shook me deeply that a single spoken word had had such a profound effect. There was certainly no hope of returning some syllable rich reply to his teary word, not without bursting into to tears. I didn’t want to cry there, not in front of him, not on the side of a road, so I took a deep breath and stuttered a terribly insufficient “Terima Kasih”.
For thirty minutes, I tried in vain to continue cycling. The rasp of scooter engines and well meaning “hello misters” sounded bitter from fear, still fresh in mind. I was drained and far too wobbly to cycle.
A bare room was presented to me in a small village. It had four walls to muffle the revving sounds of the road and one vulnerable doorframe, with no door. Not much comfort to a vulnerable cyclists. It was the best that could be done with wobbly no cycling legs. I tried to speak (again) to the man, to thank him but could not. It would have to wait. I sat and made lots of odd, upset sounds and felt a little better. Later, whilst eating, I watched a generator powered fuzzy black and white Indonesian fairy tale (how very symbolic) with Mums, Dads, an odd man painting window frames and six children. Simple smiles, sharing eggs and safe. Before I slept the owner asked that I put Condor in his room for safety. That night, I awoke with a man feigning sleep next to me with his hands wandering inside my bike bags . . . . . . . Please! I want it to stop now!. . . . . . . I stood up with sad (not furious) ‘one and a half foot taller than you’ blue eyes looking down at no guns, no knives (phew) shocked black (not red) ones. . . . . . . .
“Hello Mister” I said.
Ouch! My jaw hurt.
Counting down 5, 4, 3 . . . . Physically and emotionally incapable of talking anymore.
A few days later, in a jungle clearing, I would be under the scrutiny of thirty seated children. All bashful from the prodding formality of a questioning school teacher. No red eyes teenage children, giggling like they should, at a funny English cyclist (with terrible Bahasan pronunciation) invited by the local English teacher to help with their English for the morning. A dried up water well, no electricity school, full of coy children that would, in a few hours be giggling at ten miles per hour, openly shouting “Hey Misters!” and “Where are you going Mister!” An educating morning for all, and a beautifully apt way of curing the plague of reflexive anxieties at each passing group of teenage lads on scooters.
For the time being, with my bags still by my side, I awoke in my four walls, no doors (unsafe) safe house and . . . . . OUCH! My jaw clicked. A reminder of the previous days flag pole planted thumping and a rather painful distraction to the present mass invasion of two chickens, a big black crunchy flying thing, a squealing pig and two children. The raucous had thankfully averted a likely, self pitying stay on my bed of raised wooden planks, and in a flash I was up and enjoying a little caffeinated rumination on the absurdity of my verbal deficiency and the madness of the previous twenty four hours. A little morning chuckle, a welcome (although painful) booster, soothing tense thoughts like the whistling of a silly song in a serious head wind. Over rice and eggs that little caffeinated chuckle self perpetuated into the rather dramatic (now conscious) realisation that I really had actually been counting down to not wanting to cycle anymore.
I rummaged, dredged, filtered and emptied through seven cluttered bike bags and one very cluttered mind later I held it in my hand. Treasure from a far! A kind of hermetic home from home, smelling of Shepherds Bush and flooding the morning with rushes of bright packed memories from a very along way ago.
1. Two preserved pound coins: Now too rusted for procuring a celebratory Yorkshire ale.
2. Two faded family pictures.
3. A good luck stone from mother.There it was!
4. A tatty list.What does it say? . . . . . . . Written in the glow of candle light and all glowing from a glass of red wine it was a secret Sunday evenings scrawl, a fluid, un-tethered list to answer the fantastical question: What have you always wanted to see in this world Mr. Saberton? Brought to life a year before the first peddle stoke and now in my hands, hermetically unsealed, un-tethered and ready for the reading (and living!) over eleven thousand miles later. Regardless of its original intent, it now glowed like an emergency stop button for ‘count downs to not wanting to cycle anymore’. More coffee was brewed (it obviously helped!) and the great, giddy, Indonesian cross referencing began. Old tatty pen marks were linked to old frail lists, all aligned, cross referenced, squeezed and hoojimadoo’d into new lists and new good scaled maps. Towns were dotted, volcano’s ringed and Pacific Island ports checked against ferry timetables and guide book indexes. Visa requirements were scaled against distances, topography and most importantly of all, scaled against ones will and wanting to be there!
In the hours of afternoons in the saddle I had begun to sincerely consider that there be some intrinsic relationship between the challenges of cycling and the beautiful rewards offered in exchange. A balance or cosmic hand dishing out fare play or possibly some kind of self inclined optimism determined to see the good after the bad. An honest homebrewed law, I thought, that one could (and often had to) depend on . . . . . . . Dry deserts and the joy of seeing an Oasis . . . . . A puncture and a shared moment of understanding with an old man. A hill, a view, getting lost and then finding, fifty degree heat waves and buckets of cold water, loneliness and appreciation. . . . . . . . .
