A Dog's Dinner and the Final Hurdle

So we had arrived in Kupang. Indonesia was almost at an end. After finding somewhere to stay we hit the night market for some fresh grilled fish. Despite admiring the beauty of the fish whilst diving, Roel and I shared a Coral Cod which we picked ourselves. It was so good that we decided to stay another day, just so that we could go to the market the next night to try some more fish - this time we had Oriental Sweetlips. We spent the next day wandering round the town then tried to get a bus back to the hostel which took us somewhere and left us, lost, so that we had to walk back.

Sabine's bike didn't seem to like the heat.

Locals here carry live chickens on the back of their motorbikes adding to the cacophany of things it's possible to carry around on a 125. Thus far I've seen 6 single mattresses, families of 6, pigs and every household appliance imaginable. Honda CG125, the family utility vehicle powering the world.

Sabine, Roel and I set off the 300km to the border. We made it after a hectic ride where we only stopped so that Sabine could photograph small children. The adults laughed when the children started to cry, then emerged out of their homes carrying more small human offerings. Sabine was ecstatic.

Another one of Sabine's victims.

The road my GPS took us down turned into a very windy dirt road. It showed as a shortcut on Roel's map and the locals kept pointing us onwards. I was beginning to thing that the Indonesian's must really have hated the Timorese.

The border was the usual border affair, but pretty straightforwards. Sabine wasn't happy when the guards found out she was German and couldn't stop talking about their World Cup Performance.

Blocking the road before leaving Indonesia. I think I've covered close to 7000km making may way over the archepelago.

The Timor side was a breeze since we had all finally been granted visa approvals and we had turned up 30 minutes before they wanted to go home. Very little paperwork was required, just turn up, show your approval letter, pay $30US and get a visa. They even knew how to stamp our Carnet's. My stash of bribery fags came in handy once again when an official asked if we were carrying any cigarettes.

Once over in late afternoon we finally ate breakfast, agreed that it would be silly to try to make the capital, Dili, and set off to find somewhere to camp. Just about every single person on the road waved to us. Despite Indonesia's bullying and harrasment in their turbulant past, they all looked really happy and actually seemed to be doing things to improve their country rather than just hanging round and letting Jakarta take care of it which seems to be the Indonesian way.

We found the perfect camping spot on a huge dried up riverbed covered in soft sand and found the highest piece of land, just in case there was rain in the hills and a flash flood appeared to give us an early morning bath. Someone had kindly already set fire to some driftwood, the smoke from which kept some of the mosquitos and sandflies away.

When it got dark Roel revealed a secret that he had been keeping from me for a long time. His giant metal box of goodies on the back of his bike contained a rather nice camera tripod, which he had never used. I immediately commandeered it and used it to take photos of the stars. I had previously tried a couple of times on clear nights, but the tripod made it a million times easier. Here are the results which I'm pretty chuffed with.

The Southern Cross, pointing the way South.

The next morning a couple of kids turned up to watch us in amazement as we rode across the river bed. I kept them amused by riding my bike into a big sandy hole. We took it easy, slowly winding our way through the dry landscape next to the coast. It's amazing how only 300km away by boat, Flores was much more humid and cooler, whereas Timor is hotter and dryer. Eventually, after Roel struggled with his continuous fuel problem and Sabine had a punture, we arrived in Dili. This was the end of the line for us. South East Asia had been traversed. Our next job would be finding how to get the bikes to Darwin, Australia.

At the guesthouse I re-affirmed my belief that I'm a pirate by making friends with a parrot who then wee'd on my laptop and stole my headphones then proceeded to follow me around everywhere. Sabine and I visited a supermarket filled with all sorts of western delights for the UN NGO's who roam the streets here in brand new giant Toyota trucks almost outnumbering local traffic. I almost had a heart attack at the sight of frozen pizzas, sirloin steaks, freshly cooked bread and bacon. I'm going to enjoy cooking in the kitchen here.

