Across
the Archipelago: Indonesia by Bicycle - Sumatra to Bali
2 JAVA
1,215 Kilometres – 44 Days
20 March 2010 - 3 June 2010
Java: Traffic, Temples, and Tailwinds
Chapter One: Entering Java
The ferry from Sumatra to Java was pure Indonesian
theatre. Karaoke singers belted out ballads, vendors hawked instant noodles and
deep-fried tofu, and staff worked frantically on one of the engines—bits of
machinery scattered across the deck, smoke billowing from below. No one seemed
concerned. Sea traffic was as chaotic as the roads, ships passing dangerously
close, horns blaring in the humid air. Landing at Merak, we rolled straight
into Java’s pulse.
Chapter Two: Cilegon to Tangerang
If Sumatra had been a long, drawn-out village, Java
revealed itself as a long, drawn-out city. From the moment we rolled off the
ferry at Merak, the road never left the sprawl. Traffic pressed in from every
side—buses, trucks, motorbikes, and scooters weaving in chaotic choreography.
Yet, unlike Sumatra’s wild unpredictability, drivers here seemed oddly attuned
to cyclists, swerving with precision, as if aware of our fragility.
Barely fifteen kilometres brought us to Cilegon,
where accommodation tucked beneath shady trees offered respite. It was a gentle
pause before plunging deeper into the island’s density. Java was
different—busier, louder, more compressed. The road ahead promised not
wilderness but humanity in its most concentrated form.
The next morning, our ride to Tangerang stretched
ninety-one kilometres, and not once did the road clear. Rain fell in bursts,
soaking us three times over until we finally surrendered, searching for
shelter. Hotels were elusive, many full or unwilling to host two scruffy, dripping
cyclists. Perhaps they feared our wet clothes staining their polished tiles.
Eventually, we found a room, grateful for walls and dryness.
Along the way, resourcefulness revealed itself in
unexpected forms. One man had converted his bicycle into a mobile sewing
machine workshop, pedalling door to door to mend clothes. His ingenuity
impressed me—if the mountain wouldn’t come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go
to the mountain. Java was crowded, yes, but it was also alive with invention.
Chapter Three: Into Jakarta
From Tangerang, a mere thirty kilometres carried us
into Jakarta, aided by a tailwind that blew us straight into the city centre.
Dust clouds, cardboard boxes, and plastic bags whirled around us as we wove
through thousands of motorbikes and taxis. The chaos was overwhelming yet
exhilarating.
Freedom Square marked our arrival, its vast expanse
a symbol of the capital’s pulse. From there, we threaded into Jalan Jaksa, the
backpacker enclave, where the Borneo Hostel offered a bed at the right price.
Ernest, hyperactive as ever, washed the bicycles and his gear, buzzing with
energy while I sought quiet.
Jakarta was a city of contrasts. To the north lay
remnants of Batavia, the old Dutch port, where wooden fishing vessels still
loaded cargo along rickety gangplanks. The fish market nearby was a sensory
assault—open sewers spilling into canals, cats and rats darting freely,
homeless families squatting in corners. The smell was overpowering, yet it was
life in its rawest form.
To the south stretched modern Jakarta—high-rise
towers, shopping centres, bumper-to-bumper traffic. Between these worlds,
protests erupted outside parliament, Islamic students chanting against Obama’s
upcoming visit. Yet the demonstrations emptied the streets, leaving them eerily
quiet, and for once, wandering Jakarta felt leisurely.
Jakarta was not a place to linger, yet linger we
did. A week passed before I realised we were still there, caught between
Ernest’s reluctance to move on and the city’s strange magnetism. It was
chaotic, exhausting, and yet unforgettable—the beating heart of Java, where
history, modernity, and protest collided in the humid air.
Chapter Four: Bogor and the Pass
The road south from Jakarta was a ribbon of
congestion. Buses, trucks, and motorbikes pressed in from every side, and the
air was thick with exhaust. Yet Bogor, the City of Rain, offered a reprieve.
Its famed botanical gardens—Kebun Raya—were a sanctuary of green, a living
museum of palms and orchids, a place where the chaos of Java seemed to dissolve
into birdsong and shade. Wandering among 12,000 plant specimens, I felt the
rare joy of stillness, of being enveloped by nature in the heart of a city.
From Bogor, the road climbed toward the volcanic
slopes of the Puncak Pass. Tea plantations spread across the hillsides in neat,
emerald rows, their terraces curving with the land. The ascent was long,
steady, and beautiful, each turn revealing vistas of mountains layered in mist.
