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Day 871 11/05/2011

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Surabaya, East Java

Oceans apart 10/31/2011

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It occurs to me that the only real danger in this world is wanton stupidity, and by that measure Indonesia truly is perilous.

Friends in Bernay village, Lampung

Don’t get me wrong.  I’ve been blessed to cross paths with some wonderful people, forming friendships that will last long after my trip has ended.  To be invited into their homes, to be showered with gifts and well-wishes has been a privilege.  But an incidental one.

All I wanted, all I ever asked of anyone, was to be treated with respect. They did, and it’s for that reason that I’m forever thankful.

I met these people every single day and I’ve no doubt they represent the majority of Indonesians.  More the pity, then, that their kindness has so often been stampeded by the cretinous few.

Usually I find these louts lazing away entire days by the roadside, their stained shirts pulled over doughy midsections like some sort of halter top perversion.

When I bike past, they raise their heads just long enough to shout, “Bule!” – the Indonesian word for albino.  A chorus of laughter then erupts from whatever sad company has congregated around the town crier, and I’m left wondering what on Earth I’m doing here.

I’ve travelled 40,000 km through 35 countries and only in Indonesia has anyone had the audacity to remind me of the colour of my own skin.

City square in Lasem, Central Java

I refuse to ascribe this to a cultural quirk, like the Indonesian propensity to point and stare or the general disregard for personal privacy and space.  My eye may twitch on occasion, but I can accept and even embrace these differences in etiquette.

Harassing a visitor with “Bule!” is something else entirely.  It’s not cute and it’s certainly not funny.

It’s a blemish of monumental ignorance, and until Indonesians wipe it clean their country will never find a seat at the grown-up table on the world stage.

Equally frustrating and more imminently dangerous is the idiocy on Indonesian roads.  Not a day goes by that I’m not forced off the pavement by an oncoming bus or lorry.  I’ve literally been squeezed between two cars and nearly flattened by vehicles ignoring stop lights.

I get it.  The highways are crumbling and traffic is extreme.  Drivers can almost be forgiven for their treatment of the lowly cyclist.  But what I cannot fathom is why no one behind the wheel seems to have any respect for themselves.

Wrecked fuel truck on Highway 1

The risks they take defy all logic.  There’s nothing adventurous about overtaking on a blind corner or skidding onto an opposing shoulder, nothing macho in screaming a motorbike through city streets choked with pedestrians.

It’s selfish, stupid, and the countless burnt-out wrecks that litter the ditches are a sad testament to the consequences.

But Indonesians never seem to turn their heads.  They see only what is in front of them and their capacity to sever the link between today’s actions and tomorrow’s results is frightening.

It must be this feat of moral gymnastics that allows Indonesians to gleefully poison themselves.  The callous indifference people have towards their environment is staggering and it has left the country on the verge of ecological collapse.

I’ve cycled through Lanzhou, the most polluted city in western China, and even it seems like lollipop land compared to this place.  Here, thanks to puking vehicles and unchecked industry, the air is scarcely fit to breathe.

Trash in Surabaya's Mas River

Garbage is thrown over shoulders and left to rot in the streets.  Entire cities have become slop buckets of excess and waste.  At night, when the stinking mass is set aflame, the sky takes on a nightmarish haze of yellow and death.

Whatever can’t be burned is dumped into the water or left to blow away.  Inevitably this filth finds its way to the sea where it spreads across the shoreline, stitching a devil’s quilt of plastic bags, empty bottles and bloated fish.

That’s what I see.  I don’t pretend to be an expert and I’m not about to start an argument on ethics.  I’m just a guy on a bike, free to think about what lies ahead for Indonesia and its people.

Sometimes I wonder if the locals don’t have it right.  Eyes forward is easier. Otherwise all I see is a shameful little footnote from an already toxic time.

One foot on the brake 09/20/2011

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Hati-hati.

Advice, a warning. I hear it from everyone. The day I arrived, a worried old man put his arm around me and whispered it in my ear. It was the first phrase I learned in Indonesian: be careful.