The locals got fed up of all the UN driving around as if they own the place not so long ago and came up with the cunning idea of using a can of black spraypaint to add a C and T to the UN on the side of every vehicle. The roads were a safer place for 2 weeks. Despite their mandate that they're here to help, we can't see much evidence of what the UN is actually doing. All that seems to have happened is that prices have risen on commodities as the locals take advantage of the fact that the UN just throws money away. I'm glad I'm not a tax payer contributing to the 'holiday' that the 'peacekeeping' force seem to be enjoying in a country ranked as 'dangerous' as Afghanistan and Iraq. When they eventually leave we think there will be big problems as locals earn a pitiful $4US a day, a beer costs about $2US. The US military is apparently actually doing some good by building schools and the like in the countryside. The UN doesn't apparently get much done because of all the buerocracy required in getting a truck for every single worker.

UN 'World Police'

War games; The US Navy has a presence here, which more than likely is because the Chinese will be conducting oil exploration here soon. hmmm...

Jesus keeps an eye on the proceedings in the bay.

Having organised shipping through Perkin's, an Australian shipping company in Darwin, who's agents in Dili, SDV, attempted to charge double what it should cost, we made use of the cleaning facilities at Troy Adams' company. Costing $50 per bike, and we would do the cleaning, Troy would cast his expert eye over our work to make sure that there was not a single piece of dirt, mud, sand or seed anywhere on the bike. Australian customs are fanatical about finding anything. For my bike which had been leaking oil for the past year, there was crap from 18 countries to get rid of.

The flag lowering ceremony, 6pm prompt, everyday at the Presidential palace, where coincidentally there is also free wifi to steal.

Pineapple headress bedecked guardsmen who lounge on the front steps all day then come to attention at 6.

There was a birthday party at the hostel. A little girl turned 5. Her parents bought her a very friendly white dog which followed her everywhere. She had called it 'Bintang', meaning star. The party would be in a couple of days.

I returned one evening, exhausted, sunburnt, dirty and hungry from cleaning my bike all day in the searing heat, made myself some food and looked forwards to going to bed. I was chastised for making food because everyone was going to the party, which I had forgotten about, and there would be food there. I wasn't particularly in the mood but was asigned someone who would wait whilst I finished eating, showered, then escort me across the road.

After I had showered, and was still covered completely in oil, I was ushered into a UN 4x4, beer in hand, by an Ethiopian who is paid almost twice as much as the Ethiopian President to program computers. I was under the impression that the party was just over the road. An American girl joined us and we raced off into the night to pick up someone for the party. 'I'm not supposed to give anyone lifts' the Ethiopian explained as he struggled to control the car whilst using his mobile phone and avoiding the scooters in the road.

We headed out towards the airport to find our fare. The streets were filled with people banging stones against lamp posts and lane dividers to make as much noise as possible. It felt like a riot was imminent and I began to doubt whether being in a UN vehicle was such a good idea. Eventually we found the people expecting a lift and headed back to the party, which WAS just over the road, within walking distance.

Food was served in a buffet style. The 'piece de la resistance' was a silver bowl filled with spicy meat. It was the little girls white dog 'Bintang'. I tried some, and to be honest, it tasted like rotten meat. It was chewey and sinewey and rather tasteless but what little taste there was just screamed 'dog'. How it is revered as a delicacy I don't know. Even stray dogs I passed scraps to wouldnt touch the stuff.

The birthday girl with her birthday dinner.

To add to the experience, all the Tourists present were then partnered with a local for the first dance. The young girl I was partnered with didn't seem too impressed by my dancing technique, which just saw us going slowly round in circles whilst I tried not to trip over my own feet or injure hers.

Back at the cleaning station, I was extremely chuffed to find a UN cap lying around, so promtly stole it - quite possibly the greatests souvenir from my travels. When I went to the shops, the Timorese gave 'the westerner wandering round in dirty oil stained clothes with a backwards turned UN cap on' some bemused looks.

Would you trust this man with your country?

