Discovering Worms In My Toilet

I often draw similarities between riding through third world countries with playing a video game. Indonesia was no exception. Jumping onto each island brought new obstacles to the table as I rise through the levels of this particular game. So far, I have passed levels that include increasing traffic, people and animals. Every district giving off a distinct theme for me to battle through.

The island of Sambawa was no exception. The backdrop to this particular level was the port town of Sape, where the houses were painted in bright colours. Green stood out as being either the towns favourite colour or they got a super special from a paint company. Standing in front of then but lining the streets were small horses (the size of western ponies) all pulling brightly painted carts in reds and blues with ethnic patterned on the timber and leather work. As the horses trotted down the road a bell that hung over the lower parts of the horses main jingled as a warning to all that it was also on the road.

With Sambawa being the poorest island out of the main group of Indonesian islands, the roads matched the tax payers income. The tar seal were slowly slipping down the road and pot holes punched through the thick black surface. Luckily for future travellers, the Indonesians were developing the roads in small sections, which I also had to avoid.

To add another layer of complexity to this island was an introduction of goats. Goats had no idea of the world around them as they only think of their tummies before danger. With this in mind, they would dart across the road unexpectedly. I would then have to applying full pressure onto the breaks, I would stop with neck breaking jerk.

Every night, after a long day of intense concentration, all I would like to do is have a shower and sit down with a cold bottle of beer in my hand. These two small luxury items were not available on this Muslim island. Frank and I were refused a room in a nice hotel just because we were not married and could not prove we were when we lied to them. Forced to take residence in a 'loesmen' (Guest house) where my ensuite had no main light. I casing a beam of light from my head torch around the tiny box like room, that’s when I saw the layers of filth and worms growing in force in the madi.

Madi (Bathroom / shower) varied greatly in Indonesia. Most traditional bathrooms were a small shed outside. Constructed from what ever was available, like woven bamboo to sheets of ply wood or plastered bricks. Opening the door you would find a concrete floor and open top square water tank full of water. Next to the tank, but slightly raised from the main floor was a squat toilet. Resting on the edge of the concrete tank was a faded plastic bucket stained with use.

To have a shower, you would picking that bucket by the handle, and dip it into the cool water and pour it over my head. After a couple of pours I was generally wet enough to then start lathing myself up with soap and shampoo. The whole process was repeated to wash away the spent soap.

Being a girl, my toilet experience is somewhat different to a man. From a girls point of view, I would clamber onto the small tiled shelf that had the ceramic squat toilet recessed into. Pulling my pants down around my ankles I would balance between slipping in the water off the ledge or dropping my clothing into the water. After I had finished my business, I picked up the same bucket I used to wash myself with, scoop up a large bucket full and flush the toilet.

Toilet paper was a foreign concept to locals, they take a scoop of water and use a combination of water and their left hand to wipe away left overs from a number 2. Personally, I hated been caught short and would always keep a supply of toilet paper handy in my pocket for these moments.

Moving across this Muslim island I realised we no longer saw the 'RW' signs roughly pained on closed doors or on tiny pieces of folded cardboard, standing proudly in front of a dark dish of meat. On my very first night in Dili (East Timor), Frank and I went out for dinner at a local restaurant. The owner could see my confusion as I peering through the glass cabinet at the dishes laid out before me. The slightly over weight young local girl came out to greet us and explain the dishes. Pointing to the dish that sat off to the left with the label 'RW' sitting in front. She blushed and said 'its duck liver, very spicy' I love spicy food and trying new things, but liver has never been my personal favourite. So I pass on that dish and chose pork meat. Walking to a table, Frank started snickering, 'I had read about 'RW' but it didn't click until you asked that it was dog meat!' 'What!' I exclaimed, 'I thought she said chicken liver!' Looking in my dictionary, I found this explanation -

RW- (Er-Wey)

Dog – Usually served shredded fried and very spicy (North Sulawesi and other Christian areas)