Things had certainly been going the wrong way again and it was time to try out some of that self determined optimism to help put things right. I had found my hidden (or is that forgotten?) Shepherds Bush, Sunday scrawled list pointing to hidden treasure, it was a good start. A last sip of coffee and the first step out of that terrible pit of finishing, rushing and reason forgetting that somehow, I had ended up in without even knowing it. Later that same day I had accidentally left my sunglasses on the saddle whilst seeing how many flies there might be in a restaurant and returned to see them vamoosed. I had learnt lots of new things in opening my hermetic home from home. New strength for dealing with ups, downs and coughs. Thin skin was thickening. Saddened again by theft yet firmly buoyed by circles, highlights and lists living. Beautiful Indonesia awaited!
Up, down, up down . . . . .cough . . . . . .SWIMMING WITH TWO DOLPHINS!
Up, down, up down . . . . .cough . . . . . .BEAUTIFULL CORALED SHIP WRECKS!
Up, down, up down . . . . .cough . . . . . .THE RUMBLING MAGNIFICENCE OF STANDING ON THE EDGE OF A LIVING VOLCANO!
Up, down, up down . . . . .cough . . . . . .SITTING IN A DUG OUT CANOE SURROUNDED BY A THOUSAND SUNRISEN DOLPHINS!
Up, down, up down . . . . .cough . . . . . .SURFING A PACIFIC WAVE (well nearly)
It was incredible! Living incredible dreams that I had so very nearly cycled past! All at once, everything. A spoiled rotten cyclist, quite astonished at the sheer density of dream living. One particular early morning I had stood at sun rise on the craters edge of a high volcano looking down at the sad place I had been, knowing I had done good, and had been made happy again. Happy to carry on with my amazing adventure.
All at once, everything! Ramadan came to and end! A beautiful day in rural Indonesia with streams of families passing all morning, dressed to the nines, five people on one scooter, laden with food for the day’s celebrations. Doorways of stilted riverside homes were piled high with visiting family flip flops, doorways sounded hundreds of ‘Ramadan has ended!’ “Hello Misters” as I glided passed. Bright colours and big smiles, Oh how I reveled with them!
There would be more (all at once!) reveling that evening. A kind of stooped over, flow of water revelation, triggered by an odd subliminal unease whilst looking at a sink of water swirling in a different direction. I think. That is to say, I could not recollect which way water normally twirls, or for that matter whether ones hemisphered position in the world effected sink draining, whirlpool events anyway. None the less it triggered some hasty hemispherical, earthlike circle sketches at the reception desk. For some time I had been drifting between map marked landmarks with no certain idea of my spherical whereabouts but now I knew! Wow!. I had just crossed the Equator! I had cycled into the Southern Hemisphere! That very special evening I chose the finest, fly free ‘free from Ramadan’ restaurant in town and sat with a ‘Ramadan has ended’ beer and mused a little further on the recent and progressively alarming mystery of wondering where one is. Not so much the map lost variety or even the drousy, soft pillowed re-remembering one gets whilst opening eyes in the morning, but the considerably greater manifestation of asking literally, “where in the world in the world am I!”. It happened every now again, things falling by the wayside for a moment, where the intrinsic transience of cycling fails to keep one abreast of the basics. A little morning mind bungle as one peddles along. Lost for a few micro seconds followed by a graphic, now well rehearsed mental flit across a thousand miles or so to find the last known point of anchor (E.g. Hanoi, North Vietnam) easing everything back in to place (literally). . . . . . .Panic over. But now, whatever mariners myth or navigators charm was at play in those days of drifting along the equator, some southern hemisphere voodoo had seriously dislocated an ability to re-remember where one was. Mental, thousand mile micro-second rushes had, at their equatorial height become five long, vacuous seconds of retracing ones steps all the way from London back to my palpitating brow. A few weeks of bouncing between profound losts then finds, peddling south past the equator through impossibly obvious cultural cues, yet often quite clueless as to where one actually was!