After 5 days of cleaning, it was starting to take it's tole on my mental health. Everytime I looked at the bike I found more little bits of dirt which I attacked with a toothbrush and petrol. I started cleaning other inanimate objects too, chairs, tables, parked cars. It was getting silly but we were paranoid about not being allowed into Australia. It had better be worth it!

Dirty Bike

Cleaned Bike

To be honest, Australia scares me. Not because of the massive areas of desert which will require me to carry extra fuel and water. Not because of all the poisonous creatures there are and all manner of wonderful ways to die. No, it's because I will now have to play by the rules once again. No more running red lights because nobody understands what they mean. No more undertaking trucks by riding offroad through the dirt where it's safer. No more playing 'stupid' because I'm foreign and want my own way. I will need insurance, maybe an MOT for my bent, leaking, rusty bike.

Anyway enough moaning, when we had finished cleaning, we stuck the bikes on a flatbed - to stop them getting dirty again, then without strapping them down, clung to them as we raced through the streets of Dili to where we could stick them in the container.

Ok, I didn't actually drive this, there were too many knobs.

Quite possibly not the safest way to get 2 cleaned bikes around town.

Cleaned, strapped down and ready to go.... destination Darwin...

Yo Ho Ho and a Ferry full of Cow Shit!

This is the story of my final adventures in Indonesia across the remaining islands of Bali, Lombok, Sumbawa, Flores to Timor...

Roel and I disembarked from the ferry. We had finally made it to Bali. In my head it was like the promised land of Indonesia. Good food, good roads and a relaxing place when compared to Java which as far as I could make out was one giant city.

The plan was to meet with the Irish nurses, Sally and Sarah, we had met on Pulau Weh. We thought Bali was a small island, it is compared to Sumatra, but we still had to ride close to 200km to get to Amed where they were staying. There was the promise of good food and good diving. We hoped to dive the Liberty, a US supply ship from WW2 which was just off a beach.

A very big pig which looked rather tasty.

I spent a week there, eating, diving, eating, snorkelling and eating. My stomach protested since it was not used to good food, especially salad which I ate twice daily. I was close to growing big floppy ears and pointy teeth.

The Indonesian word for foreigner is 'Bule' pronounced 'Bully'. I found this amusing and took to shouting 'BULLY!' whenever I heard the word mentioned by locals. They looked mainly confused. I don't think they would have understood 'Bullies Special Priiize!'

This Bully had a shave in an attempt to look like Hitler.

The diving was nice and relaxing but strange being on black volcanic sand. I was especially keen to see some pygmy sea-horses who live hidden away on seafans. Usually they only come in pairs and are rather elusive but one had at least 10 to be found.

The Liberty was fun too. We started at dawn in an attempt to avoid other divers but it soon became diver soup. My dive computer decided to reset itself at 30 metres which was helpful.

Sabine, a biker from Germany turned up one day. She has been on the road for 18 months with plans to attempt to get to Papua New Guinea before Australia. She seems to enjoy crashing into things.

When we were suffiently bored at doing not very much we headed to Kuta, the whorish capital of Bali. On the way the police stopped us. Sabine was all for keeping going but I stopped. They asked for our licenses and where we rented the bikes.

'England' I replied. They looked a bit confused then seemed dissappointed that our paperwork was in order. Their children probably won't get a new mobile phone for Christmas.

We were looking for a rumoured 'big bike' shop somewhere on the road to Kuta. It wasn't where Roel said it was, the 'Lying Dutchman', so Sabine turned back to where she was staying.

In Kuta I got trapped in a one way system. When I stopped to figure out where I was locals called me 'Boss' and tried to rent me scooters. Western tourists tried to ignore me like the persistant hawkers.

We found a hotel which tried to be posher than it was and was filled with Australian posers.

After our meal that night we went to a small shop to buy water. A small 10 year old boy approached me and held up something he was hoping to sell. He looked pitiful and kept rubbing his stomach saying he was hungry. I dismissed him and when he could see he was getting no cash from me he grabbed my crotch, grinned then ran away laughing. I was bemused.

