Across
the Archipelago: Indonesia by Bicycle - Sumatra to Bali
INDONESIA (1)
1 Sumatra
Island
1,694 Kilometres – 33 Days
15 February - 15 March 2010
PHOTOS
Sumatra: Through Clay and Kindness
Chapter One: Crossing into Sumatra
The ferry to Indonesia
The morning air in Malacca was heavy
with the remnants of Chinese New Year—red lanterns drooping from shopfronts,
firecracker husks scattered across the pavement, the city still half-asleep.
Ernest and I pedalled toward the ferry jetty, unsure if the boats were even
running. Local advice was clear: avoid the first ferry, always packed to the
brim, and wait for the second, which often sailed half-empty.
Two and a half hours later, the sea
gave way to a new shore. We stepped off the gangplank into Dumai, Sumatra. Indonesia
stretched before us like a humid promise. The air clung to my skin, thick and
wet, and the roads were a chaos of potholes, honking trucks, and darting
motorbikes. Most travellers might have recoiled, but I felt strangely at home.
This was the kind of country where resilience thrived, where imperfection
carried its own beauty.
Our first night was spent in a
border-town guesthouse: peeling walls, shared toilets, bucket showers, and
paper-thin partitions that carried every sound. Dumai itself was sleazy in the
way border towns often are, a place of transience and transaction. Yet even
here, amid grime, I sensed the warmth of Indonesia waiting to reveal itself.
Hello Mister
The next day, we cycled south toward
Duri, only 75 kilometres away, but the road shimmered in blistering heat. My
skin erupted in rash, a reminder of the equator’s merciless embrace. Locals
lined the roadside, calling out in cheerful chorus: “Hello, Mister! Where you
go? Welcome to Indonesia!” Every greeting was addressed to “Mister,” regardless
of gender, a quirk that made me laugh and reminded me of Africa’s universal
“Good morning, Teacher.”
By evening, I surrendered to an
air-conditioned room, grateful for relief from the heat. The town was small,
off the tourist map, yet even here the welcome was genuine. Invitations into
homes, curious stares, laughter at our bicycles—it was as if our presence was
both spectacle and delight.
Kindness in unexpected places
The following day carried us 110
kilometres deeper into Sumatra’s interior. The road south from Duri was a
ribbon of potholes, shimmering in the equatorial heat. Trucks thundered past,
their engines groaning under the weight of oil tankers bound for the refinery.
The air smelled faintly of diesel and dust, and every pedal stroke felt like a
negotiation with the road itself.
Maps were useless here—tiny print, no
distances marked, villages omitted as if they didn’t exist. We rode by
instinct, guided by signboards that pointed to places not even listed. It was a
landscape of uncertainty, where the only reliable measure was the sweat
dripping down my back.
Yet amid the chaos, there was
courtesy. Truck drivers slowed, waiting patiently until it was safe to pass. In
a country where the road was narrow and unforgiving, that small gesture felt
monumental. It reminded me that kindness often arrives quietly, tucked into the
everyday.
The rain fell in sudden droves, forcing
us to huddle with motorcyclists under awnings, watching torrents carve rivers
into the road. When the storm eased, we pushed on, wheels splashing through
puddles, clothes plastered to our skin.
Oil refineries and pipelines scarred
the landscape, yet beyond them lay rice paddies, timber stalls, and mosques
rising from villages.
And then, a surprise: a resort hotel
with manicured lawns and tennis courts, far beyond our budget. Ernest scoffed
at the idea of even asking, but curiosity won. To our astonishment, the manager
offered us a room for a fraction of the price—air-conditioning, hot showers,
dinner, and breakfast included. It felt like stumbling into an oasis, a
reminder that kindness often appears where least expected.
Minangkabau’s Rumah Lontiak
Leaving that comfort was hard, but the
road soon offered its own gifts. The road levelled out, and we biked past rice
paddies and the ever-present timber stalls upon stills under rusted corrugated
iron roofs, selling the whole shebang. I was pleasantly surprised to see the
traditional timber houses with buffalo-horn roofs—the Minangkabau’s Rumah
Lontiak—that rose dramatically against the sky. Here, in a matrilineal society,
homes belonged to women, passed from mother to daughter. The architecture
itself seemed to declare resilience and continuity, a cultural heartbeat
visible in wood and curve.
