Seductive Sumatra

With clear skies and less pollution, the Sumatran sun was of an intensity I’d never experienced before. If Java was hot, then Sumatra was toasty. It fried the skin and drained the body. The smallest of tasks produced lots of sweat, beading from the skin becoming a magnet for dust and dirt. I needed to drink much more water than I was capable of. Keeping hydrated during the day became the number one priority. With the steady ride north towards Singapore, it would get hotter still. The equator lay somewhere in between, and as the sun marched south, the biannual equinox, where the day and night are equal everywhere on earth and the sun is at its most intense.

It felt good to get on another ferry bound for another shore – new lands, new experiences and plenty of places to explore. It was also this concept of progress where I would stop and take note of how far I’ve actually ridden and think …’That’s pretty cool”. East Java left me dreaming of the fresh air and wide open spaces of the outback.

My visa was running out and it soon became a race to see how far north I could get before I’d be forced to jump on another ferry bound for Singapore. Throughout Sumatra I had a constant companion on the road. I met Charlie (an Englishman) in Bali a month earlier. He’d cycled from Tasmania and coincidentally, was also headed in the same direction. Conveniently, our visas expired within a day of each other and with this we devised a route along the easiest and quickest path north towards Singapore. It felt good cycling onto the ferry bound for Sumatra together. Within a few hours and with a renewed enthusiasm, Charlie and I cycled off the ferry tackling the first hill climb with all the excitement of school kids. Sumatra was cleaner, more spacious and had far fewer people.

Charlie was very laid back. More so than most Englishman I’d met in previous travels. Despite this, his English mannerisms were a constant source of amusement. Watching him communicate with locals, barter over food, being pedantic about the cleanliness of rooms (in all fairness they were, by western standards, considered filthy) and planning our ride days ahead. It was like I was travelling with David Livingstone. I enjoyed his company, liked his completedetermination and appreciated his enthusiasm. I was amazed at how our mental states would be affected by the environment. On busy roads and hot days we both became more irritable and less focused. On easier days with good roads, less traffic and with full stomachs, we were much more tolerant and ambitious.

Skin rashes started developing from seemingly nowhere and the smallest of scratches had to be treated right away. Lugging all those medical ointments and creams across Australia seemed like a smart idea. Saddle sores became a constant issue with the heat, humidity and succession of riding days. Staying clean was a priority and every second-third day we tried to find a cold shower.

With the open spaces, we thought Sumatra would be much easier to wild camp but, for my part, the heat and humidity were a constant irritation. It wasn’t cool enough to sleep until 10pm. I’d go to bed dirty and be sweating again packing up the tent in the early hours of the morning. We found the ninja camping a challenge. We’d stay in the most unusual places; in banana plantations, rice fields, thick jungle, plantation forests, petrol stations, schools and one night through Java we camped on top of a hill in an amusement park. But when you’re that tired all you want to do is sleep. The trick was to get in and set up before dark without being seen. Once discovered, chances are more people would follow.

This was exactly what happened on our first attempt at ninja camping in Sumatra. It was a disaster. We’d pulled off the road into what we thought was jungle to find and endless network of small houses and scattered rice paddies. With the encroaching darkness we found a dry flat area underneath coconut and banana trees. Careful not to camp directly under a coconut tree (Charlie assured me that many people die from coconuts falling on their heads), we pitched our tents within arm’ reach of a web that contained the biggest spider I have ever seen. We were both extremely tired but the heat made it difficult to sleep. With the noise and light from our torches, it wasn’t long before we were approached by one local (we made for good cyclists but not such good ninjas) who I spoke with in broken Bahasa trying to explain why we were here and that we intended to camp for just one night. With Charlie’s lack of enthusiasm for the language, I was the one who did most of the talking. Indonesian is one of the most approachable languages in all of South East Asia, but I wasn’t sure if my ramblings made sense. It must have sounded alien even to the locals. About 20 minutes later as the man walked away, I thought we were understood and everything would be okay. But not long after he returned with a crowd of others carrying big knives and wooden clubs!

The locals kept using a word that I couldn’t understand with a subtle passion that I felt we needed to understand. Luckily I was given a small English-Bahasa/Bahasa-English dictionary which paid dividends when we discovered the passionate word translated to ‘secure’. Charlie and I breathed a baited sign of relief. It took about 15 minutes of further explanation to pacify the crowd and make new friends. We meant no harm, and our smiles and friendly manner (despite not being able to speak the language) simply confirmed this. As word spread about our presence, waves of locals came to say hello all through the evening. We received an invite to a house for the night but we politely refused, exhausted after the long day’s ride. All we wanted to do was sleep.