I managed to buy some fiberglass. I knew exactly how to fix my boxes so spent an afternoon on the hotel balcony fumigating the room with resin fumes and massacaring one of their 'complimentary' towels. I also changed my oil in the carpark, nobody seemed to be very impressed but for a change I didn't make a huge mess. Roel and I had a go at trying to repair his fuel pump which had packed in. I successfully took it apart and cleaned out the gunk from inside. We then forgot how to put it back together.

As good as new, although the outside 'finishing' fiberglass later delaminated and fell off.

Rule No. 1 of taking things apart: Don't forget how to put them back together.

Kuta is sort of like the Costa Del Sol for Australians, full of persistant hawkers asking if I wanted a motorbike. I asked if they wanted a massage. There are good restaurants, if somewhat expensive and my stomach paid the price after we went Mexican. I felt a bit out of place.

I tried my hand at surfing. Having a giant ego I decided against lessons and just rented a board. My first mistake was to try to get out into the deeper water where the big boys were playing on some rather large waves. Several times the sky went dark as I was crushed by monstrous waves. I swallowed quite a bit of sea water and sand and was physically exhausted but did at least manage to stand up a couple of times. Surfing seems to be a lot of effort for very little reward.

When Sally and Sarah left for home I headed to Lombok accompanied by a friendly cold. Roel was awaiting his visa to be extended, something we thought would be easy in Bali with so many tourists but the buggers make it more complicated than it really is and charge extortionate prices for what I acomplished in one day in Aceh.

Before I left I met a couple of Swiss bikers also on their way to Oz who had met various other overlanders along the way so we swopped a few stories.

The ferry took 4 hours which I occupied by eating garlic peanuts. I managed to convince the ticket people that my bike was 400cc so that I would pay the cheaper less than 500cc price. With the engine having LC4 stamped on the side it wasn't too hard.

When directed where to park on the ferry I removed my possesions and locked the bike up. A man then told me to move it since it was too big, despite fitting snuggly into a corner. I complied and moved it to the back of the boat, where it was in the way of a truck, then locked it. He got angry with me for locking it up in case he needed to move it. I told that if he touched it, I would hurt him. I'm rather protective of my beast of burden.

I made my way around Lombok's coast accompanied by my friendly cold to Sengigi in search of rumoured cheap accomodation but couldn't find any. The 'Lying Planet' strikes again. I even managed to get my bike stuck down a small alleyway in my quest.

After dark I rode onwards and noticed a sign for the beach so decided to check it out. There was a small shack restaurant in a secluded field shaded by palm trees. After a meal I made my way to a quiet corner, put up my tent and went to sleep.

I set off slowly around the island. I was in no rush since I was still waiting for Roel to try to catch up in case he had success with his visa. Around every corner there was a perfect almost deserted white beach.

All the petrol stations were empty so I had to buy petrol from small shops selling groceries at the side of the road. They were a bit annoyed that I bought all their stock since my tank is 24 litres and the small local bikes are only 1 or 2.

I headed up into the hills towards a volcano called Rinjani or something and tried to ride up a track to the top but it was too small so turned round and rode back to the village. After stopping for lunch in cafe I found some cheap accomodation where I could nurse my cold. The owner kept asking if I wanted to stay and I repeated that I couldnt afford it so he dropped the price.

I spent the rest of the day recovering and avoiding locals. I never used to avoid people but I'm really fed up of being asked the same questions over and over and over and over again.

I took lots of drugs to get to sleep that night but strangely awoke at around 2am. I lay in bed for a minute before a deep gutteral rumbling eminated from the centre of the earth and the room shook for a couple of seconds. I lay still with my heart beating fast wondering what to do. Should I hide under a table? Under a doorframe? Run around outside naked screaming? In the end I went back to sleep but it was the first earthquake I have consiously experienced. I always managed to be asleep during the others so concluded that was the safest thing to do.