Chapter
Three: Climbing Toward the Equator
Scenic Roads and Security Guards
Morning in Bangkinang began with a minor
frustration: I had lost my cap, and the search delayed our departure until well
past ten. Yet, the day unfolded into one of the most beautiful since arriving
in Indonesia. The way to Pangkalan wound for 85 kilometres through villages
where children waved, past dense forests thick with ferns, and alongside a
dammed river that shimmered like glass. Fish farms dotted the water, their nets
rising and falling with the current.
Maps were unreliable, signboards
pointed to places that didn’t exist on paper, and our exact location was often
a mystery. But the uncertainty carried its own kind of freedom. We rode by
instinct, trusting the road to reveal itself.
Toward evening, the path levelled out
along an idyllic river, the kind of place that elsewhere would have been
crowded with holiday resorts. Here, it was quiet, unadorned, and alive with the
rhythm of daily life. A petrol station offered shelter, its public room a
convenient stop for the night. Yet convenience came at a cost: curious
onlookers crowded around, watching our every move. Eating a simple meal became
performance, writing in my journal an act of public theatre. Privacy dissolved
into spectacle, and I felt the weight of eyes pressing against me.
Sleep was fractured. Travellers
drifted in and out, resting from their journeys. At dawn, I woke to find a man
lying beside me, his hand on my leg. Shock jolted me upright. He was the
security guard. I yelled at him, and he left without apology. I couldn’t wait
for daylight to escape.
The Climb Over the Pass
The road to Bukittinggi was rumoured
to climb all day, the town perched atop a mountain. I braced myself for endless
ascent, but the climb lasted only twenty kilometres. The road crossed the
equator, though I missed the sign—my head was down, lungs burning, legs
straining against gravity.
At the summit, food stalls and a
viewpoint offered respite. The landscape stretched wide and green, a reminder
of how far we had come. Then the descent began: steep, narrow, winding, alive
with buses, trucks, horse-drawn carts, and motorbike taxis. Throw in two
foreigners on bicycles, and the chaos was complete.
Tropical rains arrived in the
afternoon, as they always did, forcing us to seek shelter. By the time we
rolled into Bukittinggi, night had fallen, and exhaustion clung to us like the
damp air.
Bukittinggi itself was a town of
contrasts—Panorama Park with its sweeping views over the gorge, Japanese
tunnels carved during World War II, and nights filled with the competing chorus
of dogs and mosques. Sleep was elusive, but the town offered a pause, a chance
to breathe, to wander, to reflect.
Here, amid the chaos and the rain, I realised
the journey was not just about distance or endurance. It was about learning to
live inside discomfort, to find beauty in unpredictability, and to accept that
the road—like life—rarely follows the map.
Chapter
Four: Descent to the Coast
The Descent to the Coast
The road from Bukittinggi unfurled
like a gift. For ninety-five kilometres it descended, a ribbon of asphalt
winding past waterfalls that thundered into ravines, rivers that shimmered
beneath wooden bridges, and forests so lush they seemed to breathe. Volcanoes
loomed in the distance, their silhouettes reminders that Indonesia’s beauty was
born of fire and upheaval.
Cycling downhill for an entire day
felt like flying. Villages blurred past, children shouted greetings, and the
air carried the scent of damp earth and wood smoke. It was one of those rare
days when the road itself seemed to conspire in our favour, carrying us forward
with ease.
But the descent ended in Padang, and
with it came a sobering reminder of nature’s power. Only months earlier, an
earthquake had torn through the city. On television, the devastation had seemed
abstract, but riding into Padang made it real. Buildings lay in ruins, hotels
collapsed into rubble, streets scarred by destruction. The few remaining
lodgings charged exorbitant rates, survival dictating their prices.
I found a budget hotel still standing,
its walls cracked but intact. Relief washed over me when Ernest appeared soon
after—though I had laughed at his stubborn independence earlier, seeing him
safe was a comfort. A bicycle flattened by a truck on the road had reminded me
how fragile we were, how quickly a journey could end.
Padang, despite its wounds, pulsed
with life. The beachfront bustled with stalls offering crab and prawns, their
aromas mingling with the salt air. As the sun set, the Indian Ocean blazed with
colour—orange, pink, and violet streaks across the horizon. It was a reminder
that beauty persists even in the shadow of disaster.
Cloves and Cinnamon
The next morning, we rode south along
the coast. For twenty kilometres, the sea kept us company, waves breaking
against sandy shores, before the road veered inland over hills. Villagers dried
cloves, cinnamon, and oranges along the roadside, their fragrances drifting
into the air. It was as if the land itself exhaled spice.
