Across
the Archipelago: Indonesia by Bicycle - Sumatra to Bali
INDONESIA (1)
3 Borneo & 4 Sulawesi Island
Borneo Photos
Sulawesi Photos
BORNEO:
Between Mud and Monkeys
Chapter
One: Entering Borneo
The
ferry from Surabaya carved its way across the Java Sea, carrying us into
another world. After twenty-two hours at sea, the riverbanks of Banjarmasin
appeared, lined with stilted wooden houses perched above the water like
sentinels. Life here unfolded on the river—boats gliding past, families
bathing, children playing, laundry flapping in the humid air.
Borneo
was vast, the third-largest island on the planet, shared between Malaysia,
Brunei, and Indonesia. It straddled the equator, split between hemispheres, and
pulsed with heat and humidity. For me, it was not only distance that separated
it from home, but difference: culture, landscape, rhythm.
Docking
at the bustling port, we cycled only a few kilometres before finding a room.
Darkness cloaked the city, but it was alive—voices rising from the streets, the
smell of food drifting through the air. I felt ready to explore. Java was
behind us now, and Borneo stretched ahead, promising rivers, forests, and
challenges unlike any we had yet faced.
Chapter
Two: From Rivers to Clay — Banjarmasin to Margasari
Banjarmasin
was a city of water. Life unfolded along its canals—boats gliding past stilted
homes, families bathing at the river’s edge, children splashing in the
currents. At dawn, we joined the pulse of the city, drifting through the
floating market where women in canoes sold bananas, pineapples, and papayas,
their voices rising in a chorus of trade. The river was not only transport but
livelihood, a place where washing, fishing, and commerce intertwined.
Leaving
the city, we followed a narrow paved road that hugged the canal. It was not the
route marked on our map, but it was alive with curiosity. Villagers watched us
with wary eyes, as if wondering what two foreigners were doing on their quiet
path. Soon, the pavement gave way to gravel, then to clay, and ominous clouds
gathered above.
The
storm broke as we reached the entrance to a coal mine. Rain hammered down, and
we ducked into a security hut, grateful for shelter. Coal dust rained from the
conveyor belt overhead, covering us in black grit. When the downpour eased, we
pressed on, but the path had transformed into a treacherous clay pit. The mud
clung like glue, swallowing wheels and feet alike. I lost a sandal to its
depths, sucked away into the mire.
Progress
was agonising. We pushed our bikes through sludge, slipping and stumbling,
mosquitoes swarming in the humid air. Villagers appeared, lending hands,
helping us drag our bicycles through the muck until firmer ground returned.
Darkness fell, and exhaustion pressed heavy.
At
last, Margasari appeared—a small town startled by the arrival of two
bedraggled, mud-caked foreigners. Seeking shelter, we turned to the police
station. Empty at first, it later filled with officers returning from patrol,
who kindly allowed us to pitch our tents in a dilapidated office. Relief washed
over me. Ernest scrubbed mud from the bikes late into the night, while I
collapsed, grateful simply to be horizontal.
The
ride from Banjarmasin to Margasari was not about distance. It was about
endurance, about the surreal struggle of clay and rain, about the kindness of
strangers who pushed us forward when the road itself seemed determined to hold
us back.
Chapter
Three: The Road Restored — Margasari to Kandangan
Morning
in Margasari began with gratitude. After the surreal struggle through clay and
rain, simply waking to a paved road felt like a blessing. The path wound gently
along a river, through villages where children waved and women smiled from
doorways. The landscape was lush, alive with green, and each kilometre carried
a sense of renewal.
The
ride was short—only fifty-four kilometres—but it felt enchanted. The smooth
surface allowed us to glide, the river shimmered beside us, and the hamlets
seemed to welcome us with quiet charm. After the chaos of mud and mosquitoes,
this was cycling as it was meant to be: rhythm, scenery, and joy.
By
afternoon, Kandangan appeared, a small city with the promise of rest. We found
lodging, simple but sufficient, and surrendered to the luxury of a shower.
Laundry hung drying in the humid air, gear was scrubbed clean, and for the
first time in days, I felt human again.
Yet
even in comfort, the body reminded me of its limits. The skin on my palms had
begun to peel, a strange side effect of the constant wet and grit. I laughed at
the sight—what could possibly be next? Travel had a way of stripping away
vanity, leaving only resilience.
Kandangan
was not remarkable in itself, but it was a milestone. It was proof that
hardship passes, that roads smooth out, that joy can return after struggle. The
mud of Margasari was behind us now, and ahead lay new challenges, new hills,
new discoveries. For the moment, though, Kandangan was enough—a place to rest,
to recover, and to remember the simple miracle of a paved road.
Chapter Four: Hills Without Mercy — Kandangan to
Muarakomam
The road north from Kandangan began gently enough,
winding through villages and riverside hamlets. Breakfast was the usual—fried
rice and a boiled egg, this time from a duck—and the drizzle that fell seemed
harmless. But soon the terrain changed, and the ride became a battle.
The hills were brutal, rising almost vertically, as
if the road had forgotten the art of switchbacks. Each climb demanded every
ounce of strength, lungs burning, legs screaming, sweat pouring in the humid
air. At the summit, the reward was fleeting—a heart-pounding descent that
carried us straight into the next punishing incline. The rhythm was relentless:
climb, gasp, descend, climb again.
Yet beauty softened the struggle. Coffee plants
sprawled across the slopes, their glossy leaves shimmering in the light.
Farmers spread beans to dry along the roadside, the air rich with the promise
of freshly ground coffee. It was a reminder that hardship and delight often
walk hand in hand.
By late afternoon, the small village of Muarakomam
appeared, little more than a handful of houses, a mosque, and a market. To our
surprise, it offered a penginapan—a modest guesthouse, priced steeply for its
simplicity, but a welcome refuge nonetheless.