The more earthly matter of keeping the basic essentials in line, had, by now been some what neglected. With time out of the saddle living life long dreams, a refreshed, bolstered and quite wonderstruck mind began opening, peering and logisticating at all the loose, holed and undecided bits of this once again great adventure. There was a lot to be done (as there always was when I looked). The stove needed major surgical welding, O-rings (another new word) needed replacing, its internal workings were now choked with months of dirty fuel and the whole affair required precarious, high octane nerves to light. As a cursory note on the stove, it seems the months of anxious high altitude lightings had caused it to develop some deep incurable splutter. Up there, where water freezes in a few minutes its ranking had elevated to a position (all be it a continually extinguishing one) right next to nothing less than water and life itself. Of course now, my present surrounds were quite luxurious, yet despite repeated dissections and attempts to fix, hairs still sinjed on a volatile stove which, on an empty stomach is still the cause for much agitation. Any way to continue . . . . . . . . There was also a bent poled, multiple stitched and patched tent that had now gotten wet and had not been aired and would now require hours of mould scrubbing. The same went for the sleeping bag and associated three days to dry. Six of the seven flood proof bags now let in water and using hi-tech glue from hi-tech Singapore, thirty five holes needed to be sealed and taped after my labors, only three of the seven bags let in water and only when partially submerged in flood water, a marked improvement. A passport, memorably soaked in iodine in some dark Serbian tunnel had led to capricious officials in China, Kyrgistan and most recently Indonesia, daring to question my legitimacy and with only one blank page remaining it was another one of those (Singaporean) pieces of red tape that could easily be dropped and most certainly should be fixed. The wonders of electronic communication had provided a date to meet someone in North Australia who had shown a progressive interest in joining the adventure since our first meeting on a Thai Island. A courageous “yes” on his part had provided a simple and quite inadvertent solution to my overly complicated deliberations on whether I should cycle in Oz. Providence had been served! So I am, after all, going to Australia. Is there an Australian Embassy in Indonesia? Do I need a Visa? . . . . . . . At the height of all this satisfying, unclogged thought flowing and equipment fixing, logistic gems would drop regularly into ones sweltering equatorial dreams, gibing one to semi-conscious mind flushes. Hot nights under thick cobwebs on creaking beds, writing comically inappropriate lists for mother on what should be posted in advance to Sydney (now that I knew I was going there) for cycling in the Andes. There was another list for father on all Condors ailments, and a flood of extra thoughts to be shared . . . . . . . Are Capagnola parts available in Australia? When will new tyres be needed? Yes, I will need new chain rings before South America. Yes, the bent front forks and break levers will last the distance following that rickshaw collision in India . . . . Is that really the largest cog available for the rear cassette? Over lunch one day I glanced over the shortlist to father, noticing with some surprise how it read. The length of its words, the precise knowing of mentioned components and a strange kind of bike shop idiom to the writing. The bit where the peddles join the frame had inadvertently become a ‘bottom bracket’. The ‘big cogs at the front’ were now magically listed as ‘Chain rings’ (with 22 teeth on the smallest ring). Even the ‘hinge thing’ where the handle bars meet the frame was mystically recorded as a ‘Head Set’. Things really had come along way since Condors first visit to a bike shop, way back in Istanbul. It appeared; by all accounts that I had been indoctrinated by cycling blurb to the extent that sometimes, to my great surprise, I occasionally considered myself more knowledgeable to Condors needs than the expert at the receiving end of my enquiries. All in all, messy thoughts had just kind of self motivated themselves into order, falling from morning snoozes into ranks, columns emails and neat ‘jobs to do lists’. Marvelous!
The gentle morning breeze cooled a content, spring cleaned mind, now quite free to be filled with new Island adventures. Speeding currents swept under the bow as Bali appeared through the morning mist, rising up in one great volcanic height, overshadowing the heightened security for the international summit on Climate change. (Up . . . down . . . up . . . down, cough and a sooty nosed mock at the choice of venue). A mysterious loss of a bank card (the first of the trip) did little to dilute the excitement of floating toward a new Island, a half hour, tiny snippet of boating, just enough time for fresh pineapple and some deep breaths of clean sea air. From hollowed out trees crossing jungle torrents to rusting Russian liners crossing retreating landlocked seas, these floating intermissions to cycling had always been a sincerely enjoyable furtherance to making ones way around the world. Counted only in minutes, these little snippets of Indonesian boating were just long enough for fresh fruit and fresh air, but counted in days, Indonesian boating was enough time for fresh fruit to turn, for fresh air to foul and for one to be scrubbed quite raw by the truly extraordinary.
There was no need for Condor to be securely lashed, these were vessels of considerable size, multiple decked floating hulls for the masses. Fresh white paint flaked free and brown rusted metal sprinkled over the saddle as Condor lay to rest against some supposed structural member. A brown faded 1980’s (!?) British Telecom Advert flickered above a stairwell, tiering hundreds of people in the process of claiming a one step, three day home. The lucky ones had corners to lay out a matt for their children. It was cooler up here than in Ekonomi class, by a small margin not much greater than the available places to put ones feet. The boat healed precariously over the dock from the weight of the hundreds clambering aboard and the hundreds more watching them. More people crowded onto the decks to which the boat obliquely continued to oblige. Hundreds of sweat soaked porters disembarked, children cried, men smoked, gang planks raised, gang planks lowered . . . more people boarded, more boxes were stored . . . . . It was fizzing with absolute Indonesia, inebriating, swelling, overloading, overloaded and at last, ready to leave! A modest nine hours late and still with an absurd heal over the dock we were cast away into the extraordinary. A very compressed world, seven tilted stories high, feeling a bit like a piece of floating fiction that had accidentally been made real by some flexible regulation or financial necessity.