Piling my gearing on after the long ferry crossing, I was approached by a tall skinny local guy dressed casually in a rastafarian tee-shirt, shorts and flip flops. He had long dreads, piled high on the crown of his head, spilling down his back. 'Hello, we are also travelling on motorcycle' he said in broken English 'where are you from?' After explaining my history, he pointed to a pile of rubbish in the corner of the petrol station in the shade of a tree. ' My friend and I are travelling on a old Vespa from Samatra to Sulawesi' 'Really!, on that thing' pointing back to the heap. 'Yes' 'Can I take a photo?' Calling out to his mate who was sitting under the tree, he picked up the bike and pushed it over to us and into the middle of the large group that had formed around us. Stunned as I saw this heap turn into rough Vespa. The body work wasn't smooth like the Vepas I know, it have brown and textured like an egg carton. The seat was made from wire mesh. There gear piled and stuffed into every nook and cranny. They had a long wooden post on the back with their' Vepa Padang Club' flag tied firmly on the rear. Completely blown away with what these two young locals were trying to achieve on next to no money and on an extremely old motorcycle.

Early in the morning I was drinking a thick black sugary coffee, when Frank was asked by two boys in the early twenties, if they could take a picture of me. We were both surprised by the questions, Frank looked at me with the question in his eyes, I nodded and he replied 'sure why not!'. No sooner did he finish that short sentence the one of the guys sidled up to me, wrapped his arm around me and his friend snapped away. 'Your beautiful'. Walking out of the shop, this friend wrapped his arm around me and took a candid shot with his arm out stretched to get us both in.

In most countries around the world, I am not considered beautiful. I'm not exactly ugly either, just a 'plain Jane'. Here in Indonesia with my white, pure skin colour, I am the most beautiful woman they have ever seen. I often stared at by men, called out too with the following phrases 'I love you!', 'your so beautiful' , 'Do you have a husband?'. Once they find out I'm single they then ask if I want to move to Indonesia and marry them, with the offer of working in the nasi (rice) fields or a mine. I had to politely decline their offer and move on.

Passing the Sumbawa level, it was time to catch the next ferry to Lumbok. Still worried, our motorcycles would be classed in a grade higher and charged double the amount, we stopped short and removed our motorcycle gear. Riding onwards to the terminal, we discovered the ferry set up was professional as we were forced to stop at a barrier and pay first. As the officer in a crisp blue uniform, pulled a Gol. 3 ticket from the lower drawer, I started to complain. 'No, no, no, Gol. 2 - is two wheels not three!!' pressing his lips together forming a perfectly straight line he shakes his head and said 'big motorcycle, Gol. 3!' also pointing to Frank's Tenerre behind me. Frank looked at the price and handed him the money, it was only $2 more than the normal fare. Walking back to his bike with his ticket, I handed 50,000 (5 Euro) across and demanded Gol. 2. Receiving my change and my Gol. 2 ticket. I then replaced my helmet and kick started my bike. Glancing in my rear vision mirror, I realised I was holding everyone up over 20,000 (2 Euro).

Upgrading a level in my own personal video game, we arriving at the Lombok port. People crammed the streets, on carts, motorcycles, horses, cars, truck and walking. Structures layered behind the street life. Following the roads out of town, where the chaos slightly dispersed out until I reached the outer limits to the next village. The break between villages were minimal, if no existent.

As we rode down to a tourist town called Kuta, the rain fell heavily,saturated my motorcycle gear and quickly working its way down to my skin. After a few minutes, even my eyes were drowned in the large rain drops. Squeezing them shut for a few seconds gave me some time to view my surroundings and take in the next few meters of swollen muddy road. We arrived just in time for the rain to dry out.

Every day it rained, my tummy once again was turning and I spent a considerable amount of time on the toilet after eating nasi compur (Rice with a mixture of meat and vegetables) made with rotten chicken. After five days I was getting tired of been stuck in the one place and made tracks to the next ferry to Bali.