The day had been exhausting, but it was also
exhilarating. The hills had tested endurance, the descents had flirted with
danger, and the landscape had revealed its quiet treasures. In Muarakomam, I
collapsed into rest, grateful for shelter, for coffee, and for the reminder
that the road, however merciless, always carried its own rewards.
Chapter
Five: The Push to Balikpapan
The
road out of Muarakomam was no gentler than the days before. Hills rose short
but wickedly steep, each ascent demanding grit, each descent plunging us into
valleys where rivers shimmered before the next climb loomed. It was a
relentless rhythm—up, down, up again—until the body felt wrung out, like a
cloth twisted too tight.
One
descent nearly ended in disaster. Flying downhill, exhilarated by speed, I
rounded a corner only to find a truck swerving to avoid a pothole. It missed me
by mere centimetres. My heart raced, breath caught in my throat, and I vowed to
take more care. The road here was beautiful, yes, but it was also merciless.
Kuaro
offered a brief reprieve, a junction town where I called it a day. My legs
screamed for mercy, and rest was the only answer. But the following morning,
the road demanded more. The push to Balikpapan stretched 141 kilometres, a
punishing distance under a scorching sun. Locals assured us the road was
“good,” but their definition differed from ours—potholes, bumps, and more hills
kept appearing, each one stealing strength. Sweat poured until I felt half my
body weight had melted away.
By
late afternoon, the estuary opened wide, Balikpapan visible across the water. A
ferry carried us across, but the day was not yet done. Darkness fell, and the
final twenty kilometres into the city became a battle. The road undulated,
traffic pressed close, and exhaustion gnawed at every pedal stroke.
Balikpapan
greeted us not with ease but with chaos. It was Saturday night, and every hotel
was full. We searched, hungry and parched, nearly giving up before finding a
room—basic, sagging, but blessedly horizontal. Collapsing onto the mattress, I
felt nothing but relief.
The
ride to Balikpapan was one of the most draining days of the journey. It was a
test of endurance, of willpower, of sheer stubbornness. Yet it was also a
reminder: sometimes the hardest days carry the deepest satisfaction, the quiet
triumph of simply arriving.
Chapter
Six: Football Fever and the Road to Samarinda
Balikpapan
was alive with football. South Africa was hosting the World Cup, and even here,
on the far side of the globe, the frenzy was palpable. Streets were clogged
with traffic as crowds gathered in parks to watch matches on giant screens.
Food stalls lined the pavements, police struggled to manage the chaos, and
cheers erupted from cafés with every goal. It was surreal—my homeland at the
centre of the world’s attention, while I stood in Borneo, swept into the same
tide of excitement.
We
lingered in Balikpapan for several days, switching hotels, indulging in hot
showers, air conditioning, and the bliss of rest. My knees ached from the
relentless hills, but with anti-inflammatories and time, strength returned.
Comfort was rare on the road, and here it felt like luxury.
When
we set out again, the road north toward Samarinda was merciless. Hills rose one
after another, each climb punishing, each descent treacherous. The sun blazed,
sweat poured, and traffic pressed close. By nightfall, exhaustion forced us to
stop short of the city, collapsing in a roadside town. The following morning,
Samarinda welcomed us at last—a bustling river port, alive with commerce and
chaos.
But
Samarinda was more than a city. It was a gateway to the interior, to the rivers
and forests that defined Borneo’s heart. Guides appeared at hotel doors, eager
to lead us inland. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and soon we had arranged a
journey upriver, away from the traffic and the hills, into a world where life
floated on water.
Chapter
Seven: Into the Heart of the Rivers
At
dawn, we boarded a long-tailed boat, its canopy shielding us from the sun, its
engine sputtering with a roar that drowned conversation. The waterways opened
wide, a vast lake shimmering like the sea, its colours shifting from brilliant
whites to soft blues. Villages floated on its surface, wooden walkways
connecting homes that bobbed gently in the current. Life here was precarious
yet resilient, balanced on stilts and barges, adapted to the water’s moods.
Storms
rolled in suddenly, thunder cracking, rain lashing down. We sought refuge at a
floating fish depot, where our captain bought prawns for dinner. When the skies
cleared, we pressed on, navigating through floating grass islands that turned
the lake into a puzzle. Fishermen guided us through shifting channels, their
voices carrying across the water.
The
river narrowed, winding through dense forests. Proboscis monkeys appeared,
their long noses comical, their social groups lively. They swung through
branches, always close to the water, their presence a reminder of Borneo’s
wildness. Kingfishers darted, marabou storks loomed ungainly, and the air was
alive with birdsong.
Villages
lined the banks, their houses perched above the water, their toilets dangling
precariously over the river. Women painted their faces with a white paste of
leaves and flour, a local craft shared with pride. Petrol stations, markets,
even furniture shops floated here, proof that life could thrive in the most
improbable places.
Nights
were spent in guesthouses resembling longhouses, echoes of communal living from
generations past. Electricity flickered back, fans whirred, and sleep came
easily after days of laughter, storms, and mosquito bites.
The
inland waterways revealed a world both surreal and ordinary—a place where life
balanced on stilts, where monkeys swung above, where storms reminded us of
fragility, and where kindness flowed as freely as the rivers themselves.
Chapter
Eight: The Crossing to Sulawesi
Returning
to Samarinda after days on the rivers felt almost jarring. The city’s noise and
traffic pressed close again, a stark contrast to the quiet rhythm of floating
villages and monkeys swinging through mangroves. Yet Samarinda was our gateway
onward, and the weekly ferry to Sulawesi was already calling.