By about 10pm a crowd appeared with a plain clothed policeman and a local English teacher who explained to us that a local was killed here recently as a result of ethnic (Javanese and Sumatran) tension. Like all people of authority they wanted to assert theirs by asking a bunch of stern questions and of course insisted on seeing our passports. Once again, we had to re-explain our situation. It was hard enough confronting our own inhibitions and subtle fears on this trip, let alone realising other peoples’ fears as well. Perhaps I was being naive, but I’m sure there was a lot more to it than a random killing. This had nothing to do with us and with my experience of having previously cycled across and camped in some war torn (and some may say dangerous) places in Europe, I felt comfortable enough to stay put and sleep the night. The locals seemed friendly enough. We’d be gone first thing in the morning. But despite our best efforts, Charlie and I both knew that we had little choice. The locals didn’t want us staying there and so at 10pm in the dark we reluctantly packed up our belongings and headed to the local English teacher’s house for the night. Riding in the dark is hard enough at the best of times – it’s harder still when you are dog tired and cycling over bad roads. We finally arrived at a large, typically Indonesian house where we met yet another group of people, including the leader of the villa, who wanted to stay and chat to us. It wasn’t long before we had to call it a night and finally got to sleep sometime just before midnight. We learned the next morning that a group of locals spend the night outside our room to make sure we were safe.

Cycling through Sumatra, we passed endless fields of sugar cane, corn and palm plantations. These farms stretched off into the jungle, beyond the rolling hills in all directions. Only a few isolated islands of natural vegetation remained. Areas of otherwise locally owned sustainable farms perhaps just a few years earlier, were being cleared to make way for giant bio-fuel farms on an industrial scale. The local farms that we’d seen throughout Java were nowhere to be found.

Huge industrial gravel roads stretched off into the distance through the plantations and into the distant forest. Like a scar on the landscape, these deep brown tracks, perhaps 20 metres wide, criss-crossed the main public road every few kilometres, carrying company 4WD’s, trucks and farm machinery. Signs along the road carried company logos with proud slogans. With hours on the bike to contemplate the thought of these farms, I couldn’t help but think “At what cost?”Taking food from peoples’ mouths so that a select few can enjoy cheaper fuel simply doesn’t make sense. Combine this with the multiplier effect of forcing up food prices and it makes even less sense. We’re smarter than this.

But, despite the endless plantations, the roads were relatively flat and we could easily ride 100km plus each day. Many roads were not on our maps, and so we navigated by the odd road sign and asking locals the way. Despite being in the middle of Ramadan (the Islamic month of fasting), food was much easier to find along the trucking routes as we made our way north.

Indonesians are known for their friendliness and hospitality. Just about everywhere we travelled in Sumatra, we were greeted by inquisitive locals wanting to know where we were going. Despite my best efforts at diverting the topic, it was draining having the same conversation over and over again. Sometimes this offer of hospitality just didn’t feel quite right. It became critical to trust this (for lack of a better word) intuition. Something akin to a first impression; meeting someone you usually may not normally associate with – but without any agenda. Interestingly most people have an agenda and those that don’t are usually genuine. It’s very subtle and perhaps instinctual, more a feeling or vibe about their character, their nature – trying to look through the facade to determine the motivation behind the words. First impressions can be misleading, of course but, on the road, meeting lots of strangers every day, you learn to tune into this vibe and respect the feeling. It is an instinct (of sorts).

I had one seemingly friendly Indonesian pull up beside me on a scooter while we cycled into town. He couldn’t speak English that well but proceeded to follow me around, insisting on helping, following me into a supermarket, then  urging me to meet his family, stay in his home and talk with his English class. I must have respectfully declined at least a dozen times, explaining our situation  that I was with a friend and we wanted to keep cycling. It was fruitless. When Charlie pulled up 15 minutes later ,he asked him the same questions with the same intensity. Maybe he was just being overtly friendly, maybe he was excited, but I respected the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. I was glad Charlie arrived so that I had a reason to leave. I learned to trust and respect such feelings. Unfortunately (for us) this lends to an element of subtle suspicion meeting new people, however  it quickly recedes when you meet genuine friendly types. A day later I found my mobile phone and MP3 player were missing.