Exactly like the last ferry, we had to pass through a barrier to obtain a ticket. He handed us both a Gol. Two ticket without questions. We rode onto the wharf only to be stopped and asked to purchase a Gol. 3 ticket. After much haggling, we convinced them my bike is equivalent to a 250cc Honda Tiger, which was Indonesia largest road bike. Frank had to return to the ticket booth and ask then to explain to the ticket collectors. He returned in a few minutes and told them, the head of the port, told him to board the boat. One annoying haggler, who was clearly trying to a few dollars from us, was really annoyed he didn’t succeed and asked for our tickets, but I had already handed mine over to the ticket officer. We brushed past him and entered the boat. I felt really uneasy and hung around my motorcycle until the rear door had closed firmly shut before heading up stairs.

Kuta Bali, was exactly what I was expecting, traffic was incredible, with young kids on hired scooters and taxis all trying to deliver there cargo to the correct hotel. As I entered the city, I was forced to slow right down and crawl along the foot path. I could feel the engine almost burning my calf muscles. To top it off, I was there exactly when the Australian 'Schoolies' (At the end of the last year at high school, Australian children go wild at different party locations all around Australia and Bali). It was the first time in my life, I felt old and sensible.

Eating baby pig for lunch!

Its time to steep it up a level, as I have two friends from Brisbane packing their bags for a motorcycle adventure in Sri Lanka for Christmas. This means, I have to start arranging for shipment from Jakarta to Colombo and actually physically make it to Jakarta with plenty of time to follow up with the shipment details. I knew I wouldn't have much time on the island of Java to do much sight seeing, but I thought I could see these places along the way.

My first stop was Mount Bromo, which is meant to be a huge volcano which you can ride up and into. As we rode up the 'non touristy' side we found ourselves in white drizzly cloud. Riding high above anything on slippery concrete paver’s, which were crumbling under our weight. For over an hour we rose further into the cloud until we reached a clearing and decided to turn around.

It seamed everywhere we went was either raining or closed due to the volcanic eruption. Sight seeing on Java (for us) was pointless. It turned into trying to put the kilometres under our belt averaging around 250 kilometres per day, due to the increasing traffic. Eventually after struggling for a week to cross the island we arrived into Beski. A large town 30 kilometres east of Jakarta.

Even though we arrived mid afternoon, we had hotels slamming the doors in our faces, saying they are all full. Some places had baths and some had special rates. After a few of these special rates, we realised the only reason they used these hotels were for sex. Apparently the Muslim culture is very secretive about sex out side of marriage. Four hours circling the city in thick sweaty traffic, we found a place to stay in.

Jakarta was a mess, navigating through the city was trying at the best of times with the odd one way street popping up and into existence. The cars pottering along at 20 kilometres per hour with scooters zipping in and out, barging their way to the front of the queue. I had to drive with meaning and be forceful. This was made easier with the shear bulk of my bike and with the two of us, I could easily block the path across the scooters to allow Frank to weasel his way into a better position for the next intersection.

I was in Jakarta purely to ship my motorcycle to Sri Lanka. For the next week I was on the internet and phone, contacting and negotiating with several shipping agents. I quickly discovered, that Indonesians do not really like to work, as I had to chase them consistently, trying to get a price out of them. It was almost like banging my head on a brick wall.

One company couldn’t give me a price until I had a dangerous good certificate, I crossed them off the list. Another told me I had to pay $1000 USD just for a custom clearance. After I haggled a bit, I got this down to $700 USD. But I still couldn't see why I needed it since I have a Carnet De Passage (a document that allows me to bring my motorcycle in and out of countries with out paying import and export fees) It was becoming clear, that they only saw a rich white woman and wanted to take her for all she had. I was getting increasingly frustrated.

Dragging Frank along, I turned up to one the only company office that gave me a fair price. However, this company was deliberating whether or not they wanted to help me. With me being in the office with Frank, they finally worked out a price of $1200 to air freighted to Colombo in two days including a create and transport. All I had to do was email them my sender and consignees address that day and they promised to send all the details back to me that afternoon and will pick my bike up on Monday.