We reached Painan after 80 km,
intending to camp by the beach. But word spread quickly, and soon the entire
town seemed to gather—on foot, bicycles, motorbikes—to watch the foreigners
pitch their tents. The scrutiny was overwhelming, a wall of eyes pressing
against us. I packed up and led a reluctant Ernest into town, where a
guesthouse offered the privacy I craved.
Sumatra was teaching me that travel is
never just about landscapes. It is about the tension between intimacy and
intrusion, the balance between awe and unease. In Padang, I had seen
destruction and resilience side by side. In Painan, I had felt the weight of
curiosity, the discomfort of being spectacle. And yet, through it all, the road
carried us forward—toward new hills, new encounters, and new lessons waiting
just beyond the horizon.
Chapter
Five: Hills, Rain, and the Weight of Eyes
Where you go?
Leaving Painan, the road rose sharply,
the kind of climb that demanded silence and grit. Sweat pooled beneath my cap,
the air heavy with humidity. Yet the scenery was unsurpassed—one-lane fishing
hamlets clung to the coast, rice paddies shimmered in the sun, and rivers wound
lazily through palm groves.
Villagers dried cassava, cloves, and
cinnamon along the roadside, their aromas mingling in the heat. Each stop for
food or drink drew a crowd. Children giggled, elders stared, and strangers
asked the same questions in sing-song English: “Hello, friend! Where you go? Their curiosity was relentless, but it
carried no malice—only fascination.
By the time we reached Balai Selasa,
rain pelted down in sheets, drumming against tin roofs and soaking the earth.
Ernest barely had time to grab fried snacks from a mobile vendor before the
storm swallowed the town. We huddled indoors, listening to the rain’s
percussion, grateful for shelter.
A Squat Toilet and A Bathroom Mandi
The following day, the hills returned,
sharp and unyielding. Bathrooms in Indonesia were simple: squat toilets and a mandi, a reservoir of water
scooped with a plastic bucket. That afternoon, overheated and weary, I
submerged myself in the reservoir, laughing at my improvised swimming pool.
Fruit stalls offered strange delights.
Markisa, like passionfruit but thicker-skinned, peeled to reveal sweet pulp.
Salak, snake fruit, with its scaly exterior, hid three firm white segments
inside—sweet, crisp, and unexpected. These small discoveries softened the
hardship of the road.
But rain returned with vengeance. By
the time we reached Tapan, we were drenched, dripping onto the guesthouse
floor. The room was basic, shutters instead of glass, but clean enough. Ernest
was less fortunate—his eyes swollen shut, infection spreading. The tropics had
their own way of testing resilience.
The rhythm of Sumatra was becoming
clear: hills that broke your body, rains that soaked your spirit, and villages
that pressed against your privacy. Yet within that rhythm lay moments of
grace—fruit offered by strangers, laughter from children, and the simple relief
of shelter after a storm.
Travel here was not about comfort. It
was about endurance, about learning to live inside the gaze of others, about
finding beauty in the small gestures that carried you forward. Each day was a
reminder that the road was not just asphalt and distance—it was human terrain,
unpredictable and alive.
Illness
and unexpected kindness
The Mosque
The road south from Tapan began
gently, flat stretches that lulled me into false comfort. Soon, though, the
hills returned—sharp, relentless inclines that demanded every ounce of
strength. Palm oil plantations stretched endlessly, their uniform rows a stark
contrast to the wild forests we had left behind. Each descent required furious pedalling
to carry momentum into the next climb, but potholes at the bottom often
shattered the rhythm, forcing us to grind upward from a standstill.
Ernest was struggling. His eyes,
already infected, had worsened until one was nearly swollen shut. The other
showed signs of the same fate. He rode half-blind. The rain came in torrents,
soaking us to the bone, and camping was impossible—the ground flooded, the air
thick with mosquitoes. After 125 km and in darkness and downpour, villagers
guided us to a disused mosque. To our relief, the lights still worked. We
boiled salt water for Ernest’s eyes, ate noodles, and collapsed into sleep,
accompanied by the whine of mosquitoes.
Kindness Beyond Measure
Leaving Pasar Bantal, the hills grew
sharper, the climbs steeper. My energy faltered, gears slipped, and I slogged
upward in frustration. At Ipuh, the sole ATM was out of service. Ernest could
barely see, and we booked into a guesthouse so he could rest. But I had no cash
left.