Each of these memorable passages at sea were truly absurd, bursting at the rusty rivets and absolutely humbling. Cabins would be shared with the affluent. On one voyage my cabin companion was a Papuan business man whispering in covert Catholic tones of the wishes of his people to be independent, his tale digitally enhanced with mobile phone images of atrocities and flags of independence. On another, I was privy to the postulations of a man escorting his fully covered six year old daughter to her six year life at an Orthodox woman’s boarding school. He had just returned from the floating, sea faring mosque (magnetically aligned to Mecca) and complained to me of the sinking attendances as men dashed passed, de-capped and disappeared into the men only television room to watch naughty movies. In perfect English I was dutifully informed that, despite the sardined state of the ship, we were quite safe. Allah was protecting us, indeed it was thanks to Allah that the engineers had so fantastically fathomed the complexities of building this great ship. He was a lucky man with no need to work, for Allah provided all and earnestly protected him. It seemed, on an overloaded boat in deep water I was in good company. He continued, his cloths could fend off bullets and Allah would, of course ensure this metallic miracle would maintain its correct posture in the water. His daughter would not be lonely at school and would learn all she would need from the Qu´ran. Indeed she would spend the whole six years solely focused on learning the ancient writings off by heart. On further enquiry I learnt the Qu´ran could provide her with skills of Language, Geography, Science and Maths. Apparently a comprehensive text, curtailing all need for his daughter to be subjected to the ardors of algebra, differentiation, biology and other less necessary teachings. The next day, through the crowds I waved goodbye to the animated man standing proud, with his wife and daughter and was about to wheel Condor over to shake his hand. His wife turned her childs head and then her own. Maybe it was better to just start cycling . . . . . . .
The cruise along the North coast of Flores brought the company of the regional chief for the state run ferry company, full of fast Bahasan and pen scribbles on the state of Indonesia and the present state of the ship (!) I dined self consciously with the handful of 1st and 2nd class passengers in an empty dining room, segregated from a very full ship and then again from the 1st and 2nd class wives and daughters. Inside, the captain occasioned the odd karaoke singsong (not sing along) for his rather abstract cutlery clattering audience. Outside, the porthole framed audience picked at food from soggy paper bags with their fingers.
“. . . in the summer of ’69. . . . . . “ . . .Guitar screech
“. . a poor little baby child is born in the Ghetto . . . . . .”“Sorry could you repeat that?” . . . . . . . It was loud! My cabin mate was mentioning, over the captains felicitous rendition of ‘In the Ghetto’ that sixty percent of the Indonesian population earn less tha……n t%&/(o dollars a d&/(=y.
“Pardon, what was that could you repeat!”
And so went the twice daily, fact filled floating banquets:
- Indonesia stands to loose two thousand Islands with the forecasted effects of Global warming.
- Only Twenty percent of Indonesia has a telephone network.
- More people can speak English in India than in England.
And the bitter discovery that:
- Two more new species of mosquito had recently been discovered in SE Asia.
As the solo singing, captain Elvis sang out his last note the first rain drops trickled down the portholes. During the damp after lunch stroll (over bodies and boxes), brooding clouds and swelling seas swept around a very full boat as it lurched into two days of disillusive sea faring, a soggy rolling ride into the unimaginable, made real. It rained and rained, boomed and swelled. As outside water came inside wet people, rotten food, mushed waste, coughs and cockroaches followed suite. Soggy and soaking into the hundreds of flat cardboard islands and Ekonomi class mattresses. Flimsy little patches of slowly submerging holds on sanity. Coming into port added a temporary calm to the waters . . . and added a few more hundred passengers, swilling aboard and aptly appropriating the last airy nooks and crannies of the ship, inside life boats and life rafts. A simple walk for some fresh air now forced one to desperately defensive smiles toward a rapidly descending bog of un-cabined people, sinking on their cardboard islands. It was so very upsetting. Simply put, I was embarrassed at my cutlery clinking, cabined part in it all. I self consciously climbed over bodies to enter my cabin and then had to lift children sleeping on damp floors to reach an empty dining room, segregated from a bursting ship like some Victorian nightmare.
Like I said, counted in days it was enough time for fruit to turn and air to foul. The waves rolled and seven tilting floors swilled and slushed to breaking point. People began to vomit, soggy paper bags leaked, dripping the last drops of tacit and shipboard dignity onto mushy cardboard homes wallowing in spit, rotten food, cigarette butts, spilled bottles of urine and now vomit. Cockroaches scurried between islands of Muslim woman clinging vainly to head veils and children (being sick) whilst their long cloths wicked up the slosh of the deck to knee height. It was now quite clear the whole affair was kept afloat not by (bursting at the seams) rusty rivets or by duteous passenger counts but on bursting at the seams good cheer, smiles and superlative tolerances. I was amazed by it all, and so gratefully welcomed across the class divide by “Hello Misters” and brought into the buoyant throng of a thousand hearty smiles. Each morning after breakfast I strolled over and through small dance parties powered by mobile phone rings and woman gathered for make up and hair combing sessions. After three or so days I still waded each morning into the bowls of Ekonomi class to check on Condor and still wondered whether all this was normal. Was it only me lurching at the absurdity of it all?
So . . . . . . . Counting in minutes NOT in those extraordinary days and feeling quite refreshed from the last slurp of delicious pineapple, Condor wheeled down the car deck ramp and onto the shores of beautiful Bali.