Entering Indonesia via Batam

I’ve heard the same thing all over the world. That’s probably why I still struggle with it.

Too often people aren’t telling me to be careful at all. They’re asking me to share their fear, to shun the unknown.

I make no time for these mongers. They would only keep me from a lifetime of memories – faces and places stretching halfway around the world.

But there is another type of person, the one who isn’t afraid. They warn of real danger and are genuinely concerned for my safety. That’s advice I take very seriously.

In southern Thailand I was urged to avoid provinces racked by an insurgency. Car bombs are killing locals and foreigners. People show up in fields without their heads. Everyone told me to stay away, and I did.

The trouble with Indonesia is that I still don’t know if I’m dealing with fear or danger.

I asked a shopkeeper if wild camping was a good idea and he gave an emphatic no.

The road to Rengat

“Why? Will I get robbed?”

He nodded. “Maybe.”

“Oh.  Will I get beaten up?”

“Probably.”

Another time, a man grabbed my map and pointed out the roads I should take to avoid “the crazy people.”

“Like funny crazy?”

“Like Jihadist crazy.”

The fact is, most people here seem to think Sumatra is teeming with thieves and radicals. It makes an interesting story, entertaining in an Indiana Jones kind of way. The only problem is that nothing I’ve seen makes it true.

Most folks break into huge toothy grins when I wave hello. They arrange their friends around my bike for cellphone photos and happily sign their names on my pannier covers.

At the police station near Kerinci

Almost daily, people surprise me with gifts of food or cold drinks. All I find out here is curiosity and kindness.

That’s my daytime experience. I know things can change after dark and I’m still not sure that camping is wise.

To be safe, I’m asking to spend the night at police and fire stations along the way. I’m never refused.

A good friend once told me to have fun on this trip, but to always keep one foot on the brake.  Right now, I think that’s the best advice of all.

Highway’s end 09/08/2011

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Spotlights on cold concrete and traffic to the sky – that’s how I imagined Singapore.  In my head it looked a lot like Fritz Lang’s Metropolis.

My first Singapore sunrise

On the ground, in the real world, Singapore is no less fantastic.  All it lacks are my noir imaginings.

It’s ultra clean and efficient.  Public transit is everywhere.  Green space abounds and crime can’t be found.  The people are often nerdy, always friendly and seem genuinely happy.

They’re also hell-bent on racking up karma points.  I’ve had stacks of invitations for dinner.  One kid plopped a bag of groceries in my hands because I let him take a picture of my bike.

And the best one, the kicker of them all:  a few days ago I caught two guys stuffing money into my pocket.  I protested but they flatly refused to take it back.  They told me to buy new bike parts and then had me follow them to the nearest shop, just in case I got lost.

All they wanted was a handshake and a photo.

After some of the places I’ve been it’s hard to fathom a spot like Singapore.  But it’s here and very much rooted in reality.  Good thing, too.  These days, that’s exactly where we need it.

I’ve stayed for a week, camping on the beach, staring at the water.  Now it’s time to go.  I have a two-month visa for Indonesia and a ferry waiting in the morning.

Wish me luck!

p.s.  Thanks to my friend Juay for creating the YouTube video.  Very cute.

Hurry on sundown 08/26/2011

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Happiness is my writer’s block.  These days I just feel right – in my skin, on my bike – and there isn’t much else to say.

Thailand was paradise.   I don’t remember the heat, only canopies of golden green flickering above as I pedalled the road south.  It wound through salty fishing towns and seaside resorts, past rice fields, temples and beaming kids.

I’d set out before dawn with nowhere to be, nothing to see.  I might ride for 12 hours or spend the day watching the monkeys watching me.  It didn’t matter.  I only wanted to be out.

When all was done I’d find a bed and some street food, then maybe a little spot to watch the sun go down.

Paradise.  Just not mine.

Thailand is too easy.  Its beauty and leisure are like quicksand and I hated to watch people sink.  It seemed every guesthouse had a resident ex-pat who had come on vacation and stayed a lifetime.