Desperation drove me to Mukomuka,
where I had seen an ATM the day before. The bus ride was long, my clothes
filthy, my body exhausted. At the machine, my heart sank—it accepted only
MasterCard, not Visa. Panic rose in my chest. I had no money for food, no way
to pay for the room, no means to return to Ipuh.
And then, kindness appeared. A bank
official, seeing my distress, reached into his wallet and handed me 150,000
rupiah. No hesitation, no expectation of repayment. He refused even to give his
name. That simple act—quiet, unadorned—was salvation. With his gift, I bought
food, paid for the bus, and returned to Ernest, who lay in darkness, eyes
closed, unimpressed by my efforts. His dismissal stung, but I knew the truth:
without that stranger’s generosity, we would have been stranded.
That night, I showered for the first
time in two days, peeling off clothes that reeked of sweat and rain. Relief
washed over me, mingled with gratitude. Travel strips you bare, exposes your
fragility, and yet it also reveals the extraordinary kindness of strangers. In
that moment, I understood: the road
Chapter
Seven: Recovery and Renewal
Sour Moods
Morning in Ipuh began with
frustration. Ernest discovered a flat tyre, and I set off alone, unwilling to
wait as he claimed he needed no help. The hills were merciless, rising and
falling like waves, each climb a test of patience. My mood soured, and when two
men on a motorbike pulled alongside, making crude gestures, I snapped. They
sped off, startled by my fury. The road was unforgiving, and so was I.
By late afternoon, Ernest caught up,
and together we found a petrol station with a grassy patch. Supper was noodles
and coffee, the tent a sauna under the humid night. Spectators gathered,
curious as always, their eyes pressing against us even in the dark. Privacy was
a luxury Sumatra rarely offered.
Bengkulu - The Earthquake
The ride from Ketahun to Bengkulu was
easier, the hills less severe, though potholes gaped like traps. Villagers
called out greetings—“Hello, Mister, how are you?”—their laughter echoing when
we replied. It was impossible not to smile, even when fatigue weighed heavily.
Bengkulu arrived after 90k-like a
gift. The first task was finding a working ATM, and with money in hand, I cycled
straight to a hotel. A shower felt like salvation, washing away days of sweat
and grime. The Samudra Dwinka offered budget rooms tucked behind its fancy
façade, simple but sufficient.
We lingered in Bengkulu while Ernest’s
eyes healed, antibiotic drops working their quiet magic. The town was alive
with food stalls—kaki limas—selling fried snacks, rice meals, and steaming
bowls of noodles. We ate as if we hadn’t seen food in days, delighting in
abundance.
Life here was practical and
resourceful. Ernest repaired his tent zip, shoes, and beloved chair at the
market. I indulged in small luxuries—face masks, hair cream, flip-flops for
easy wandering. Even in hardship, there was room for titivation, for reclaiming
a sense of self.
Then the earth moved. A tremor rippled
through Bengkulu, 160 kilometres out to sea. The earthquake measured 6.5,
strong enough to shock but not to destroy. Buildings stood, people carried on,
but the reminder was clear: Indonesia lived under constant threat of nature’s
upheaval.
We visited Fort Marlborough, a relic
of British colonial days, its stone walls a reminder of history layered upon
history. The fort stood firm, even as the ground beneath it shifted.
Bengkulu was more than a pause. It was
recovery, resilience, and renewal. Here, amid food stalls and tremors, repairs
and laughter, I felt the journey shift. Hardship had not vanished, but it had
softened. The road ahead would still demand endurance, but for now, there was
strength in rest, in healing, and in the simple joy of being carried forward by
kindness and time.
Chapter
Eight: Into Seluma
“Tourist, Tourist!”
Rain hammered Bengkulu through the
night, drumming against tin roofs and flooding the streets. By morning, puddles
reflected the sky, and flip-flops became the footwear of choice—easy to slip
off when entering shops, homes, or lodgings. In Indonesia, shoes were always
left at the door, a small ritual that marked the boundary between public and
private.
The road south began promisingly.
Asphalt stretched smooth, the hills absent, and for a brief moment, cycling
felt effortless. Yet my body betrayed me. Fatigue pressed down, each pedal
stroke heavier than the last. What should have been an easy day became a
struggle, my energy drained by lingering illness and the relentless humidity.
In Seluma, I surrendered. A guesthouse
appeared, modest and unassuming, and I checked in without hesitation. Sleep
claimed me almost instantly, the kind of deep, dreamless rest that only
exhaustion can bring.