Buying
tickets was chaos. The harbour swarmed with people, the sales counters more
like a marketplace than an office. Rumours flew—about delays, about
overcrowding, about the sheer impossibility of fitting everyone aboard. Ernest,
unwell, stayed in bed while I navigated the frenzy, clutching tickets that
promised passage but not comfort.
When
departure day arrived, the schedule was a fiction. The ship was meant to sail
at 11 a.m., but hours passed before we finally boarded. Passengers streamed
aboard in waves, filling every corner until the vessel groaned under their
weight. Rumour said 4,000 people were crammed inside, though the legal capacity
was less than a thousand.
There
were no cabins, no private spaces—only vast open decks where mats were unfurled
shoulder to shoulder. The air was thick, stifling, and hawkers wove through the
crowd selling snacks and trinkets, somehow finding space where none seemed to
exist.
As
night fell, a storm rose. Rain lashed down, waves tossed the ferry like a toy,
and seasickness spread through the crowd. Ernest and I wrapped ourselves in
groundsheets, bracing against the wind on the deck, while inside the ship
became a swirling mass of bodies. Facilities collapsed under the strain,
corners pressed into service for desperate needs.
Yet
amid the chaos, Indonesians remained astonishingly calm. They shared noodles,
played cards, laughed through the discomfort. Their tolerance was remarkable,
their resilience humbling.
The
crossing was not gentle. It was crowded, chaotic, and at times frightening. But
it was also a lesson in endurance, in patience, in the extraordinary resilience
of people who seemed unfazed by hardship.
When
at last the ferry docked in Pare-Pare, Sulawesi, exhaustion washed over me. Yet
beneath it was exhilaration. We had crossed another sea, entered another
island, and the road stretched ahead once more.
SULAWESI: Tongkonan
Houses, Burial Caves and Tau-Tau
Chapter
Nine: Into Sulawesi — Pare-Pare to Enrekang
Sulawesi
unfolded like a twisted orchid, its mountainous peninsulas plunging into the
sea. From the moment we disembarked in Pare-Pare, fatigue mingled with
exhilaration. A new island meant a new rhythm, and the road ahead promised both
beauty and challenge.
The
ride north toward Enrekang was manageable compared to Borneo’s punishing hills.
The terrain undulated gently, offering relief after the chaos of ferries and
the exhaustion of Balikpapan. Villages dotted the roadside, their wooden houses
raised on stilts, orchids blooming wild in the humid air.
Everywhere,
curiosity followed us. Children stared wide-eyed, adults reached out to touch,
laughter rippled as if we were aliens who had landed from another world. Their
fascination was disarming, their hospitality genuine. Coffee was offered,
smiles exchanged, and the road became not just a path through landscape but a
bridge into community.
The
countryside was lush, rolling green hills opening into valleys, rivers glinting
in the sun. Schoolchildren in bright green tracksuits waved from doorways,
their joy infectious. Curtains of shiny pink adorned houses, small details that
spoke of pride and care.
By
evening, Enrekang appeared, nestled in the highlands. The town was modest, but
it offered shelter, food, and rest. After days of ferries, crowds, and chaos,
the ride here felt like a gift—a gentle introduction to Sulawesi’s rugged
beauty.
Enrekang
was not a destination in itself, but a threshold. Ahead lay the highlands of
Tana Toraja, with their boat-shaped houses and ancient traditions. For now,
though, Enrekang was enough: a place to pause, to breathe, and to feel the
warmth of Sulawesi’s welcome.
Chapter Ten: Into Tana Toraja — Makale and Rantepao
The road from Enrekang rose steadily into the
highlands, each turn revealing valleys that plunged deep below, rivers glinting
like silver threads in the distance. The climb was punishing, but the views
were breathtaking, and we paused often—refilling bottles, catching breath, and
simply absorbing the grandeur of Sulawesi’s rugged heart.
Entering Tana Toraja, the landscape shifted into
something extraordinary. Traditional houses appeared, their boat-shaped roofs
rising like prows of ships, adorned with intricate carvings and flanked by
decorated rice barns. These structures were not just homes but symbols,
carrying stories of ancestry and belief, standing proudly against the backdrop
of mountains.
Makale offered rest, a small town nestled among the
hills. Ernest was still unwell, and the pause was welcome. The air was cooler
here, the pace slower, and the architecture itself seemed to whisper of
traditions older than the road we had travelled.
A short ride carried us onward to Rantepao, the
cultural heart of Toraja. Here, we explored Londa, a village famed for its
burial caves. Inside, coffins lay scattered among skulls and bones, the
remnants of generations past. Above, carved wooden figures—tau-tau—stood guard,
dressed in vibrant attire, watching eternally from balconies carved into
cliffs. It was haunting, beautiful, and deeply moving.
Rantepao became a place to pause. We lingered for
two days, resting, watching football, waiting for Ernest’s strength to return.
The town was alive with markets and laughter, yet beneath it all lay the weight
of tradition—the Toraja way of life, where death was not an end but a
continuation, marked by rituals that bound the living to the departed.
Cycling into Tana Toraja was more than a climb into
mountains. It was an ascent into culture, into a world where houses rose like
ships, where ancestors watched from cliffs, and where the road itself seemed to
carry stories as old as the land.
Chapter
Eleven: Descent to the Coast — Rantepao to Larompong
Leaving
Rantepao, the road plunged downward, a long-awaited descent from the Toraja
highlands. Yet it was no gentle glide. Thick clouds cloaked the mountaintop,
reducing visibility to a few metres. The road was broken in places, potholes
yawning like traps, and each curve demanded caution. What should have been
exhilarating was instead precarious, a reminder that descent can be as
punishing as ascent.