I realised for the first time that, no matter how hard I tried, it was almost impossible (through Indonesia at least – and most likely throughout most of the world) to meet locals on equal ground. I spoke with Kendon and our hosts in Darwin about meeting people on equal terms, but didn’t really understand what they were harking on about. Here I was, this stranger from a far away land, looking hairy, often smelly, riding a loaded bicycle into town. I could only imagine what others were thinking as I rode by. In comparison, I was incredibly wealthy both in monetary terms as well as in life. I also have supportive friends and a loving family. This was my security net. How could I experience what it was like to live as the people I visited? Apart from renouncing everything that I had in this life (which isn’t much more than the bicycle, five bags and a few dollars), it was something that I had to accept and become comfortable with. I often avoided questions about money, taking out my camera and laptop in places I would stay and people asking what the bicycle was worth. Such questions, I thought, only sought to divide the haves and the have nots. Instead, I focused on topics of similarities, family life, how big the family was, what they enjoyed, how they lived, what kind of food they ate as well as explaining aspects of my journey and the road ahead. Perhaps this was a reflection of myself rather than others. It took many weeks on the road cycling through Indonesia before I learned to accept and be comfortable with this life of privilege.

On our way north (uphill for all those non-cyclists), the afternoon skies steadily grew darker threatening rain. At first it started with a few light drops and the odd shower we somehow managed to avoid. But any day now the skies would open up and unleash a torrent – if only for a few minutes. If I couldn’t find camp or a cheap hotel by three in the afternoon, there was a good chance that I was going to get drenched. Exposed to the elements every day, I became more accustomed to sensing subtle changes in the environment. It started with a few dark clouds in the distance, followed by a subtle cool breeze. The humidity would rise to the point where there was a feeling of electricity in the air. Then the rain came, slowly gathering momentum. Down it would come until it became too much to cycle in and I’d seek refuge, sit out the downpour, ride another day. I went from being hot and sweaty to wet and cold in the space of half an hour.

As well as being inspired by the hospitality of some individuals, these encounters gave a much deeper understanding and appreciation for how others lived. The felt experience is the greatest teacher. Without this we only ever have a limited understanding and, as a result, delve into the world of imagination. It reinforces the appreciation for many things, similar to what it actually feels like to go hungry without any prospect of food or what it feels like to go thirsty or not to have the support of a loving family. I have a lot to be grateful for.

With the hours on the road and the mind at ease, I was constantly in harmony with my body. Paying attention to every scratch, every twinge of a muscle, every bowel movement, the slightest feeling of a dehydration headache, how much you’re urinating, how your legs feel at the end of each day, numbness that may develop in your hands, twinging of nerves, how much tension develops in your muscles over night - it became the norm. I’m particularly attentive to my knee that two years earlier was reconstructed from grafts in my hamstring. Interestingly, as my legs were now well seasoned to the rigours of riding 100km a day, discomfort and pain started showing up in other places in the body, the lower back, shoulders, arms, neck and hands. Sometimes a self massage was in order, but it was always a good indication of how far I was pushing it each day. When the hands were still sore after an hour’s lunch break, it meant I needed a longer rest. When the legs were still sore after two days’ rest, I knew I needed a week.

Parts of Indonesia are heavily populated and heavily polluted but, generally, rubbish lines the streets everywhere. It is piled up and then burnt in gutters by the side of the road. I was constantly harassed by these toxic fumes. Litter is tossed into rivers and industry seems to pollute without much regard. The mountains have been deforested and now only plantations exist which further adds to the runoff. It was the lack of education and forethought that appeared to be the biggest problem – a problem that would take generations to change. Lush green landscapes, volcanoes built for gods and alluring deep jungle – there’s something so very seductive about the place. Yet this very environment was being taken for granted. The consequences far reaching that will ripple through generations.

Racing against my visa expiry date, I’d hoped to get a lot further north before heading to Malaysia. Very seldom do things go to plan and I found myself with intestinal sickness yet once again. It wasn’t serious but it was enough to slow me down and divert the course of the expedition. There were two ferries to Malaysia, one outside of Pekan Baru in the north, and another ferry from a small seaside town outside of Jambi. It was three to four days to the port city outside of Jambi, while the port near Pekan Baru was at least eight days of solid riding. I had no idea of the ferry times which could mean waiting for ages. This would have put me right on the expiry date of my visa which was way too close a call. Charlie continued on north towards Singapore, while I spent a few days sick yet again and rebuilding energy reserves. I was resigned to the fact that I wasn’t going to get as far north as I’d hoped.