Evening brought renewal. I wandered
into town, trailed by a chorus of children. Their laughter rang out, their
voices chanting “tourist, tourist!”—a word that seemed to ripple through the
streets, drawing curious eyes. Mobile food vendors lined the roadside, their
carts steaming with fried snacks, rice dishes, and bowls of noodles. The air
was thick with aromas—garlic sizzling in oil, chili sharp on the tongue, sweet
smoke from roasting corn.
The children were wary at first,
hovering at the edges, but curiosity won. They crowded close, eyes wide,
questions tumbling out in broken English. Their presence was both endearing and
overwhelming, a reminder that here, privacy was rare, and being foreign meant
living under constant observation.
Seluma was not remarkable in itself—no
grand monuments, no sweeping vistas—but it carried the essence of Sumatra: the
rhythm of daily life, the warmth of welcome, the unfiltered curiosity of its
people. It was a place where exhaustion met kindness, where struggle gave way
to laughter, and where the road reminded me that travel is not always about
landscapes. Sometimes, it is about the simple act of being seen, and learning
to accept it.
Chapter
Nine: Toward Manna
Seluma – Manna
The morning air leaving Seluma was
soft, the road smooth, the hills mercifully absent. For once, cycling felt
effortless, the kind of ride that allowed me to breathe deeply and notice the
details—the shimmer of rice paddies, the scent of damp earth, the rhythm of
palm fronds swaying in the breeze. My body was still weary. Illness lingered,
pressing against my energy, and each climb felt heavier than it should. I
pushed on, knowing that the road itself was the only cure.
Villages unfolded one after another,
each with its own chorus of greetings. Children shouted “Hello, Mister!” from
doorways, their voices rising in laughter when I replied. Women balanced
baskets on motorbikes, men tended fields, and elders sat in the shade, watching
life pass by. The questions came in predictable rhythm: “What’s your name?
Where are you from? How old are you? Are you married?” Answering them felt like
a ritual, a rite of passage into friendship. Once the questions were satisfied,
smiles widened, cameras appeared, and suddenly I was posing for pictures with
strangers who now considered me kin.
The road itself was forgiving—gentle
climbs, shaded stretches, and long glides through forested valleys. Palm oil
plantations gave way to rice fields, their green expanse broken by the shimmer
of irrigation canals. Dogs barked at our heels, geese waddled across the road,
and water buffalo lumbered slowly, indifferent to our passing.
By afternoon, fatigue pressed harder,
but the warmth of the people softened its edge. Their curiosity was unfiltered,
their welcome genuine. In their eyes, we were not just travellers—we were
living stories, proof that the world was larger than their village, yet
connected by laughter and kindness.
Arriving in Manna felt like reaching a
pause, a place where the road’s rhythm slowed. Guesthouses offered shelter,
food vendors lined the streets, and the town hummed with daily life. It was not
grand or dramatic, but it was enough—a place to rest, to recover, and to feel,
once again, the quiet joy of being carried forward by the road.
Chapter
Ten: The Road to Bintuhan
The Road a Theatre of Life
Leaving Manna, I felt far from my
best. My body was sluggish, my energy dulled, but the road demanded movement.
The heat pressed down, thick and humid, and the hills rose steep and
unrelenting. Each climb was a negotiation with gravity, each descent a gamble
against potholes and wandering animals.
Villages appeared like punctuation
marks along the way—clusters of wooden houses, laundry strung across fences,
chickens darting into the road. Children cheered as we passed, their voices
rising in playful chorus. Dogs barked at our heels, geese waddled across the
tarmac, goats and water buffalo lumbered slowly, indifferent to the chaos.
Elderly villagers looked up as we cycled past, mouths agape, hands pressed to
their hearts, as if our presence was both bewildering and wondrous.
The road
was a theatre of life:
potholes to dodge, animals to weave around, and laughter to absorb. I found
myself smiling. The rhythm of Sumatra was relentless, but it was also alive,
filled with moments that reminded me why I was here.
By the time we reached Bintuhan,
hunger had taken hold. Fried food vendors lined the streets, their carts piled
high with golden snacks—cassava, bananas, battered vegetables, all sizzling in
oil. The temptation was irresistible. We booked into a room and immediately
rushed to the nearest cart, returning with a bag so large it could have fed a
village. We devoured it greedily, laughter spilling between bites.
It was indulgence, pure and simple, a
moment of joy carved out of hardship. The road had been steep, the air heavy,
my body weary—but in Bintuhan, with fried snacks in hand and the day behind me,
I felt light again.