Villages
lined the way, their rice barns painted in bright colours, their houses adorned
with boat-shaped roofs that seemed to carry the spirit of Toraja even as we
left its heartland behind. Children waved, laughter carried through the mist,
and despite the danger, the ride felt alive with authenticity.
By
the time we reached Palopo, the coast was near. The town offered a guesthouse
by the central market, a modest refuge after the tense descent. Rest came
easily, the relief of arrival washing over me.
The
following day, the road smoothed out, rolling gently along the coastline.
Sun-dried produce lined the roadside—cocoa beans, coffee, fish, rice, and
seaweed spread out in fragrant mosaics. The air was saturated with the scent of
cloves, a perfume so distinct that I knew it would forever transport me back to
Indonesia.
Larompong
appeared as a sleepy coastal town, its beach hotel once elegant but now faded,
whispering of former glory. We had the place to ourselves, though soon curious
townsfolk gathered, peering at the two foreigners with friendly fascination.
Their warmth turned neglect into charm, and the evening passed in quiet
delight.
The
descent from Rantepao to Larompong was more than a change in altitude. It was a
passage from mountains to coast, from mist to fragrance, from danger to
delight. It carried the essence of Sulawesi’s contrasts—rugged and gentle,
perilous and welcoming, always alive with surprise.
Chapter
Twelve: Tailwinds and Kindness — Larompong to Pare-Pare
The 123
km ride from Larompong to Sidenreng was a gift. After days of climbs and
descents, the landscape softened into rolling countryside, and a tailwind
carried us forward with ease. Villages shimmered in the sun, their houses
adorned with shiny pink curtains, their children dressed in bright green school
tracksuits. Laughter rang out as we passed, and the ride felt light, joyful,
almost effortless.
Then,
just before Sidenreng, the rhythm broke. Ernest’s bicycle chain snapped,
leaving us stranded by the roadside. He bent to the task, hands blackened with
grease, determination etched on his face. Miraculously, he fixed it quickly,
but in the meantime, kindness arrived.
A
woman from a nearby house appeared, carrying coffee and cake. Children
gathered, wide-eyed, curious at the sight of two foreign cyclists. Their
fascination was unfiltered, their smiles infectious. Conversation flowed,
laughter mingled with the scent of cloves drifting from the fields, and what
could have been became delight.
The
World Cup was underway in South Africa, and when the children learned where we
were from, their eyes lit up. They broke into song—“Wave Your Flag”—the anthem
of the tournament, their voices rising in chorus. It was surreal, standing in a
small Sulawesi village, hearing echoes of home carried on the voices of
children who had never seen it but knew its name.
The
following day we rolled into Pare-Pare early as the distance was only 30 km.
The day had been easy, filled with joy—tailwinds, laughter and kindness. It was
a reminder that travel is not only about landscapes and distances.
Chapter
Thirteen: Coastal Roads and Makassar’s Chaos
Contrary
to our expectations, the road didn’t follow the coast. Unfortunately, our map
betrayed us, showing little to no signs of the villages. Ernest was still
unwell, his strength faltering. He considered stopping early, but the villages
offered no lodging, and we had no choice but to press on. After 113 km, we
reached Pancep, where a guesthouse stood waiting. Its reputation was
dubious—rooms rented by the hour—but the locals were warm, and the shelter was
welcome.
The
following day, the road carried us into Makassar. Traffic thickened, horns
blared, and the city’s chaos pressed close. After days of coastal serenity, the
sudden crush of humanity was overwhelming. Yet Makassar was also
vibrant—markets alive with colour, bicycle rickshaws weaving through streets,
and the old fort standing as a reminder of history layered upon history.
We
settled into a backpacker’s hostel, waiting for the ferry back to Java. Days
passed in exploration—cafés, shopping centres, the fort, the crowded streets.
The city was alive, restless, and unyielding.
Makassar
was not gentle, but it was fascinating. It marked the end of Sulawesi’s ride, a
place where illness lingered, where traffic roared, and where history and
modernity collided in a cacophony of sound and colour.
The
road had carried us across mountains and coasts, through villages and markets,
into burial caves and fragrant fields. Now it ended here, in Makassar, where
the sea waited once more to carry us onward.
Chapter
Fourteen: Return to Java — Makassar to Surabaya
For
five days, we lingered, waiting for the weekly ferry that would carry us back
to Java. The hours dragged—check-out at noon, boarding not until evening—and we
filled the time wandering cafés, shopping centres, and the old fort, soaking in
the city’s pulse.
When
at last, the ship arrived, the chaos began. Boarding was a crush of humanity,
bicycles squeezed into corners, mats unfurled across every inch of floor. What
seemed like a quiet space near the door quickly filled, passengers spilling
into stairwells and passageways until the vessel resembled a sardine tin.
The
journey was long, crowded, and at times surreal. Indonesians displayed
astonishing tolerance, their patience unshaken by queues for food or toilets.
They shared instant noodles, played cards, and laughed through discomfort. Even
when the ship’s engine faltered and we drifted aimlessly on open waters, they
remained unfazed, carrying on as if delay were simply part of the rhythm of
travel.
Yet
the crossing revealed harsher truths. Meals came in polystyrene containers,
plastic wrappers piled high, and at night the crew opened a hatch and dumped
the refuse into the sea. I watched in disbelief as the ocean swallowed the
waste as if it were nothing. Still, passengers carried on, showering often,
fragrant flowers steeped in water to keep them fresh and clean amid the crush.
The
ferry was not comfortable, but it was unforgettable. It was a lesson in
endurance, in patience, in the resilience of people who seemed to accept
hardship with grace.
When
Surabaya’s lights finally appeared, exhaustion mingled with relief. Java
awaited once more—its chaos familiar, its density unyielding. The road would
continue, but the memory of Sulawesi lingered, carried across the sea in
laughter, resilience, and the quiet triumph of arrival.
