Of taxis, vultures and broken roads

We landed in Kupang and tried to find a taxi to our hotel. There were many taxis but it seemed impossible to catch one. I'm sure there was some kind of system but only a Nobel laureate could work it out. Finally we managed to squeeze our bike boxes and bags and ourselves into a vehicle and sped along with thousands of other 'bemos' in the late afternoon traffic. Bemos are minibus taxis which would put their Soweto cousins to shame. They are louder, faster and decorated like a Bombay Christmas tree. Even the windscreens are painted in motives like angry bulls or skulls or naked women. Often the driver only has a match box size vision left to negotiate the traffic.

The town was noisy, dirty and busy but we found a wonderful oasis called the 'Beer and Barrel', this was a western style restaurant-cum-club situated right on the beach. Very pricey which kept the backpackers and most locals out but perfect for middle aged divorced women. Needless to say we spent most of our time recuperating on the side of the swimming pool with three waiters per person running to fill our glasses.

Our hotel was a nightmare because of the dodgy disco blaring in the basement. All night long. There was a brief silence of about 5 minutes between the last drum beat and the Moslems and chickens waking up.

The cycling over the next four days was very hot and very dry. We careered our way towards East Timor over many mountains and valleys. At times I had to push my bike. Even downhill. The roads were unpredictable and one would come round a corner just to find that the road was washed away or covered in big boulders which had tumbled down the hillside.

After a while I noticed some black specks in the sky which I strongly suspect were vultures monitoring my progress. Not that I would make a good meal but maybe slightly better than a Timor chicken. They didn't get me yet but there will be a second chance in the Australian desert.

The border crossing into East Timor went quite smooth and things quickly started to look different. We followed a magnificent coastal road towards Dili, the capital city. It would have been more magnificent if it was flat but instead it was a roller coaster ride with gradients up to 18%. East Timor is one of the poorest countries in South East Asia. There were shacks along the road filled with half naked children greeting us with ' Bom Dia'.

Dili looks like a huge squatter camp speckled with old Portuguese influenced colonial houses in varying stages of decay. Unfortunately we only had one night there. We had a quick supper in a Chinese owned Western restaurant on the beach. Our main task was to prepare for the Australian immigration the next day. This meant washIng off every speck of dirt off our bags, bicycles and shoes. Next stop Darwin.

Of happy endings, rhino horns and the Pope

Flores is an island containing about a dozen active volcanoes and our path ascended and descended most of them. We started at the town of Labuanbajo in the west and are now in the town of Ende in the east. Although Ende is the biggest town on Flores it really is just a one chicken town. The only massage parlour is closed so we can't even call it Happy Ende.

Almost everybody broke their personal records for elevation gain. On one day the total climb was about 3400m. That is half of Kilimanjaro in on a bike, riding in an oven. The only way for me to cope with the terrible heat was to throw myself in full cycling gear including sandals in the ocean. Depending on how many spectators around not topless but bottomless. Salt water, cycling shorts and saddle sores don't mix well.

The politically incorrect action of today was to buy a liquid in a plastic bottle. We swallowed it as water but after running the label through google translate it appeared to be a tonic containing powdered rhino horn. Nothing to do about it but it gave the same feeling you get when eating an apple and finding half a worm in it.

There is an 85% Catholic presence on the island. But somehow we always find ourself next to the only Mosque in town and still get woken at around four by a cacophony. For some reason the naughtiest children in South East Asia are found on this island. There have been incidents of them throwing stones at or hitting the cyclists, running next to the cycle trying to hold it back or throwing objects through the spokes. Obviously their parents can't scare them with images of the Pope.

Tomorrow we are flying to Timor which will be our last island before Australia. Rumours have it that we are spending the first night in a lovely flee ridden hotel with a disco and brothel on the same premises. I suspect we won't find any middle aged divorced ladies there.

Of moaning, dragons and road kill

The rest day flew past far too quickly. We spent it overlooking, in Bob Dylan's words, the aqua blue sea. The beach was white and the drinks wet. Without close scrutiny you could easily miss the tins, plastic bags and other rubbish merrily bobbing on the shallow waves. If you didn't put your glasses on you could also miss the mangy dogs eating the intestines of dead fish lying stomach up on the sand.