My cold developed into a double ear infection the next day, but unperturbed I set off to Sumbawa via a not so short-cut over a volcano in the middle of the island where quite a lot of locals had decided to live.

According to my 'Lying Planet' Sumbawa is the poorest of Indonesia's Islands. I was a bit perplexed at first since the roads were really good. Then things got worse and I was soon bouncing over some of the worst pot-holed roads I can remember being on. They were so bad that it was usually easier to ride in the dirt at the side of the road. Thankfully there was little traffic but a few times I did encounter strange political protests involving lots of scooter riders who took over the road until I forced my way through.

As it got dark that night I decided to find somewhere to camp. My first attempt was down a track towards to coast where there looked to be a field. It turned out to be a very muddy field so I skidded around a bit then headed back to the road.

My second attempt saw me waiting next to a small track for 10 minutes until the road was clear before I headed down when nobody was watching. I ended up in a small graveyard so decided against camping there despite the potential peace and quiet.

My third attempt was successful, sort of. I passed a small field right on the coast next to the road. It was a bit exposed but in the dark the sparse traffic would not be looking in my direction and I could hide behind a small bush.

I waited a few minutes and eventually a guy on a scooter pulled up and shone his headlights at me. I shone mine back at him to blind him. He went away.

I set up my tent, took some cold drugs, and went to sleep. A couple of times in the night curious locals with torches came in search of me so I shouted at them loudly in German. This upset them and they promptly left.

At dawn I could see that it was quite a nice campsite.

I departed on my way to the unpronouncable Hu'u. I think it might be like the noise an owl makes or maybe like a wolf whistle.

The place is apparently a surfing Mecca but I just planned to waste some time there awaiting Roel. There are big waves out there. VERY big waves. An experienced surfer asked me 'how long had I been surfing?' '3 Hours' I replied. He advised me not to continue my learning experience here.

Instead I attempted to rid myself of the disease that I have been incubating in a nice little log cabin. What first started out as a cold had by now become a double ear infection with a fantastically hearty chesty cough so I took it easy for a couple of days and after exhausting myself reading in the hammock I had aquired in Bali, decided to swim to the 'surfing observation post shack type thing' which was built out on the reef on the other side of the lagoon.

Doesn't look too far away?

I expected it to be a short 400ish metre swim, however after 10 minutes I noticed that the shack I was aiming for had moved rather abruptly to my right. I had gotten caught in the outgoing tide from the lagoon. I stayed calm and recalled my training. Having watched 'Finding Nemo', I sang to myself; 'Just keep swimming, just keep swimming.' So I kept swimming and after another 20 minutes, during which time I moved approximately 100 metres, finally made it. When I swam back to the beach I discovered it was actually shallow enough to walk, but swimming against the current was easier than staggering over the rocky bottom.

Rather than attempting any more water activities I relegated myself back to the hammock and joined the locals for a couple of hours by watching the only man in the village with a hedge trimmer cut a rather large lawn in fascination.

I was also granted a visa for East Timor, the final country prior to Australia.

I went a bit bezerk in taking photos of the sunset too.

After 3 days I was suitably bored enough and Roel was finally on the same island so I set off to the port of Sape to meet up with him. When he arrived we confirmed that the ferry would be departing for Flores the next morning at 8am so bought some supplies and headed up a nearby hill. In Indonesia it's usually best waiting until it gets dark before finding a campsite since usually a man and his goat will turn up on a scooter to stare, then go away and bring his mates. Amazingly, although a guy did wander past with his goat, we were left unmarauded to enjoy the scenery until the next morning when Crocodile Dundee turned up.

At the ferry port we met an amazed Tim from Wirral Advanced Motorcyclist's who was on his was back to Bali from visiting Komodo on his 125cc bike - I said I'd mention him. We were ushered onto the ferry and rather than joining the locals who sat on benches upstairs and were wailed at by some idiot with a guitar for 8 hours, we set up home next to the lorries on the car deck.

Our hammocks were put to good use and we tried to spot Komodo Dragons from 3km offshore using binoculars. We failed.