BORNEO: Between Mud and Monkeys
Chapter One: Entering Borneo
The
ferry from Surabaya carved its way across the Java Sea, carrying us into
another world. After twenty-two hours at sea, the riverbanks of Banjarmasin
appeared, lined with stilted wooden houses perched above the water like
sentinels. Life here unfolded on the river—boats gliding past, families
bathing, children playing, laundry flapping in the humid air.
Borneo
was vast, the third-largest island on the planet, shared between Malaysia,
Brunei, and Indonesia. It straddled the equator, split between hemispheres, and
pulsed with heat and humidity. For me, it was not only distance that separated
it from home, but difference: culture, landscape, rhythm.
Docking
at the bustling port, we cycled only a few kilometres before finding a room.
Darkness cloaked the city, but it was alive—voices rising from the streets, the
smell of food drifting through the air. I felt ready to explore. Java was
behind us now, and Borneo stretched ahead, promising rivers, forests, and
challenges unlike any we had yet faced.
Chapter
Two: From Rivers to Clay — Banjarmasin to Margasari
Banjarmasin
was a city of water. Life unfolded along its canals—boats gliding past stilted
homes, families bathing at the river’s edge, children splashing in the
currents. At dawn, we joined the pulse of the city, drifting through the
floating market where women in canoes sold bananas, pineapples, and papayas,
their voices rising in a chorus of trade. The river was not only transport but
livelihood, a place where washing, fishing, and commerce intertwined.
Leaving
the city, we followed a narrow paved road that hugged the canal. It was not the
route marked on our map, but it was alive with curiosity. Villagers watched us
with wary eyes, as if wondering what two foreigners were doing on their quiet
path. Soon, the pavement gave way to gravel, then to clay, and ominous clouds
gathered above.
The
storm broke as we reached the entrance to a coal mine. Rain hammered down, and
we ducked into a security hut, grateful for shelter. Coal dust rained from the
conveyor belt overhead, covering us in black grit. When the downpour eased, we
pressed on, but the path had transformed into a treacherous clay pit. The mud
clung like glue, swallowing wheels and feet alike. I lost a sandal to its
depths, sucked away into the mire.
Progress
was agonising. We pushed our bikes through sludge, slipping and stumbling,
mosquitoes swarming in the humid air. Villagers appeared, lending hands,
helping us drag our bicycles through the muck until firmer ground returned.
Darkness fell, and exhaustion pressed heavy.
At
last, Margasari appeared—a small town startled by the arrival of two
bedraggled, mud-caked foreigners. Seeking shelter, we turned to the police
station. Empty at first, it later filled with officers returning from patrol,
who kindly allowed us to pitch our tents in a dilapidated office. Relief washed
over me. Ernest scrubbed mud from the bikes late into the night, while I
collapsed, grateful simply to be horizontal.
The
ride from Banjarmasin to Margasari was not about distance. It was about
endurance, about the surreal struggle of clay and rain, about the kindness of
strangers who pushed us forward when the road itself seemed determined to hold
us back.
Chapter
Three: The Road Restored — Margasari to Kandangan
Morning
in Margasari began with gratitude. After the surreal struggle through clay and
rain, simply waking to a paved road felt like a blessing. The path wound gently
along a river, through villages where children waved and women smiled from
doorways. The landscape was lush, alive with green, and each kilometre carried
a sense of renewal.
The
ride was short—only fifty-four kilometres—but it felt enchanted. The smooth
surface allowed us to glide, the river shimmered beside us, and the hamlets
seemed to welcome us with quiet charm. After the chaos of mud and mosquitoes,
this was cycling as it was meant to be: rhythm, scenery, and joy.
By
afternoon, Kandangan appeared, a small city with the promise of rest. We found
lodging, simple but sufficient, and surrendered to the luxury of a shower.
Laundry hung drying in the humid air, gear was scrubbed clean, and for the
first time in days, I felt human again.
Yet
even in comfort, the body reminded me of its limits. The skin on my palms had
begun to peel, a strange side effect of the constant wet and grit. I laughed at
the sight—what could possibly be next? Travel had a way of stripping away
vanity, leaving only resilience.
Kandangan
was not remarkable in itself, but it was a milestone. It was proof that
hardship passes, that roads smooth out, that joy can return after struggle. The
mud of Margasari was behind us now, and ahead lay new challenges, new hills,
new discoveries. For the moment, though, Kandangan was enough—a place to rest,
to recover, and to remember the simple miracle of a paved road.
Chapter Four: Hills Without Mercy — Kandangan to
Muarakomam
The road north from Kandangan began gently enough,
winding through villages and riverside hamlets. Breakfast was the usual—fried
rice and a boiled egg, this time from a duck—and the drizzle that fell seemed
harmless. But soon the terrain changed, and the ride became a battle.
The hills were brutal, rising almost vertically, as
if the road had forgotten the art of switchbacks. Each climb demanded every
ounce of strength, lungs burning, legs screaming, sweat pouring in the humid
air. At the summit, the reward was fleeting—a heart-pounding descent that
carried us straight into the next punishing incline. The rhythm was relentless:
climb, gasp, descend, climb again.
Yet beauty softened the struggle. Coffee plants
sprawled across the slopes, their glossy leaves shimmering in the light.
Farmers spread beans to dry along the roadside, the air rich with the promise
of freshly ground coffee. It was a reminder that hardship and delight often
walk hand in hand.
By late afternoon, the small village of Muarakomam
appeared, little more than a handful of houses, a mosque, and a market. To our
surprise, it offered a penginapan—a modest guesthouse, priced steeply for its
simplicity, but a welcome refuge nonetheless.