They hiccuped into their drinks about the things they could have been – rugby star, teacher, family man.  All I saw were sad eyes and bathrobes.  Then they’d totter away to refill their stories and I’d be left wondering why Thailand is such a popular place to bury a dream.

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Maybe it worried me a little.  No doubt it lit a fire under my bike.  I cycled most of Malaysia in less than a week and now I’m only a few hundred kilometres from Singapore.  That’s the southern tip of the Asian mainland, the end of the line.

I guess it’s fitting I leave the continent the same way I came – by boat.  When I crossed the Bosphorus in Turkey my head was swimming with doubt.  I was sure of just one thing, and that was that I didn’t know anything.  I was terrified.

It’s been more than a year and I still don’t have a lot of answers.  No problem. These days I don’t ask so many questions.

All I want to know is what comes next.

Same same, but different 07/15/2011

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Thailand is a lark.

Into Thailand

Most Asian borders are decorated with barbed wire and machine guns.  This one had an umbrella shading three guys sipping Pepsi.  They smiled and waved when I breezed past, then smiled and waved when I biked back confused.

“Um . . . is this the border?”

“Yes.  Thai border.  Very hot.”

“Do you need to see my passport?”

“Okay.”  They saw it.

“Check my bags?”

One of the men raised his sunglasses and squinted at my panniers.  “Bags good.”

His companions motioned to a building further down the road.  They decided I should fill my water bottles there.

38°C in Bangkok

“Get drink.  Then sign entry card.  Very hot.”

They settled into their chairs, heads leaning back, and I pedalled away.

The relaxed mood didn’t surprise me.  Cambodia was as languid as the river winding through it, and Laos was so laid back it barely had a pulse.

I just didn’t expect mellow to survive in a country as kinetic, as dizzying as this.

Even Bangkok has an odd serenity about it.

The streets are swimming with packed buses, neon tuk-tuks and death-wish cabbies.  They whisk mobs in every direction, to temples and palaces, stadiums and museums, to throbbing discos and street-food villages that spring to life each night.

Khao San Road in Bangkok

The faces are rapid-fire, never-ending: businessmen, beggars and buskers, lady boys, ex-pats and sex-pats.

Students in pleated whites skip past wrinkled ladies selling bracelets. Leering men hand out fliers for shows where women do terrible things to ping-pong balls.

And in the middle of it all, quiet in his thoughts, I see an orange-robed monk reading a newspaper.

He fits.  The city belongs around him.

Bangkok is bedlam, but it isn’t urgent.  People don’t bark or run through the streets.  No one hangs out their car window to curse the driver ahead of them.  Even the creeps are soft-spoken.

So far Thailand has everything but stress.  I love it.

That old gutter grin 07/08/2011

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I’ve been healthy for a month.  I’ve never biked better, never worried about it less.

So much of this trip has been loose change between the cushions of my brain. It never counted for much until Cambodia.  It taught me everything I thought I knew.

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Clarity was supposed to be a lightning bolt.  It whispered in my ear instead.

I just thought I’d have more to say when it did.

Now Thailand . . .

Cold flame 06/03/2011

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I’ve been sick here.  I’ve been sick since China.

That was dysentery.  I laid in a hospital and got better.  In Vietnam an infection burst my eardrum.  I stayed in bed for eight days and got better.  I don’t know what happened in Laos.  I just didn’t get better.

Nothing stayed inside.  I’d eat dinner and shit my guts out the next morning.  I suspected bad food.  Alcohol, sweets, fried meat, MSG, dairy – I cut them all out eventually.  Then I couldn’t even keep down plain rice and water.  I dropped too much weight.  Bloated, aching and dizzy.  Always dizzy.

But I biked.

Medical care in Laos barely exists.  I was on my own.  It took me two months to diagnose myself.  Not bad for an Arts major.

I had a stomach parasite.  The pills to kill it cost 60 cents.  I was cured a day later.