Mystical bells and xylophones sounded through grey deciduous north coast woodlands steeped onto volcanic slopes. Thatched Hindu shrines had supplanted domed mosques and daedal shoots of towering bamboo swayed in place of familiar mega-phoned prayer towers. Hot skin was cleansed by soft drafts of Balinese mountain air and a mind refreshed by the surprise aesthetic shift in religion. From up on high, mesmeric Hindu mantras carried on cajoles of cooling air and with a few hours of baited whisperings had successfully lured a sea leveled cyclist to peddle all the way over Bali, not around it.
Four thousand feet later, and completely exhausted I cycled into wet season cloud, became very wet and then . . . . . . . . Cold! I had cycled upwards into a chill and in keeping with the fickle nature of this long cycle trip, thought it only fit to celebrate the newly kindled pleasures of actually feeling cold! Cold for the first time since the Himalayas and one hour later wallowing in a hot bath, the first since Switzerland! The next morning whilst draped in peculiar, long sleeve bliss, breakfast was served canopied under cool, dew dropped greens and bright sky blues. Palm sugar syrup oozed from thick crepes, Balinese coffee aromas carried across the sparkling, turquoise cratered lake and I just sat goose pimpled and merry at the sight of it all. Gears whirred and clear, clean air tickled cool skin whilst a rustling bag of fresh strawberries swung from the handle bars. A hundred luxurious taste sensations at arms reach, serving up queer temperate reminders of sunny summers in England as Condor whistled into a beautiful peddle free, four hour descent and a rapid return to the tropical heat of south Bali.
For each of the seven days spent in south Bali, a ritual trip to the beach to take in sunsets, crashing waves and cocktails would slowly fill with a distinct feeling that one was reaching the edge or end of something. An odd sensation that lingered till the end of the last (counted in days!) ferry trip. Whether it had come from some indoctrination of Euro-centric school maps or perhaps just my simple square mapped way of thinking, there was a marked, edgy giddyness to the last boat disembarking in South East Asia. The North coast of Australia was now only a very small, little strip of water away. Time differences were approaching double figures and I had now proudly planted my wheels onto Timorees soil, into the battered corner of my world map. A corner that for over a year had only ever dared be studied in cursory glances, now, I was actually there! . . . . .Here! . . . . . Cycling over the tears and Iodine stains of West Timor! It would be Indonesia saving the best till last. A grand finale on a rocky island, the last I would cycle across in South East Asia.
Straight up! Up into West Timor and up onto roads that twisted down from above in blistering, sun scorched gradients of the most formidable nature. After only two hours of cycling that sense of geological fare play toward cyclists was convincingly shredded, ruptured by impossible hill climbs followed shortly by rupturing knees and the consummate failing balance of a fourty odd kilogram bicycle. That tipping point in hill climbing when the front wheel of a fully loaded bicycle lifts off the ground. An overweight wheelie! An expletory moment that, in over a year of cycling were countable on one hand, until that is, the formidable ascents of Timor! Perhaps it was that I now considered myself reasonably accomplished in big hill climbing or presumed myself to be comfortably au fait with that stubborn, calm browed, slow turning mentality needed to see them through to the end. Unperturbed by the odd peak at peeks or the absent minded mistake of thinking I still had gears in reserve, up I would go, hot, knackered and breathless yet still quite content to gaze at scenery passing at three miles per hour for hours on end. But, when one pulls a wheelie on a bicycle weighting around fourty kilograms it snaps a three mile per hour daydream into wrenching expletives and a sudden lurch sideways in the hope of finding a footing (wheeling?) on a lesser angle before ones legs buckle under the madness of it. Moments of madness counted on one hand until docking at Timor. Oh but how Timor paid dividend for all that precarious wheel lifting (unlike those small pimples, the size of mental mountains). Up, up ,up into spectacular volcanic landscapes relieved against a sparkling Pacific Ocean. Down, down, down, spiraling through villages trapped in time. Sun bleached thatch, shaded red toothed old woman, spitting red onto cracked mud that reverberated from the thump of bamboo pummeling husks of wheat. Small children casually hacked at this and that with big machetes waving hello’s (thankfully with the other hand). . . . . “Hello mister” . . . . . “Money mister . . money, money, money”.
Tin roofed churches founded in straw roofed villages, patents to a prospering catholic religion. Mixed up with a little animalism, village hut doors exalted Gods greatness and informed those who passed that “God can save”. God came in no leaks, corrugated tin roofs and Christian missionary shaped, no leaks fiber glass fishing boats. Luxury goods for those that:
“Simply chose to live with God”
As we sipped morning coffee the Australian missionary went on to inform me that should I need any help on my incredible journey I must simply call out to God and he will also save me. Lofted a top a very big hill with only downs to go, I confidently proclaimed there would be no need for saving this morning. As Condor dropped from the center stand a less ministered, cartographic study of the days contours ushered in a more ecclesiastic caution that I may indeed be needing a little help, probably around three o’clock! As it happened, on that day it would not be my hill climbing legs that required a little celestial fixing but my own terribly inappropriate behaviour.