The day had been exhausting, but it was also
exhilarating. The hills had tested endurance, the descents had flirted with
danger, and the landscape had revealed its quiet treasures. In Muarakomam, I
collapsed into rest, grateful for shelter, for coffee, and for the reminder
that the road, however merciless, always carried its own rewards.
Chapter
Five: The Push to Balikpapan
The
road out of Muarakomam was no gentler than the days before. Hills rose short
but wickedly steep, each ascent demanding grit, each descent plunging us into
valleys where rivers shimmered before the next climb loomed. It was a
relentless rhythm—up, down, up again—until the body felt wrung out, like a
cloth twisted too tight.
One
descent nearly ended in disaster. Flying downhill, exhilarated by speed, I
rounded a corner only to find a truck swerving to avoid a pothole. It missed me
by mere centimetres. My heart raced, breath caught in my throat, and I vowed to
take more care. The road here was beautiful, yes, but it was also merciless.
Kuaro
offered a brief reprieve, a junction town where I called it a day. My legs
screamed for mercy, and rest was the only answer. But the following morning,
the road demanded more. The push to Balikpapan stretched 141 kilometres, a
punishing distance under a scorching sun. Locals assured us the road was
“good,” but their definition differed from ours—potholes, bumps, and more hills
kept appearing, each one stealing strength. Sweat poured until I felt half my
body weight had melted away.
By
late afternoon, the estuary opened wide, Balikpapan visible across the water. A
ferry carried us across, but the day was not yet done. Darkness fell, and the
final twenty kilometres into the city became a battle. The road undulated,
traffic pressed close, and exhaustion gnawed at every pedal stroke.
Balikpapan
greeted us not with ease but with chaos. It was Saturday night, and every hotel
was full. We searched, hungry and parched, nearly giving up before finding a
room—basic, sagging, but blessedly horizontal. Collapsing onto the mattress, I
felt nothing but relief.
The
ride to Balikpapan was one of the most draining days of the journey. It was a
test of endurance, of willpower, of sheer stubbornness. Yet it was also a
reminder: sometimes the hardest days carry the deepest satisfaction, the quiet
triumph of simply arriving.
Chapter
Six: Football Fever and the Road to Samarinda
Balikpapan
was alive with football. South Africa was hosting the World Cup, and even here,
on the far side of the globe, the frenzy was palpable. Streets were clogged
with traffic as crowds gathered in parks to watch matches on giant screens.
Food stalls lined the pavements, police struggled to manage the chaos, and
cheers erupted from cafés with every goal. It was surreal—my homeland at the
centre of the world’s attention, while I stood in Borneo, swept into the same
tide of excitement.
We
lingered in Balikpapan for several days, switching hotels, indulging in hot
showers, air conditioning, and the bliss of rest. My knees ached from the
relentless hills, but with anti-inflammatories and time, strength returned.
Comfort was rare on the road, and here it felt like luxury.
When
we set out again, the road north toward Samarinda was merciless. Hills rose one
after another, each climb punishing, each descent treacherous. The sun blazed,
sweat poured, and traffic pressed close. By nightfall, exhaustion forced us to
stop short of the city, collapsing in a roadside town. The following morning,
Samarinda welcomed us at last—a bustling river port, alive with commerce and
chaos.
But
Samarinda was more than a city. It was a gateway to the interior, to the rivers
and forests that defined Borneo’s heart. Guides appeared at hotel doors, eager
to lead us inland. Their enthusiasm was infectious, and soon we had arranged a
journey upriver, away from the traffic and the hills, into a world where life
floated on water.
Chapter
Seven: Into the Heart of the Rivers
At
dawn, we boarded a long-tailed boat, its canopy shielding us from the sun, its
engine sputtering with a roar that drowned conversation. The waterways opened
wide, a vast lake shimmering like the sea, its colours shifting from brilliant
whites to soft blues. Villages floated on its surface, wooden walkways
connecting homes that bobbed gently in the current. Life here was precarious
yet resilient, balanced on stilts and barges, adapted to the water’s moods.
Storms
rolled in suddenly, thunder cracking, rain lashing down. We sought refuge at a
floating fish depot, where our captain bought prawns for dinner. When the skies
cleared, we pressed on, navigating through floating grass islands that turned
the lake into a puzzle. Fishermen guided us through shifting channels, their
voices carrying across the water.
The
river narrowed, winding through dense forests. Proboscis monkeys appeared,
their long noses comical, their social groups lively. They swung through
branches, always close to the water, their presence a reminder of Borneo’s
wildness. Kingfishers darted, marabou storks loomed ungainly, and the air was
alive with birdsong.
Villages
lined the banks, their houses perched above the water, their toilets dangling
precariously over the river. Women painted their faces with a white paste of
leaves and flour, a local craft shared with pride. Petrol stations, markets,
even furniture shops floated here, proof that life could thrive in the most
improbable places.
Nights
were spent in guesthouses resembling longhouses, echoes of communal living from
generations past. Electricity flickered back, fans whirred, and sleep came
easily after days of laughter, storms, and mosquito bites.
The
inland waterways revealed a world both surreal and ordinary—a place where life
balanced on stilts, where monkeys swung above, where storms reminded us of
fragility, and where kindness flowed as freely as the rivers themselves.
Chapter
Eight: The Crossing to Sulawesi
Returning
to Samarinda after days on the rivers felt almost jarring. The city’s noise and
traffic pressed close again, a stark contrast to the quiet rhythm of floating
villages and monkeys swinging through mangroves. Yet Samarinda was our gateway
onward, and the weekly ferry to Sulawesi was already calling.