Reality kicked in and we cycled about 500km in four days under the grueling sun. This took us over the islands of Lombok and Sumbawa. The cycling is manageable except for the excruciating heat. Yesterday during a particularly trying 10 km climb the temperature on my Garmin soared up to 47C. I was a tiny bit hot and bothered.

The mornings are early and we and the dead are woken every morning exactly 4.15am with blood chilling wails. The first morning I thought the sounds came from a divorced middle aged woman moaning in the next door room. But of course it was from the mosque which is always situated right next door. 

They say no matter where in the world you are you are always six feet from a rat. In Indonesia you you are always six feet from a Mosque.

On our next day we will have the chance to travel to the Komodo Islands, home of the so called Komodo dragons. After being married three times I have had my fair share of dragons dressed up as mothers in law. So I'll probably use the rest day to refurbish my toenails.

The breakfast buffet every morning consists of fried chili rice with yellow stuff which could be eggs, fried chili peanuts with minute sardines, heads still intact, fried chili vegetables and some more fried rice. All this washed down with pitch black sweet sandy unfiltered coffee.

Road kill spotted so far in hierarchal order, one buffalo, one goat, one baby monkey, three dogs, one chicken, several snakes but luckily no middle class divorced women.

Of early worms, chain smoking and coconuts

There were no real mountains on the first day of cycling but definitely some other obstacles. We started at the crack of dawn as usual on these trips to try and avoid the grueling midday heat. I tried to look for some middle aged divorced woman but apart for the one in the mirror, I couldn't see any. They were probably all still asleep, exhausted from praying the whole night.

The roads were already busy with lots of traffic and animals. There were early morning goats and chickens catching early worms in the potholes. There were thousands of teenage kamikazes on scooters going to school. Sometimes four or five on one scooter with the driver texting his girlfriend whilst smoking simultaneously. One could only hope they are as skillful on the road as they are with video games.

After an hour we got to the ferry which mercifully looked kosher enough and much safer than dodging traffic. It was captained by a chain smoking gentleman, his laundry hanging outside the bridge on a washing line.

In the so called business class section passengers were sleeping on black mattresses covered in plastic and the air conditioning was switched onto arctic mode. From the blaring television a bad quality movie was playing. Looked like something half pornographic from the eighties.

We bought sweet tea and ate peanut butter cookies expiring date 2025 and soon enough after the captains third packet of cigarettes we moored on the shores of the next island called Lombok.
It was the end of day one which brought us to a holiday resort on the shores of the Bali sea. Wide verandas and double Gin and Tonics. Except they taste a bit like coconut.

  

Of Bali, divorced middle aged women and sardines

Finally on Bali in a town called Ubud situated in the middle of the island. The memories of economy class intercontinental flights are slowly beginning to fade. Three days of afternoon teas on wide verandas and shopping sprees in small exotic shops are helping a lot with that issue. I even had time to paint my toenails in three shades of pink.

Tomorrow at 0600 the real action will begin and mercifully only with 69km of cycling. It should be quite manageable unless there is a huge mountain between here and the ferry.

Will leave Bali tomorrow for the next island with a local ferry that will take four hours.It is a pity because it is a wonderful place with very friendly people. 10 on the Richter Scale for friendliness. I really want to move here when I grow up. Very chilled out and relaxed place where everything goes. You can even walk around naked if you want too. 

The island is 90% Hindu. And 10 % divorced middle aged women. There is a book called 'Eat, pray, love' which has helped the Bali tourism industry a lot. Apparently after reading the book all divorced women flock to Bali. And short on their heels, men who are interested in divorced middle aged women.

This actually reminds me of the Sardine Run on the South Coast of South Africa. First you have the sardines and short on their heels the dolphins. The sardine run of Southern Africa occurs from May to July when billions of pilchard sardinops sagas spawn in the cool water of the Agulhas bank and move north.Their sheer numbers causes a feeding frenzy along the coastline and they are followed by predators like the dolphins. Whether they eventually reach Bali I don't know. But I do know that I felt like a sardine in that economy class cabin.