Travel is not just about endurance. It
is about these small victories, these moments of levity that remind you the
journey is more than struggle. In Bintuhan, amid laughter and fried cassava, I
found balance once more.
Chapter
Eleven: Under Watchful Eyes
Through the National Park
The morning ride out of Bintuhan began
deceptively easy, the road hugging the ocean in a gentle rhythm. For a brief
stretch, I allowed myself to believe the day would be kind. But soon the path
veered inland, and the hills rose like walls.
A signboard warned of steep gradients.
I laughed at first, assuming exaggeration, but the road proved merciless. The
climbs were near-vertical, chain-snapping ascents that forced me to dismount
and push, sweat dripping onto the tarmac. Each hill felt endless, the air heavy
with humidity, the forest pressing close. The map promised a National Park, but
all I saw was sweat and asphalt.
By late afternoon, the road descended
toward the coast, and relief washed over me. The small settlement of Pugung
Tampak appeared, a scattering of houses and stalls, the sea glinting beyond.
Exhausted, we found Cecep’s homestay—a traditional house built around a
courtyard, complete with a well, laundry strung across lines, and even a monkey
tethered to a string.
Ernest suggested pitching our tents on
the beach behind the house. I agreed, foolishly. As we set up camp, the village
gathered. Word had spread quickly, and soon dozens of people surrounded us—men,
women, children, all pressing forward to see the foreigners in their midst.
Torches flickered, voices murmured, bodies jostled for a better view.
Inside the tent, I felt like an animal
in a cage, bewildered and exposed. The crowd lingered long into the night,
their flashlights cutting through the darkness, their curiosity unyielding.
Sleep was fractured, broken by the constant hum of voices and the muezzin’s
call to prayer at dawn.
It was one of the most surreal nights
of the journey—caught between hospitality and intrusion, welcome and
suffocation. The villagers meant no harm; their fascination was genuine, their
presence a reflection of how rare it was to see travellers camping here. Yet
the weight of their eyes pressed against me, stripping away privacy, reminding
me that in Sumatra, the road was never mine alone.
Travel is exposure. It is surrendering
to the gaze of others, learning to live without walls, and finding resilience
in discomfort. That night in Pugung Tampak, I understood that the journey was
not just about endurance of hills and heat—it was about endurance of being
seen, fully and without escape.
Chapter
Twelve: Toward Krui
Pugung
Tampak → Krui,
Morning in Pugung Tampak arrived heavy
with exhaustion. The previous night’s sleeplessness—torches flickering against
the tent, voices murmuring outside—had left me drained. My body felt hollow, my
spirit reluctant, but the road waited.
The hills were mercifully gentler than
the day before, though still demanding. The path wound through fishing
communities where double-storied wooden houses lined the roadside, their
balconies draped with laundry fluttering in the breeze. Produce dried in the
sun—fish laid out on woven mats, rice spread across the tarmac, cloves and
coffee beans releasing their fragrance into the air.
Bullock carts creaked along the road,
pulled by patient animals, their drivers nodding as we passed. Children darted
between houses, shouting greetings, their laughter carrying across the humid
air. The villages felt timeless, their rhythm unbroken by the modern chaos of
trucks and motorbikes.
But fatigue pressed hard. My body was
weak, my mind dulled, and each climb felt heavier than it should. Relief came
suddenly, in the form of a guesthouse in Krui. Its modest walls offered
something precious: privacy. To close a door, to be unseen, to rest without
eyes upon me—that was luxury beyond measure.
Inside, I exhaled. The room was
simple, but it was mine for the night. No curious crowds, no torches cutting
through the dark, no murmurs outside the tent. Just silence, and the chance to
recover.
Krui was not remarkable in itself, but
it offered what I needed most: respite. In travel, comfort is not always found
in grand vistas or dramatic encounters. Sometimes, it is found in the quiet
relief of being alone, in the sanctuary of a closed door, in the simple act of
rest.
Chapter
Thirteen: Coffee, Cloves, and the Village Well
Camping at the Well
Leaving Krui, the road stretched flat
and forgiving, a rare gift after so many days of relentless climbs. For sixty kilometres,
it followed the coast, the sea glinting beside us, waves breaking against sandy
shores. The ride was scenic, almost leisurely, the kind of day that reminded me
why I loved the road.