Buying
tickets was chaos. The harbour swarmed with people, the sales counters more
like a marketplace than an office. Rumours flew—about delays, about
overcrowding, about the sheer impossibility of fitting everyone aboard. Ernest,
unwell, stayed in bed while I navigated the frenzy, clutching tickets that
promised passage but not comfort.
When
departure day arrived, the schedule was a fiction. The ship was meant to sail
at 11 a.m., but hours passed before we finally boarded. Passengers streamed
aboard in waves, filling every corner until the vessel groaned under their
weight. Rumour said 4,000 people were crammed inside, though the legal capacity
was less than a thousand.
There
were no cabins, no private spaces—only vast open decks where mats were unfurled
shoulder to shoulder. The air was thick, stifling, and hawkers wove through the
crowd selling snacks and trinkets, somehow finding space where none seemed to
exist.
As
night fell, a storm rose. Rain lashed down, waves tossed the ferry like a toy,
and seasickness spread through the crowd. Ernest and I wrapped ourselves in
groundsheets, bracing against the wind on the deck, while inside the ship
became a swirling mass of bodies. Facilities collapsed under the strain,
corners pressed into service for desperate needs.
Yet
amid the chaos, Indonesians remained astonishingly calm. They shared noodles,
played cards, laughed through the discomfort. Their tolerance was remarkable,
their resilience humbling.
The
crossing was not gentle. It was crowded, chaotic, and at times frightening. But
it was also a lesson in endurance, in patience, in the extraordinary resilience
of people who seemed unfazed by hardship.
When
at last the ferry docked in Pare-Pare, Sulawesi, exhaustion washed over me. Yet
beneath it was exhilaration. We had crossed another sea, entered another
island, and the road stretched ahead once more.
SULAWESI: Tongkonan
Houses, Burial Caves and Tau-Tau
Chapter
Nine: Into Sulawesi — Pare-Pare to Enrekang
Sulawesi
unfolded like a twisted orchid, its mountainous peninsulas plunging into the
sea. From the moment we disembarked in Pare-Pare, fatigue mingled with
exhilaration. A new island meant a new rhythm, and the road ahead promised both
beauty and challenge.
The
ride north toward Enrekang was manageable compared to Borneo’s punishing hills.
The terrain undulated gently, offering relief after the chaos of ferries and
the exhaustion of Balikpapan. Villages dotted the roadside, their wooden houses
raised on stilts, orchids blooming wild in the humid air.
Everywhere,
curiosity followed us. Children stared wide-eyed, adults reached out to touch,
laughter rippled as if we were aliens who had landed from another world. Their
fascination was disarming, their hospitality genuine. Coffee was offered,
smiles exchanged, and the road became not just a path through landscape but a
bridge into community.
The
countryside was lush, rolling green hills opening into valleys, rivers glinting
in the sun. Schoolchildren in bright green tracksuits waved from doorways,
their joy infectious. Curtains of shiny pink adorned houses, small details that
spoke of pride and care.
By
evening, Enrekang appeared, nestled in the highlands. The town was modest, but
it offered shelter, food, and rest. After days of ferries, crowds, and chaos,
the ride here felt like a gift—a gentle introduction to Sulawesi’s rugged
beauty.
Enrekang
was not a destination in itself, but a threshold. Ahead lay the highlands of
Tana Toraja, with their boat-shaped houses and ancient traditions. For now,
though, Enrekang was enough: a place to pause, to breathe, and to feel the
warmth of Sulawesi’s welcome.
Chapter Ten: Into Tana Toraja — Makale and Rantepao
The road from Enrekang rose steadily into the
highlands, each turn revealing valleys that plunged deep below, rivers glinting
like silver threads in the distance. The climb was punishing, but the views
were breathtaking, and we paused often—refilling bottles, catching breath, and
simply absorbing the grandeur of Sulawesi’s rugged heart.
Entering Tana Toraja, the landscape shifted into
something extraordinary. Traditional houses appeared, their boat-shaped roofs
rising like prows of ships, adorned with intricate carvings and flanked by
decorated rice barns. These structures were not just homes but symbols,
carrying stories of ancestry and belief, standing proudly against the backdrop
of mountains.
Makale offered rest, a small town nestled among the
hills. Ernest was still unwell, and the pause was welcome. The air was cooler
here, the pace slower, and the architecture itself seemed to whisper of
traditions older than the road we had travelled.
A short ride carried us onward to Rantepao, the
cultural heart of Toraja. Here, we explored Londa, a village famed for its
burial caves. Inside, coffins lay scattered among skulls and bones, the
remnants of generations past. Above, carved wooden figures—tau-tau—stood guard,
dressed in vibrant attire, watching eternally from balconies carved into
cliffs. It was haunting, beautiful, and deeply moving.
Rantepao became a place to pause. We lingered for
two days, resting, watching football, waiting for Ernest’s strength to return.
The town was alive with markets and laughter, yet beneath it all lay the weight
of tradition—the Toraja way of life, where death was not an end but a
continuation, marked by rituals that bound the living to the departed.
Cycling into Tana Toraja was more than a climb into
mountains. It was an ascent into culture, into a world where houses rose like
ships, where ancestors watched from cliffs, and where the road itself seemed to
carry stories as old as the land.
Chapter
Eleven: Descent to the Coast — Rantepao to Larompong
Leaving
Rantepao, the road plunged downward, a long-awaited descent from the Toraja
highlands. Yet it was no gentle glide. Thick clouds cloaked the mountaintop,
reducing visibility to a few metres. The road was broken in places, potholes
yawning like traps, and each curve demanded caution. What should have been
exhilarating was instead precarious, a reminder that descent can be as
punishing as ascent.
Villages
lined the way, their rice barns painted in bright colours, their houses adorned
with boat-shaped roofs that seemed to carry the spirit of Toraja even as we
left its heartland behind. Children waved, laughter carried through the mist,
and despite the danger, the ride felt alive with authenticity.