I never got an email on Friday, Monday came and went and I hear nothing. Eventually I was told it would be picked up at 10 am. At 11:30, I called Puguh

(My contact in the company) Apparently he had been wondering around my suburb on foot, trying to find my hostel. All he had to do was call me! Another two hours my bike finally left me along with my carnet.

The next day Puguh returned this time on time telling me they had to empty the fuel and oil from the bike. This was a complete lie, as I had already done this. Then the next minute I found myself on the phone with the the airports safety officer. He had been informed that there was a battery on my bike and he proceeded to tell me this was against aviation law. Trying to control my voice and not get angry at this poor mislead guy, I had to explain that my bike is a very special bike that does not require a battery, therefore doesn't have a battery and they can not remove a non existent battery. Frustrated, I handed the phone back to Puguh.

Earlier in the week I told a small white lie to Puguh, all eh knew was I had a flight out of Jakarta at 6pm that day. It was now 4pm, two hours before I was due to leave the Jakarta, I hadn't even got my Carnet De Passage back or even paid. This was the exact moment Puguh decided to tell me the price had increased to $2500 USD. I nearly spat the dummy. Thinking quickly, I cancelled the air freight and with Puguh, we arranged to have it shipment to Chennai India.

The very next day, I leave Jakarta on a business class flight to Colombo, Sri Lanka. I'm feeling nervous, as my bike doesn't leave Jakarta until Sunday and I do not have the bill of landing in my hand. I have to trust Puguh to sort it out on his own and send the paperwork to me in Sri Lanka.

Easing myself into the oversized soft lounge chair that's provided in first class, I realised I needed a holiday. I found myself looking forward to having a few days off and act like a normal tourist.

'Hello Mr-errrrrr, Where you go?'

 Crossing the bridge into the Indonesian side, where we felt as if we were the only people there. Riding past a crisp single file path through the overgrown grass to a timber building with peeling paint and another, preminate concrete one. We parked our bikes outside the only life we found. A concrete structure with six Indonesian boarder police crammed inside on the tiny timber benches. Handing out passports over to them, they shook their heads and said 'Immigration' and point to the timber building.

Marching back along the worn grass path to the same peeling painted timber structure we had first seen, we found an immigration officer and his girlfriend. They tool our passport and told us to sit. Turning around we discover a timber bench behind us next to the timber louver slacks. After a few minutes we were handed back our passports and told to go to the customs office (The deserted concrete structure behind us). As we filed over there, we were interrupted by the police once again. Beckoning us over to their shelter. Once again, obeying orders we head over to them and handed our passports over. As they filled our details out in the over-sized ledger, we discover that the customs officer was in the village 5 kilometers away and we would have to wait until he arrived. Until then we had to join them in the tiny shelter and joked about who looked more Japanese than the other. When the Customs officer did eventually arrive, it was a matter of minutes before we had rushed through the process of telling him when to stamp and where to sign.

Five kilometers down the road we were stopped once again, yet another police check point, where they took our details down along with our passport numbers and told – if we have any trouble please call him, though he did not even offer us his phone number.

Frank was carrying around the equivalent to $8USD in Indonesian Rupiah, heading for a petrol stations we filled up with only 5 liters each and had a 'Bukso' Soup (Bukso Soup is an Indonesian dish consisting of noodles and beef balls, if you have the deluxe version, you may be tofu as well). With no money left we rode on to the next largest township in search of a bank. 

In a larger bristling town of Kefamenau, we found three banks. The first one, wouldn't take Franks card and my card took longer in the machine but was eventually blocked and spitted out. The second bank acted in the similar manor. At this point we were tired and desperate. We tried the third bank, where we discovered it took master-card and visa but was not work until 4pm, that was a whole hour away, where we could be on the road. Angry, I entered the bank and said, either to give me cash in advance or exchange my US dollars He eventually agreed to exchange our money just as the tropical down pour started. It wasn't our day.