But the reprieve was short-lived. The
path veered inland, climbing once more toward the mountains. Villages appeared
along the way, their streets lined with fish drying on the tarmac, the pungent
smell mingling with the sweet aroma of ground coffee and cloves. The air itself
seemed alive with spice, a sensory tapestry woven into the rhythm of the ride.
Beyond Bengkunat, the road grew
quieter, more isolated. Nearly twenty kilometres past the hamlet, we stumbled
upon a derelict government office, its walls cracked and abandoned. Behind it
lay a well, half-forgotten, surrounded by weeds. It seemed a perfect place to
camp—hidden, practical, and away from the constant gaze of curious villagers.
But isolation was an illusion. As dusk
fell, people emerged from the forest paths, carrying buckets to fetch their
evening water. They stopped in their tracks, startled by the sight of two
foreigners camping beside their well. At first they kept their distance,
watching silently, but curiosity soon overcame hesitation. Children gathered,
their voices rising in sing-song English: “Mother, father, grandmother,
grandfather…”—words repeated with pride, practiced at school and now performed
for us.
The crowd grew, laughter mingling with
shyness, torches flickering in the dark. We were strangers, yet part of their
evening ritual, woven into the fabric of their daily lives. Vulnerability
pressed against me—the sense of being exposed, watched, yet also welcomed.
The night was restless. Mosquitoes
feasted, rain poured down, and the tent became a sauna. Sleep was fractured,
but the memory of the children’s voices lingered, their earnest repetition of
family words echoing in my mind.
Travel here was not about solitude. It
was about connection, even when uninvited, even when overwhelming. At the
village well, I understood that the road was not mine alone—it belonged to
everyone who lived along it, and for one night, I was part of their story too.
Chapter
Fourteen: Landslides and Clay
Bengkunat → Kota Agung
Morning in Bengkunat began slowly.
Ernest dragged his heels packing up, each movement deliberate, as if time
itself had thickened. I grew restless, knowing the road ahead would climb
again. National Parks in Sumatra seemed less about preserving wilderness and
more about protecting land too mountainous for anything else.
The ascent was relentless, the
rainforest pressing close, its canopy dripping with humidity. The air was alive
with the calls of unseen birds, the rustle of leaves, the steady rhythm of
sweat sliding down my back. The climb demanded silence, each pedal stroke a
negotiation with gravity.
Then the rain came—sheets of water
pouring down, turning the road into a slick ribbon. At the summit, the descent
should have been a gift, but instead it became chaos. A landslide had buried
the road in clay, trucks spinning helplessly, wheels skidding sideways into
embankments. Motorbikes slipped and stalled, their riders cursing the mud.
We pushed forward, slipping and
sliding, dragging our bicycles through the mess. Clay clung to the wheels,
thick and heavy, until the pedals refused to turn. We scraped at the mud with
sticks and hands, desperate to free the gears, our bodies smeared with earth.
Progress was slow, exhausting, and absurd.
When at last the road cleared, Kota
Agung appeared sooner than expected—a town nestled against the hills, its
streets alive with the hum of daily life. Relief washed over me as we found a
comfortable guesthouse, complete with a tap and hose where Ernest washed the
bikes clean of clay.
The day had been brutal, a test of
patience and perseverance. Yet in the struggle lay a strange satisfaction.
Travel is not about ease—it is about endurance, about learning to move forward
even when the road itself seems determined to stop you. In Kota Agung, with mud
scraped from my skin and the bikes restored, I felt the quiet triumph of having
endured.
Chapter
Fifteen: The Mountain Pass
The Road is not Measured in Kilometres
The morning in Kota Agung began with a
surprise: a hotel breakfast of fried rice, steaming and fragrant, a small
luxury before the climb. The bikes were oiled, the air heavy with humidity, and
the road pointed upward.
There is nothing like a mountain pass
first thing in the morning. The climb was long but steady, a rhythm I preferred
to the short, chain-snapping hills of previous days. Each pedal stroke carried
me higher, the rainforest pressing close, its canopy dripping with mist. The
air was alive with birdsong and the steady hum of insects, a chorus that
accompanied the grind of gears.
At the summit, relief arrived in the
form of descent. The road unfurled downward, a gift of gravity, carrying us
through villages and forests, past children waving from doorways and women
balancing baskets on motorbikes. For once, the road gave back what it had
taken.
By mid-afternoon, drizzle began to
fall, soft at first, then steady. Just as fatigue pressed in, a small community
appeared, unexpected and welcome. A hotel stood waiting, and without a word,
Ernest and I pulled in. The day’s ride ended not in exhaustion but in quiet
relief.