It was the kind of climb that demanded patience but rewarded us with grandeur.
Then disaster struck. Running down a wet concrete
ramp to inspect a possible overnight spot, I slipped. Pain shot through me
instantly, my body shaking uncontrollably. I knew something was wrong. Ernest’s
irritation was palpable—this was not part of his plan. Yet reluctantly, he
accompanied me by taxi in search of medical help.
X-rays revealed a dislocated shoulder and two
fractures. The hospital was unequipped for further treatment, sending me onward
to Cianjur. But the specialist was away, and the night was spent in pain, my
arm strapped with an old T-shirt, painkillers dulling the edges. Ernest’s
impatience stung—he was free to continue, yet his resentment hung heavy.
The following day, Ernest saddled up and continued
to Bandung, while I tried to arrange transport there, only to find it brought
more frustration. My bank card jammed in an ATM, and though retrieved after
much rigmarole, the incident felt like an insult piled upon injury. By the time
I reached Bandung, my arm had swollen to twice its size, burning with fire.
Another hospital visit offered little more than a sling and medication as I
dismissed their recommendations of surgery. I wasn’t ready to surrender to the
knife.
The journey had shifted. What had been a test of
endurance on the road became a test of vulnerability off it. The Puncak Pass
had offered beauty, but it had also stripped me bare, reminding me that travel
is not only about landscapes and distances—it is about fragility, about
learning to endure when the body itself falters.
Chapter Five: Bandung and the Return Home
Bandung was meant to be a waypoint, a city of
culture and history, but for me it became a place of frustration. Cycling was
out of the question. The road, once my companion, now felt impossibly distant.
Even simple tasks—lifting a bag, cooking noodles—became ordeals. Vulnerability
pressed hard, and with it came frustration. Ernest’s impatience only deepened
the wound. He was free to continue, yet his resentment hung heavy, as if my
accident had inconvenienced him more than it had broken me.
My decision to visit South Africa wasn’t easy, but
it was better than sitting around doing nothing. I left my belongings at the
hotel, trusting they would be there when I returned, and booked a flight home.
The journey itself was miserable—hours of buses, airports, and air sickness,
pain gnawing at me with every movement. By the time I landed in Cape Town, I
was exhausted, broken, and relieved all at once.
Home was balm. Sisters welcomed me, Amanda, into her
home; Karin served wine and macaroni cheese; I could hug my mum; and Erica
carted me all over the city. Laughter filled the spaces where pain had lived.
Parties, pizzas, and familiar comforts softened the edges of injury. For five
weeks, I rested, healed, and remembered what it felt like to belong. Yet even
in comfort, the road called.
The pause was a low point, yes, but it was also a
reminder: journeys are not only about distance covered. They are about
resilience, about knowing when to stop, when to heal, and when to begin again.
When I finally boarded the plane back to Indonesia,
I carried more than luggage. I carried the weight of fragility, the memory of
kindness, and the determination to continue. The road had broken me, but it had
not ended me. Java still waited, and I was ready to return.
Chapter Six: Return to the Road — Bandung to
Tasikmalaya
Returning to Bandung after weeks in South Africa
felt surreal. The bags were still there, dusty but intact, waiting as if no
time had passed. Yet everything had changed. My body was weaker, my confidence
shaken, and the road ahead loomed with uncertainty.
Ernest and I set out late, tangled in errands at
the bike shop—new gears fitted, racks adjusted, bolts tightened. By the time we
finally rolled out of the city, traffic was already a snarl. Buses, trucks,
motorbikes, and scooters clogged every lane, horns blaring, exhaust thick in
the air. Progress was slow, barely forty-six kilometres by dusk. Rain began to
fall, heavy drops splattering against the tin roof of a dubious guesthouse. The
walls were mould-stained, the rooms windowless, and the clientele transient.
Judging by the sounds from neighbouring rooms, the place was rented by the
hour. We cooked noodles, drank Bintang beer, and laughed at the absurdity of it
all.
The next morning, relief came in the form of
escape. Leaving Cicalengka, the road climbed into the mountains. My legs
protested—I hadn’t cycled in weeks—but slowly the rhythm returned. Hills rose
steep and steady, rainstorms swept in like clockwork, and we sheltered at
petrol stations, waiting for the worst to pass.
By late afternoon, drizzle lingered, visibility
poor, the road more river than asphalt. Potholes brimmed with water, traffic
pressed close, and every pedal stroke felt precarious. Ten kilometres before
Tasikmalaya, Ernest spotted a hotel, and we pulled in gratefully.