Good riddance in a way.  But that bug taught me something.  Something I was afraid to admit.

Bike half dead and you’ll find there’s nowhere left to go.  This trip doesn’t need my all anymore.  I’ve outgrown the challenge.

Kilometres were never the point.  I cycled for two years because I wanted to find my limit.  I broke myself again and again, I cried and bled and screamed at the sky and I’m still not there.  That’s fine.  All I know is that I can’t get any closer on a bike.

I’m coming home, but not yet.  A few short months separate me from New Zealand.  I’m going with nothing to prove.  I know exactly who I am now.  I’ll pedal only because I love it and because I have a chance to do something special.  That was the spirit in which this trip began.  That’s how it should end.

This mountain needed a peak.  Only a fool would climb forever.

Vietnam 04/10/2011

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Vietnam is hot as balls.  Seriously.

Granted, I don’t have a lot of experience in the tropics.  Before this trip the closest I came to a jungle was a palm tree at the Regina mall.

Arriving in Vietnam

As far as ideal temperatures go, I’m a lot like margarine, and now that the sun is screaming down I’ve nothing to do but melt.

But you’ll never hear me complain.  Vietnam is incredible, and even though it’s  kicking my butt, I wouldn’t trade this experience for the world.

Case in point: the ride from the border to Sapa, a 35 km climb that would make John Wayne tinkle in his chaps.  It took me a day and a half, mostly spent doubled over my handle bars, panting and dripping.

But I had every reason to keep going.  The higher I rode, the better my view of sweeping rice fields, terraced in a lazy ascent up the same mountains whose peaks disappeared into the clouds.  I followed, amazed.

Red Dao women in Sapa

And on that narrow misty road, I fell in love with the hill tribes of the country’s northwest.  H’mong, Dao, Tay – all of them in fantastic colours, waving hello, wearing smiles that stretched from their faces to mine.

I haven’t stopped grinning yet.   After a full week in Sapa I pedalled over Tram Ton Pass – Vietnam’s highest – and descended into the oven of the lower mountains.

It took me five sweat-soaked days to bike to Dien Bien Phu, and no doubt the ride would have been hell if not for the hospitality along the way.  In every town I had invitations for shade and tea.  Kids handed me fresh fruit while old ladies fussed over my water bottles.

The only words I know in Vietnamese are “hello” and “thank you”.  Sometimes that’s enough.

Dien Bien Phu

I’ll spend one more day in Dien Bien Phu before turning west and cycling to the Laos border.  My legs can use the rest, and honestly, I’m not ready to leave the country just yet.

Every day I spend in Vietnam, I feel my energy returning, my faith in this trip being restored.  They’re easy things to lose, hard to come by when they’re gone.

I’m only thankful that I’m heading in the right direction once more.

China 03/20/2011

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It’s been too long since my last update. I should have more to say about winter but I can’t seem to make it sound right.

Winter roads in China

All I saw were frozen rocks. Wind and snow and ice. I never knew where I’d sleep or find my next meal. For two months it was the same, and in that time I had only three conversations.

I struggled every day, with myself as much as the miles. Neither make much sense right now.

There is reason in self-denial. I see none in deprivation. One gives me strength, the other made me an animal. I’m not as proud as I thought, not nearly as kind or tolerant. I’m tough and stubborn and this time I think I went too far.

It wasn’t worth it because I can’t let it go.

Big smiles in Yunnan province

Southern China is a different world entirely, all lush mountains and sunny skies.

I’ve seen things I could never imagine: hundreds of paper lanterns floating into the night on Chinese New Year, pandas snacking lazily on bamboo, a sitting Buddha, carved from the side of a red-rock cliff.

The welcome here has been with open arms. Villagers invite me into their homes, to their tables. I sit with them as dozens of tiny faces press against the window, jostling for a better look at the laowei.

It all deserves a tone I can’t give it right now. I see it, but all I think is Xinjiang.

I guess I still need more distance between me and the cold. Today I leave for Vietnam, and I think that will help.

It’s time to start a new chapter.

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