Dressing up in our water proof gear, we pulled off into a petrol station, where we discovered that the power had since gone out due to the storm and we would have to wait. Just as a window opened in the storm we headed across the road to a small 'Bensin' bottle shop. I put another 5 liters into my tank and handed the lady 40,000 RP (equivalent to 4 Euro's). She started to argued with me, and in the slightly spitting environment, I got angry and pointed to the 6,000 per liter sign and indicated to the 5 liters she just tipped into my tank. When that wasn't working, I pulled out my pen and paper and wrote 36,000 and then handed the paper to her, she took the pen from my hand and wrote 10,000,000, which quickly blotted with the rain. By this time, I had a massive crowd around me consisting of mainly children. I was refusing to pay this exorbitant amount for 5 liters and she was not budging. Lucky for me and just as I was about to ride off a guy in a blue poncho, who we had briefly meet at the broken petrol station came to my rescue and  spoke quickly and sharply to the old Indonesian woman. She responded abruptly and handed my 4,000 change to me. I thanked him, with a huge two handed hand shake and mounted my bike. As I pushed the kick start around to the right position, a 13 year old boy spoke up 'Touristy pay more!' I was wet, angry and told this little shit to fuck off, if Indonesia was more tourist they treat them better and do not attempt to rip them off like that old lady.' I finished my rant, knowing the little boy had no idea of what I’m saying, however I did feel a little better.  

 Frank and I were really looking forward to getting to Kupang, we had been invited by Meika and Daniel (Who we meet in Dili, East Timor) to come and stay with them in their apartment. Not knowing when the ferry was due to leave, we joked it would leave on Monday, which would give us time to relax, do some washing and not really have to wait long for another boat.

Daniel and Meika picked us up from the arranged meeting point on their local dirt bike and guided us back to their house. Once we arrived at their beautiful apartment overlooking the sea, Daniel, who could speak and understand Indonesian, commented on how we had caused such a stir amongst the locals. – I personally must be getting use to the attention as I hadn’t really noticed! After a quick catch up and shower we went back out on the motorcycles and down to the wharf. We discovered that the ferry in fact left tomorrow at 3pm, but we would have to be there at 1pm to ensure we get onto the boat.  The ferry would take 18 hours (-+5hrs) and cost 170,000 rp (17 euro). Frank and I were astounded this was going to be the first ferry we wouldn’t have to wait for.

The following day we drove our bikes onto the boat, parking them perpendicular to the sacks of rice that ran along the edge of the boat. We grabbed our tank bags and headed upstairs to have a quick look around. I soon discovered the best place in the boat was on top of the rice stacks down stairs in the cool. I left Frank to guard two comfortable seats in the hot stuffy room, while I went back down stairs to guard the bikes.

3pm came and went, it was now 5pm and we still haven’t left the harbor. I could see something was happening at the entrance of the boat, a coffin was loaded and suddenly all the street vendors left the boar the door was shut. Now the 18 hour countdown begins.  I left the sacks of rice to see Frank, have some dinner and then we watched a film on Frank’s computer. When his battery ran out, I slipped down onto the floor between the rows of seats amongst the dirt, shoes and the left over dinner rubbish and attempted to fall asleep with the lights on, the blearing tv, people listening to the latest music from their cell phones.

I woke to the same noise as I fell asleep to, but there was a different tension in the air. I look up to Frank and he tells me the most amazing news I had ever heard, ‘We are nearly there’. Looking out the window, I could see land once again. The ferry was 2 hours delayed in leaving, but was four hours earlier than we were told!

The island of Flores is meant to be the most beautiful island of Indonesia. It has everything from beaches to volcanoes. Our planned route wouldn’t stray too far from the main trans-flores highway as this road will take you to most of the main sights of Flores.