I, however, discovered that my hammock had a handy 'nutsack'.

We arrived on Flores just after dark, stopped in a cafe filled with 'Bully', ate and set off into the night to find somewhere to camp. After a few kilometers we found a suitable place next to a river and around 10pm, after setting up camp were disturbed by a 4x4 with four occupants. They excused themselves as they wandered past our tents to the river where they claimed to be 'looking for a stone'. After 5 minutes they must have found it because they left again after reversing their car into a tree.

In the morning Roel went for a wash in the river whilst I kept a look out for real or imagined crocodiles. We set off to traverse 'the island that had killed Carlos' suspension'. Carlos was stranded for a couple of weeks after he hit a pothole and snapped his suspension and we wondered whether we could guess which one it was. We think we found the one. A group of locals had gathered on either side, not to fill it in, but waiting for someone who didn't know it was there to damage their vehicle or themselves. I saw it early and decided to hit it with lots of power, lifting the front of the bike up a fraction and bouncing gracefully over, the locals looked disapointed.

We met some overlanders from Singapore on the last leg of their way home from riding around the world.

At a petrol station the locals were amazed that a 'Bully' knew how to check his oil level.

The road twisted and turned over the landscape. The road builders never knew what a straight line was. Buffalo grazed next to rice paddies whilst volcanoes loomed above and smoked like shifty teenagers. I think all I've done for the past couple of weeks is take photos of landscapes.

We camped on a football field in a small village next to the sea that night. In the morning an old lady looked shocked as Roel wandered around in his underpants. Her husband marched over looking angry, saw that Roal was 'a rather large Dutchman' and changed tack. The old lady came back for another look.

We made it to Ende and spent a couple of hours faffing around causing traffic chaos as crowds gathered to poke us and the bike to make sure we're real whilst we tried to ascertain where the ferry to Timor left from and when. Lots of people just seemed happy to name various days of the week. We didn't believe them so found the tourist information building occupied by a very enthusiastic young man who I didn't think had seen many tourists. He confirmed, after printing out lots of pieces of paper from his computer and giving us lots of brochures to places we will never go, that it was indeed on Monday at 8am.

We had 5 days to 'waste' so set off up a mountain to look at some pretty coloured lakes.

For two days we lounged in our hammocks whilst locals attempted us to convince us to go and see some weaving. We stayed in our hammocks reading. It was suggested we could visit some hot springs. This turned out to be a tiled bathing area filled with locals washing, shaving and cleaning their underpants. We didn't go in.

One morning at 4am we set off up to the top of the volcano, Kelimutu, to see the lakes. Apparently they change colour depending upon volcanic activity or maybe the leaves that fall in or maybe they're magic. No one really knows despite lots of official studies by incompetent Indonesian universities - The same universities who decided to study the effect of the 2004 Tsunami upon the coral reef on Pulau Weh 6 years after the event by dropping big blocks of concrete on the coral.

We staggered around in the pre-dawn darkeness driven forwards with stories from locals that the lakes hold the souls of the dead and that several people have died after either falling or jumping in.

Typically there were clouds at sunrise. They then cleared a bit so we could see the turqoise lake. They then obscured it again so we hung around shivering for a couple of hours hoping it might clear so we could see the view down the valley. It cleared up as we started the walk down. Roel and I agreed that we took too many photos.

Having gotten fed up of paying what we thought was a lot of money for rather rubbish food, we decided to spend an evening making pancakes. Roel decided he might make a business out of it.

After 4 days we rode back to Ende the day before the ferry was due in case it had been cancelled or delayed or moved somewhere. Indonesians have no idea what a schedule is and like Indians have 'elastic time'.

No ferry here.

It turned out that the ferry was cancelled. The ferry company had built a brand new harbour outside of town for their boats. They had built it in a place where there was no shelter, thus no boats could actually use it.