Timor was still new and unknown. Similar to the crossing of international borders, it was not just a very heavy bicycle that I must nudge onto these new islands, but also all the conflicting dispositions of an excited, circumspect, thrilled yet nervous cyclists. On the same day that I had peddled away from the fading echoes of “God can save you” all reasoning for the awfully absent minded behaviour about to unfold was seemingly lost in those mysterious tangles of nervous newness, messed up further by what I can only think to be the simple distraction of hunger. A cyclists hunger that is, the unequivocal voice of a moody, hill climbing stomach, the voice that deafens and the sure cause for many desperate fits of desultory failings. On these (hopefully) rare occasions where one perceives to have blundered into some inconsiderate action, or cultural cock up, there is terrible (and inherent) sad sinking that takes hold, as clammy thoughts stick, and guilty ones prick at the hopeless realisation of ones own blunder.
Plump bananas hung from a solitary thatched covering, as I said it was a cyclist hunger, so three bananas later it transpired I had departed from Kupang, the port town, with only monstrously large denominations of bank notes, quite unusable for buying bananas in a small village. An innocent rummage through Condors food bag revealed a fine packet of biscuits, surprisingly un-squished and hopefully accepted as a fair swap. Word spread. A cycling tourists kafuffle in the making and the beginning of another impromptu, roadside biscuit shindig. Thin families withdrew from under the shade of domed thatch, a man brought along a herd of goats and a boy chased his pig into the crowd. It would always be a smiling, happy affair as two worlds collided over biscuits. There was a good count of biscuit crumbed bare feet by the time I had pulled out a weighty stash of nuts to top up the bottle. Normally, opulence, afforded by the sterling strong pound were handled with a little more consideration in foreign lands, only making discrete, considered appearances. It was the beginning of the days great failing, a kilogram of nuts presented by hands tangled with new nerves. The nuts cascaded over Condor like hundreds of discourteous nibbles, rolling between toes, tyres and hooves. Small falling nuts having a very large effect. A sudden kilogram bag of nuts presented, poured and then carelessly spilled at a thin, bare foot biscuit party was clearly a terribly indiscrete reveal and in a scuffle of double timed dipping, raising and crawling I stood culpably statued, in disbelieve, as twenty or so people collected nuts from the dirt. Men, woman and children cupping each as treasure, all under the gaze of a standing tall (feeling very small) cyclist. Circled by that very particular intimidation imbued by poverty, I reeled as a child opened his cupped hand to give me ten or so nuts. A few others pocketed their finds and disappeared. I was shocked into a smile as he attempted again to hand me the nuts he had found. Stunned and severely embarrassed by the fallout from my incredibly crass slip of empathy, I actually accepted the nuts from the little boy and put them back in the container! Panic propagated at my obvious inability to put things right and quite honestly, I just wanted to leave, purblind and clueless as to what holey patch may be applied to make amends for my embarrassing blunder. Of course, in hindsight it was all very clear what good things could have been done (and normally were). Truly appalling behaviour and the cause for much pained consternation as to what reason there could have been to panic. Having already cycled through so much worldly poverty to reach Timor, to cycle into that little hidden village and drop my guard so effectively was very upsetting. A drop of nuts, and an emphatic fumbling of ones sensibilities lasting only five minutes on a small island in the Pacific Ocean. A very personal tale and quite possibly suffocated by maudlin, adjective slush, considering how it may well have been little more than a circle of people, mildly amused at the actions of a strange foreign cyclist, with none of the described (self) induced trappings whatsoever!
Five minutes that stuck in repercussive, mental tantrums for sometime. Full of whys and reason searching. Why had I not simply tried to make things good? Why had I no . . . . . . . . . . . . .
From the top of a lofted, inland cliff I could see the Sea. A week of (excessively) mountainous cycling and I could, at last see the sea! An uninterrupted flat horizon, splicing crystal clear water with saturated sky blues. And, with nibbling, niggling thoughts finally put to rest, an uninterrupted view enjoyed in peace, without nut shaped interruptions. A flip flop strap had snapped on the last climb and elevated to action by such an amazing sight, I sat and glued (wondering why I had suffered the same pair for so long) resting in the shade of a strange, smooth white tree. No better place could there be to wait for glue to dry.
As the last bits were packed, a van passed. Along the rear windscreen, a stuck on sun visor read “BRILLIANT!”. Only a handful of other vehicles would pass that day. Like speeding simulacrum’s of this very new land, a motorcycle buzzed passed with no petrol tank, fueled only by a gaffa taped plastic bottle, followed shortly by a shining white, armoured United Nations vehicle (with original fuel tank) and then a well armed, flag fluttering, smoke glassed convoy. Then a . . . . . . .