Distances in Sumatra were never
certain. Ask a villager how far to the next town, and the answers vary
wildly—fifty kilometres, two hundred, or something in between. Yet they could
tell you precisely how long the ride took by motorbike or bus. For cyclists,
the truth was always a mystery, revealed only by the road itself.
Between Kota Agung and Bandar Lampung,
the estimates ranged from fifty to two hundred kilometres. In the end, the
distance was closer to one hundred. But in Sumatra, numbers mattered less than
endurance. The road was not measured in kilometres—it was measured in sweat,
patience, and the quiet triumph of reaching shelter at day’s end.
Chapter
Sixteen: The Last Stretch
Pringsewu
→ Bandar Lampung
Breakfast in Pringsewu was a feast of
rice cooked in banana leaves, fiery curries, and coconut sauce. Indonesians
were unafraid of chili first thing in the morning, and I admired their
boldness. For cyclists, such meals were fuel, though I suspected the hotel lost
money hosting us—our appetites were insatiable.
The ride was shorter than expected.
Bandar Lampung appeared after barely thirty-eight kilometres, its streets alive
with traffic, its pulse chaotic. Relief mingled with anxiety. My visa had
expired the day before, and the urgency of renewal pressed hard.
We found a hotel, dropped our bags,
and I headed straight to the immigration office. Bureaucracy proved its own
mountain pass. A sponsor was required, and our hotel refused to help. I
couldn’t blame them—would I sponsor a stranger? Still, frustration gnawed at
me. The storm clouds gathered outside, thunder rolling so loud I half-wondered
if Krakatau itself had erupted.
Bandar Lampung was larger than I had
imagined—supermarkets, hotels, sprawling markets, even a Carrefour with a Pizza
Hut tucked inside. It was a city of contradictions: modern conveniences
alongside chaotic traffic, rules ignored, lights disregarded. After weeks of
villages and forests, the city felt overwhelming, yet necessary.
Chapter
Seventeen: The Road to the Java Ferry
Bandar Lampung to Cilegon
Leaving Bandar Lampung behind, the
road bent southward toward Kalianda, a town perched near the southern tip of
Sumatra. The ride carried us along the coast, where the sea shimmered under the
equatorial sun and fishing boats bobbed lazily offshore. The air was thick with
salt and spice, the scent of cloves and coffee drifting from roadside stalls.
Kalianda itself was a quiet place,
framed by the looming presence of Krakatau across the strait. The volcano’s
silhouette was a reminder of Indonesia’s restless geology, its beauty
inseparable from its danger. Nights here were restless—dogs barking, roosters
crowing, the muezzin’s call weaving through the darkness—but the town offered a
pause before the final push to Java.
From Kalianda, the road grew busier,
traffic thickening as we approached the ferry port at Bakauheni. Trucks rumbled
past, buses honked, and motorbikes darted in every direction. The chaos was
constant, but so too were the greetings—“Hello, Mister!” shouted from
shopfronts, laughter following us as we pedalled through.
Sumatra was behind us now: 1,694 kilometres,
thirty-three days, a journey carved in sweat, rain, kindness, and resilience.
From Dumai to Cilegon, the island had tested endurance and revealed generosity,
had stripped away comfort and offered unexpected grace.
Standing in Cilegon, Java lay scarcely
a 25-kilometre ferry ride across the Sunda Straight, promising new landscapes,
new encounters, and new lessons. But Sumatra would remain etched in memory—a
place where hardship and kindness walked hand in hand, and where every kilometre
carried the weight of transformation.
Sumatra was a crucible. It tested body
and spirit, but it also gave back—through laughter, through spice-scented air,
through sunsets over the Indian Ocean. It was a place where hardship and grace
walked hand in hand, where every kilometre carried the possibility of
transformation and where you learned more about the character of your cycling
partner.
Leaving the island at Cilegon, I
carried more than distance. I carried the lessons of endurance, the memory of
kindness, and the understanding that the road is never truly mine alone and
that you never truly know a person. Sumatra had etched itself into me, a
chapter of struggle and beauty, a reminder that travel is not about escape but
about immersion—into landscapes, into cultures, into the gaze of others, and
into the self that emerges on the far side of hardship.
Ahead lay Java, with its own rhythm,
its own challenges, its own stories waiting to be told. But Sumatra would
remain the island where I learned to endure, to accept, and to be transformed.