There was a chance of another ferry the next morning at 6am from Aimerem a town 120km away back from where we had come. Failing that it might go 2 days later or from another town, Larantuka, the day after that 300km in the opposite direction. We made the decision to ride through the night in the offchance that the ferry would be the next day. We arrived at midnight, and set up our tents in a carpark. It didn't go the next day so we made the carpark a temporary home for the next couple of days in true gypsy style. Sabine turned up too having ridden across the previous 2 islands non stop. Crazy girl.

We made quite a stir. Indonesians never seem to have a job to do. People hung around to watch us read in our hammocks all day. Roel found a broom and started to clean up. Doing my laundry was a big village spectacle as was repairing Roels fuel pump, which we had built wrong back in Bali. Ever since he had only been able to ride 80km before he needed more fuel.

More active than an Indonesian.

I made good friends with a crazy homeless guy who I called Jimmy. He wandered around all day mumbling to himself. The locals threw stones at him and shouted. When he came to sit next to me I had a conversation. He talked in tongues and gesticulated wildly with his hands. I had no idea what he said but he didn't speak Indonesian. I talked to him about the weather and everything else that came to mind whilst also gesticulating wildly. The locals watched awestruck. This Bully was talking to the madman and both seemed to understand each other. Jimmy occasionally wandered off shouting 'Jimmy' to himself.

Jimmy!

Jimmy shows off some rubbish which is now part of his personal collection.

The hobo, the legend, Jimmy.

When Sabine cooked some rice and Roel cooked some eggs, it drew a pretty big crowd. Even lying in my hammock was a noteworthy event. The locals had formed a new religion by putting a large screen and a projector in the nearby church to watch the World Cup.

Eventually our carpark became more and more full. We bough supplies for what we expeced to be around a 20 hour crossing to Kupang in West Timor. I went to buy tickets. Luckily I was wearing my back protector because the queue was practically a scrum. When I eventually elbowed my way to the front - we had been there for 3 days so felt we had more right than anyone else for a ticket, I was invited into the office whilst the ticket man deciphered what I wanted.

The first off the arriving ferry, Sabine thought we were getting onto Noah's Ark.

We had to force our way through a crowd being held back at the gate to get onto the boat where a man wanted 10,000 Rp (about 1USD) for us to use his ramp to get onboard - he wasn't charging anyone else. We pushed him out the way and caused a traffic jam whilst we built our own out of coiled ropes.

The idiots loading the boat had put no thought into anything. They loaded bags of rice first, then squeezed the trucks in between then let everyone else on. Our bikes were by no means in the ideal position and were close falling over several times.

The chaos of boarding.

Finally onboard.

The boat was filled with hundreds of people. There was not enough room in the stuffy passenger area so people slept anywhere and everywhere. You have to admire Indonesians for their versatility. The conditions were akin to how I would imagine a refugee or concentration camp. Animal crap still littered the deck from the previous voyage, pigs squealed, chickens were on the loose and babies cried.

100's of eyes followed everything we did. We put our hammocks up and people were amazed that we could make ourselves comfortable out of the crap on the floor. When I boiled 3 eggs for my tea, people stared, amazed at the white man's ability to cook. After I discovered that our ticket included a free meal, and being full I gave mine away.

I had a restless 4 hours sleep. The sea was reasonably rough and I was concerned that the family who had the clever idea of sleeping under my bike, not that there was much alternative, would be crushed to death if my bike toppled since we had not been able to put them somewhere where they could be strapped down.

Eventually, about 28 hours after departure we arrived in Kupang. The unloading of the boat was as organised as the loading. First about 100 extra people forced their way on to carry off the bags of rice, which by now had been soaked in shitty water and used as temporary beds. It took another good couple of hours before there was enough room for us to push Sabine so she could jumpstart her battery dead bike.

Finally we were in Timor. Only 400km from Dili in Timor L'Este where we can ship our bikes to Darwin, Australia. The only remaining problem is that Roel doesn't have a visa for Timor L'Este yet. Hopefully it will come within the next day or so.

I don't know when I'll get the chance to update next, probably Darwin. Till then...

(Thanks to Sabine for some of these photos)