Aargh! . . . . .Four days of fourty Kilogram wheelies lay behind, whilst ahead lay a barbed wire, no mans land alley. An astoundingly ill timed right knee stabbed excruciatingly and locked like a stick in spokes. Bloody ‘ell it hurt! Stippling, dusty sunlight pricked through camouflaged netting, strung up between machine gun towers framing glances that were possibly reconsidering letting me through without emptying Condors other six bags aga . . . .Bu**ger! . . . . . it really hurt! . . . .haplessly revisited in a no mans land by Gottard pass pain, knowing (like the ailments of the mind) that the only painful cure was in the turning . . . . . Ouch!
Shuffle, shuffle . . . . . . . left leg push, right knee Aargh!
Left leg push, right knee Aargh! . . . . . . Bu**er it!
Left leg pu . . . . Quite the most excruciating, long forgotten, badly timed two minutes of border crossing one could possibly .. . . . . . Oh, did I mention . . . . . . I had just left leg pushed my way into a new country, East Timor! And it really was, as the passing van had earlier indicated quite brilliant! A few meters away, fulgent Pacific waters lapped against a beautifully smooth coastal road, meandering up and down for a whole afternoon of quite spectacular cycling.
There had of course been thousands of other coastal miles in South East Asia yet when un-beached, de-snorkled and in the saddle, it always seemed as if some roadside miscellany, topography or other irksome collusion would shy one away from the soothing touch of a salty breeze and the intense pleasures of cycling in view of the ocean. Many miles of coastal cycling, sightless of the sea, afforded only the occasional glimpses through colluding channels of concrete or natural apertures. But now, in these last days of cycling in South East Asia, as if under the charm of some chronologically tripped maker of seaside Edens I had been steered into the fantastic. Breathtaking, bright crystal (traffic-less) peace, veering through unquestionably the most incredible two days of salty aired coastal cruising I had ever experienced. Truly memorable, maximum and so vivid that I would be suspended in serene sublimity atop each peninsular climb in whirls of disbelief at its unspoiled beauty, at all that had happened in these last few months and by this immaculate gift, unwrapped on the eve of its end.
Nine hours knackered and only pride left to plough Condors sand sucked wheels along the wooded trail, the sound of the surf helped pull painful knees through the last hundred meters into the promise of a sumptuous sink into cool waters and a sit down. At the end of the trail I leaned down to place a flat stone under Condors sinking stand and sweat trickled into my eyes. I wiped them with a sodden t-shirt, straightened my sweat soaked legs, coated in dark sand and my right knee jerked in pain. I cleared my eyes again, hobbled a stones throw forward and realised I had steered, stumbled and sweated my way to somewhere truly amazing. An incredible place, somewhere massive and intimate, loud yet peaceful and quite beyond any place one could thoughtfully summon up for a last nights sleep on the road in South East Asia. A dark, sunset coloured crescent of sand curved away for miles, pinched into fading, hazy, salt sprayed points hours of cycling away. In one impulsive motion, leaving Condor, perched on the sand, I found my self submerged in blissful cool water. From my sea leveled, knee soothed state I counted only five other people sharing in that magical few minutes. The two men, out of surfs way, in a dug out canoe, slowly dipping oars and collecting nets from an orange tinted sea. The third, a bare footed man polling up and down palm trees catching the last red light in his thonged machete, and the last, a young boy collecting his beach combing Ox. With just enough light remaining to collect drift wood, put up a tent and cook up some vegetables, I emerged from the Pacific, tingling and triumphant to rustle up a camp for the night. It was a special night that night. There I sat, on a smooth stone, well fed with a comfy bed in wait, completely involved in savoring the fire side bliss and prolonging that sumptuous window of awake-ness after eating, before big day cycle weariness takes one off to bed. I had come over all enchanted, moved by glowing, fire lighted laments that had seemingly brushed against some strange rooted essence of exploring, as if the Timorese wind were carrying some emotive amplification of what it was, to be the first man to gaze upon a new world. There had surely been many cyclists to have peddled into this particular corner of the world, but that night it was my corner, and it felt brilliant! I was in East Timor one the newest most beautifully coast lined countries in the world and tomorrow I would ‘hang up’ Condor to rest, pull up a chair and just sit down in the pride of it all.
The next day, I did indeed hang Condor up for a while. The chair I sat in was inside a converted shipping container, my abode for a week of scrambling paper work and thumb twiddling in Dilli, the capital of East Timor. Things had gone very wrong for East Timor, as I learnt from a week of walking, talking and watching documentaries in the national archive library. Some say a third of the Timorese population had died in the twenty five years since the Indonesian army had landed (in American landing craft) on the beaches of Dilli. White refugee tents crowded derelict spaces, squares and parks. United Nations soldiers casually carried guns, like shopping baskets into western priced super markets. Restaurants hummed with talk of how to make a suffering, volatile country well again, a month or so after I left the president was shot, there was a lot of work to do. A whole, segregated economy sat above the poverty for the tens of thousands of foreign aid workers, police, engineers, soldiers, journalists and myriad of other attached persons to a country that I now realized was in a terribly fragile state. It is one of the poorest countries in the world yet my shipping container accommodation cost more than a three star luxury hotel in the rest of Asia.