By
the time we reached Palopo, the coast was near. The town offered a guesthouse
by the central market, a modest refuge after the tense descent. Rest came
easily, the relief of arrival washing over me.
The
following day, the road smoothed out, rolling gently along the coastline.
Sun-dried produce lined the roadside—cocoa beans, coffee, fish, rice, and
seaweed spread out in fragrant mosaics. The air was saturated with the scent of
cloves, a perfume so distinct that I knew it would forever transport me back to
Indonesia.
Larompong
appeared as a sleepy coastal town, its beach hotel once elegant but now faded,
whispering of former glory. We had the place to ourselves, though soon curious
townsfolk gathered, peering at the two foreigners with friendly fascination.
Their warmth turned neglect into charm, and the evening passed in quiet
delight.
The
descent from Rantepao to Larompong was more than a change in altitude. It was a
passage from mountains to coast, from mist to fragrance, from danger to
delight. It carried the essence of Sulawesi’s contrasts—rugged and gentle,
perilous and welcoming, always alive with surprise.
Chapter
Twelve: Tailwinds and Kindness — Larompong to Pare-Pare
The 123
km ride from Larompong to Sidenreng was a gift. After days of climbs and
descents, the landscape softened into rolling countryside, and a tailwind
carried us forward with ease. Villages shimmered in the sun, their houses
adorned with shiny pink curtains, their children dressed in bright green school
tracksuits. Laughter rang out as we passed, and the ride felt light, joyful,
almost effortless.
Then,
just before Sidenreng, the rhythm broke. Ernest’s bicycle chain snapped,
leaving us stranded by the roadside. He bent to the task, hands blackened with
grease, determination etched on his face. Miraculously, he fixed it quickly,
but in the meantime, kindness arrived.
A
woman from a nearby house appeared, carrying coffee and cake. Children
gathered, wide-eyed, curious at the sight of two foreign cyclists. Their
fascination was unfiltered, their smiles infectious. Conversation flowed,
laughter mingled with the scent of cloves drifting from the fields, and what
could have been became delight.
The
World Cup was underway in South Africa, and when the children learned where we
were from, their eyes lit up. They broke into song—“Wave Your Flag”—the anthem
of the tournament, their voices rising in chorus. It was surreal, standing in a
small Sulawesi village, hearing echoes of home carried on the voices of
children who had never seen it but knew its name.
The
following day we rolled into Pare-Pare early as the distance was only 30 km.
The day had been easy, filled with joy—tailwinds, laughter and kindness. It was
a reminder that travel is not only about landscapes and distances.
Chapter
Thirteen: Coastal Roads and Makassar’s Chaos
Contrary
to our expectations, the road didn’t follow the coast. Unfortunately, our map
betrayed us, showing little to no signs of the villages. Ernest was still
unwell, his strength faltering. He considered stopping early, but the villages
offered no lodging, and we had no choice but to press on. After 113 km, we
reached Pancep, where a guesthouse stood waiting. Its reputation was
dubious—rooms rented by the hour—but the locals were warm, and the shelter was
welcome.
The
following day, the road carried us into Makassar. Traffic thickened, horns
blared, and the city’s chaos pressed close. After days of coastal serenity, the
sudden crush of humanity was overwhelming. Yet Makassar was also
vibrant—markets alive with colour, bicycle rickshaws weaving through streets,
and the old fort standing as a reminder of history layered upon history.
We
settled into a backpacker’s hostel, waiting for the ferry back to Java. Days
passed in exploration—cafés, shopping centres, the fort, the crowded streets.
The city was alive, restless, and unyielding.
Makassar
was not gentle, but it was fascinating. It marked the end of Sulawesi’s ride, a
place where illness lingered, where traffic roared, and where history and
modernity collided in a cacophony of sound and colour.
The
road had carried us across mountains and coasts, through villages and markets,
into burial caves and fragrant fields. Now it ended here, in Makassar, where
the sea waited once more to carry us onward.
Chapter
Fourteen: Return to Java — Makassar to Surabaya
For
five days, we lingered, waiting for the weekly ferry that would carry us back
to Java. The hours dragged—check-out at noon, boarding not until evening—and we
filled the time wandering cafés, shopping centres, and the old fort, soaking in
the city’s pulse.
When
at last, the ship arrived, the chaos began. Boarding was a crush of humanity,
bicycles squeezed into corners, mats unfurled across every inch of floor. What
seemed like a quiet space near the door quickly filled, passengers spilling
into stairwells and passageways until the vessel resembled a sardine tin.
The
journey was long, crowded, and at times surreal. Indonesians displayed
astonishing tolerance, their patience unshaken by queues for food or toilets.
They shared instant noodles, played cards, and laughed through discomfort. Even
when the ship’s engine faltered and we drifted aimlessly on open waters, they
remained unfazed, carrying on as if delay were simply part of the rhythm of
travel.
Yet
the crossing revealed harsher truths. Meals came in polystyrene containers,
plastic wrappers piled high, and at night the crew opened a hatch and dumped
the refuse into the sea. I watched in disbelief as the ocean swallowed the
waste as if it were nothing. Still, passengers carried on, showering often,
fragrant flowers steeped in water to keep them fresh and clean amid the crush.
The
ferry was not comfortable, but it was unforgettable. It was a lesson in
endurance, in patience, in the resilience of people who seemed to accept
hardship with grace.
When
Surabaya’s lights finally appeared, exhaustion mingled with relief. Java
awaited once more—its chaos familiar, its density unyielding. The road would
continue, but the memory of Sulawesi lingered, carried across the sea in
laughter, resilience, and the quiet triumph of arrival.