We left the port town of Larantuka after a quick breakfast. Just outside the town, I found a place to pull off the road in the nice shade with a beautiful sandy beach. It was just perfect for a swim before getting changed into our motorcycle gear. Just as I was slipping my motorcycle pants over my wet undies a group of motorcycle police arrived to see what we were doing. Being such a Muslim Island, I was worried I was going to get into trouble for exposing too much flesh! But they were just interested in our large motorcycles not my bottom!

A few days later we arrived in a small villager called Moni, which is situated under Mount Kilimlto. Mount Kilimlto is known for its three coloured volcano lakes, one was black and the other two area shades of blue and green. The weather looks pretty bad, but we decided to head up there anyway. By the time we reached the top car park we were lucky to have the clouds part for us and the sun twinkly on the thick paint like water.

ok - ive done it, put in a picture of a water buffaloo

Traditional villages around Moni

Riding onwards to Bajawa, we stopped into Ende to give my credit card a go once again. When it didn’t work on several machines, I exchanged the rest of my US dollars and carried on. I am getting annoyed with this credit card situation. In Bajawa, I call my bank for the second time in a week, to discover that someone had tried to withdrawal money in America. Therefore my card had been canceled and I was out of pocket. Arranging for another one to be sent to the New Zealand Embassy in Jakarta, I now had to rely on Frank to lend me some money.

Moving north from Bajawa, we head down a small mountain road to the beach town called Ruing. When we arrived we were hot and bothered sitting in dense forest without a breeze in our motorcycle gear. All we wanted to do was go for a swim but this village wasn’t going to give it to us, as there were stilt houses amongst the mangos. We had planned to ride a long a small road on the northern side of the island, but after much discussion with a few members of the villages, we were turned off the idea of swimming bikes across massive rivers, as all of them suggested we take a boat. That meant riding back to Bajawa and along the trans-flores hwy to Ruting. 

Having bukso soup for lunch

We had another easy ride down the mountain to another sea side fishing village called Labuan Bajo. This quiet village is intertwined with tourist coming to visit Rinca and Komodo Island. This is where you get to see the huge Komodo Dragons. We stayed in a nice wooden home stay, for 60,000rp (6 Euro) for the room. We could pull our bikes off the street and place them around the back out of sight.

The original plan was to go to Rinca Island the very next day and leave the following, but this proved too difficult as the boat people were charging too much just for the two of us. We decide to hang around for the day and do some motorcycle maintenance and find a bargin for the boat. I had wanted to clean my petrol tank out since I’ve started my trip as I have been carrying a huge ‘Huntsman’ spider in my tank since leaving home.

The makings of Avocado Juice.

Since the power went out just before the blender was turned on we decided to have a ice jelly drink instead.

All the children were fascinated by our large bike and were delighted by the sound when we started them up

Later that night we eventually got our avocado juice!

We quite often eat in a places like this, tonight was fried noddles and fried rice! 

A common corner store

Pancakes for desert!

We joined a group of travelers to Rinca Island early in the morning. We all followed a guy through the twisting ally way between the local houses to the wharf. Jumping across two boats we arrive at our own. Two hours later we arrived at the island, arranged for a guide to show us around the island and protect us from the Komodo Dragons! We joked between us about only seeing water buffalos and monkeys, as we have all seen these before. Suddenly, the guide told us to get back as a Komodo dragon started running towards us and full fight with another male dragon. We were all stunned into silence and were ready to run for our lives. After a few minutes, we set off for our tour of the island which only took us past water buffalos and only one other dragon. I would have been happy to sit under a tree for a few hours watching them sit under the islands kitchen!

Early the following morning, we rose, packed our bikes but left them at our guest house to go and get our ferry ticket to the next island. We had heard that upon seeing the bikes they decide to charge you for a three wheeler, which is double the price. Not wanting to take that chance so we walked in without motorcycle gear on and asked for a Gol. 2 (two wheels) ticket. Once we had it we went back to the guest house and got our bikes, riding onto the wharf I hand over my ticket to the officer, he looks at my bike, frowns, tears it into two, hands me back my half and lets me on board.  

We arrived back from our day trip to discover all the men in the small alley way inspecting our bikes.