There were no spare airplane seats available to Australia for over a month; it was the United Nations Christmas rush! And with the sincerest help from a miracle fixer for cyclists (and embassy staff alike) I would be bound for a return to the Indonesian border and a fractious run in with Indonesian boy soldiers at a border crossing I had, only one week earlier crossed so happily.
“You hit me in your country, I hit you in mine” . . . .click of safety catches and rustle of sleeves.
He was serious and he had my passport and a firm belief that I had told him to F***k off! Had I been less primed and agitated by my learnings on East Timor I may have been a little less ruffled at the way things were managed when one attempted to cross the border in the opposite direction. I had been warned there may be difficulty. When a furious cyclist, taunted by little boys with big guns starts feeling threatened, a simple bullet pointed “U.K.”, referring to ones nationality could be construed to sound like F***k Off, Couldn’t it? A mystery that led to a tense, ego expostulating border crisis warranting higher and higher ranking participation until a woman, speaking English came to my rescue, bringing with her the magic of calm tones and gentle smiles. She new the man with the most stripes on his shoulder and calmed him. With a forced apology from myself he handed back my passport. The following day, I sat next to the woman in her family home, she served me a farewell meal and would accept nothing but a huge thank you. A very tense, no-mans-land escape that, without her help, would at best, have led to a refused entry back into Indonesia. With lingering thoughts on how differently things could have been without the help of that king woman, I boarded the small plane. Only three other passengers joined me. Bound for Australia and a whole day early for the grand rendezvous with my new cycling companion.
I peered at the twinkling sea, ten thousand feet below, sitting motionless at hundreds of miles an hour, seeking distraction in the scattered, brilliant white cloud plumes, parallactically shifting above the curving shapes of the Great Barrier reef. It really was a natural wonder! So wonderful in fact, that for those few effortless hours, the unusual perspective provided from peddle-free panoramic magic had some how served to calm the whole bubbling massiveness of everything that had happened during the long ride South from North Vietnam. Settling it down into the rare treat of a palpable . . . . well a kind of palpable bi . . . . . well a . . . . . It was like all the latent bits, all the forgotten and remembered, the mass of months and miles on the road had irresistibly colluded together at the sight of the world from thousands of feet up, and come up with something that I could appreciate. A rare something that I could just sit back and relish, in suitably mind sized portions.
As a fleeting muse on the calamity of cycling in Cambodian mud softly mingled with the flight of giant prehistoric bats a complimentary glass of red wine was placed on the table in front of me and with it, came a great warm contentment, a knowing that I had come through good when I had so nearly counted down to zero and not wanted to cycle anymore.
Labels: cycle world
I had, indeed started again, and good days were abound. I would be spell bound by the fascinating gase of wild monkeys. Troops of them holding roadside court. Strutting nervously at Condors approach. Fussing and nit-picking at the presence of two silent wheels yet quite happy to sit and pick nits (off each other) at the passing of twelve guzzling, logging ones. I wondered, what if I sat on the ground would they strut a little less nervously? Maybe it was Condor all dressed in Yellow? . . . . . Possibly a few encouraging monkey chatters? A daily jungle charade at three o’clock and reduced to nut nibbling silly solo monkey chirps. Rustling, grunting verges, odd chatters, whistles and hoots were the new, often startling joys of tropical, rural cycling. Unexpected sightings, flabbergasts (and swerves) as five foot long reptilian tales vanished into prehistoric, two meter tall ferns. Steep angled rays from the equatorial sun were cut short by dense, gloopy, brown mangrove swamps, rooted in tidal waters or swamps, a welcome relief to the monotony of linearised palm plantations. New natural wonders crammed themselves into each day like some generous, natural peace offering for the all the previous days of grind. Giant butterflies fluttered through the soft breeze, science fiction sized beetles collided precariously into Condor and I whilst vivid plumes of exotic birds glowed from the shade of strange trees and ferns. Speeding lizards darted between wheels and larger lizards . . . . that is to say GIANT, hulking, dinosaur lizards thudded along side. The return of captivated cycling full of . . . ‘Wows!’ And . . .’What was that!’ One evening, as the southern tip of Malaysia drew closer, a near full moon would light the way into the greatest magic natural offering of them all. As the last serene hour of cycling drifted to its end, an upward gaze (no mean feat at that time of day!) spotted the first stars, twinkling into being, pricking the sky just above the last remains of daylight blue. Birds slowly glided closer, above silhouetted tree tops, flying west to east out of sunset blues. The serene, quiet of the night slowly merged from tranquil to surreal and then to complete wonder as the approaching flock tripped one absurdly backwards in time. In a few moments, thousands of gliding pterodactyl winged (things!) were sweeping overhead, through the last of the day as silent as the windless evening. Giant wings of translucent gold shimmered like moon permeated silk, stretched between prehistoric veins and claws. A timeless ten minutes transfixed upon a crowded sky, hundreds of giant bats five feet wide. Patent indeed to the ancient life to be found by simply pushing away the weight of pessimism and starting all over again.