Tasikmalaya offered more than shelter. It was a
city of woven mats, painted umbrellas, and batik, a place where artistry lived
in everyday objects. For me, it was also a place to pause, to do laundry, to
shed the clothes I had worn since Cape Town. Small acts of normality—clean
clothes, a quiet room—felt like luxuries.
The road had not grown easier, but I was beginning
to find my stride again. Tasikmalaya was proof: even after injury, after doubt,
after chaos, the rhythm of cycling could return. Slowly, but inevitably, the
journey was moving forward once more.
Chapter Seven: Tremors on the Coast — Tasikmalaya
to Cipatujah
Leaving Tasikmalaya, I felt steadier on the bike,
more at home in the rhythm of biking. The road south toward Cipatujah was
narrower, quieter, and infinitely more beautiful. Hills rose and fell, rice
paddies shimmered in the sun, and dense forests pressed close, their canopy
alive with birdsong. After weeks of traffic and chaos, this felt like a gift: a
smaller road, a gentler pace, a chance to breathe.
Rain came, of course—it always did in Java—but this
time it was little more than a drizzle, soft enough to make the ride enjoyable.
The air smelled of wet earth and green leaves, the kind of freshness that makes
you forget fatigue.
Cipatujah itself was a modest, welcoming seaside
village. Budget lodging near the beach offered shelter, and soon after
unloading the bikes, the landlady appeared with bananas and two enormous plates
of fried rice, complete with omelette, prawn crackers, and cucumber slices.
Hospitality here was simple, generous, and deeply appreciated.
But then the earth began to move. At first, it was
subtle—a rumble beneath the floor, a shiver in the walls. Then it grew. Clothes
swung from hangers, the standing fan teetered, water sloshed violently in the
bathroom tank. Even the tiles beneath our feet shifted back and forth. Ernest
and I looked at each other, wide-eyed, shoes hastily pulled on in case we
needed to run from our fragile-looking abode or flee a tsunami.
The tremor passed, but its memory lingered. The
fragility of the earth itself was a reminder that travel is not only about
roads and weather—it is about forces far greater than us, forces that can shake
the ground without warning.
Minutes later, policemen arrived, curious about our
visas, eager to chat despite the language barrier. Their presence was oddly
reassuring, a reminder of human connection in the face of nature’s
unpredictability.
That night, as waves broke against the shore and
the memory of the tremor echoed in my mind, I understood that vulnerability was
not only about injury or exhaustion. It was about the earth itself, reminding
us of our smallness, our impermanence, and the fragile balance of the journey.
Chapter Eight: Surf and Sickness — Cipatujah to
Pangandaran
The road south from Cipatujah was a delight.
Smaller coastal paths wound past fishing hamlets, rice paddies, and coconut
groves, the sea never far from sight. After weeks of traffic and chaos, cycling
here felt playful, almost carefree. The air smelled of salt and woodsmoke, and
children waved from doorways, their laughter carrying across the humid air.
A short detour brought us to Batu Karas, a fishing
settlement turned surf village. The beach stretched wide, waves rolling in
steady rhythm, and the town offered everything from fancy hotels to surfer
dorms. It was idyllic, a place where time seemed to slow, where the road itself
invited rest.
From Batu Karas, a gentle ride carried us into
Pangandaran, Java’s top beach resort. The town was alive with inexpensive
hotels, a peninsula crowned by a nature reserve, and a beach that glowed in the
late afternoon sun. For once, there were few tourists, and the place felt ours
alone.
But joy dissolved quickly. After supper, nausea
struck, and the night became a blur of sickness. I was weak, feverish, and
unable to move. The following day was lost to sleep, my body demanding
surrender. By the second day, strength returned slowly, and I found solace in a
bookshop, losing myself in The Shining Mountain by Peter Boardman. His
mountaineering tales mirrored our own journey—justification for hardship, the
strange compulsion to push forward despite suffering.
Illness was a reminder that the road was not only
about endurance of hills and traffic. It was about the body itself, fragile and
unpredictable. Pangandaran became a place of recovery, a pause carved out of
necessity, where the sea whispered outside and the pages of a book carried me
through weakness.
Travel is not a straight line. It is a rhythm of
movement and pause, of joy and collapse, of resilience found in unexpected
places. In Pangandaran, amid surf and sickness, I learned again that the
journey is as much about stopping as it is about going.
Chapter Nine: Pilgrimage to Borobudur
The morning ride out of Kebumen began under a grey
sky, drizzle softening the air. Cycling in the rain had become familiar, almost
comforting, the cool drops easing the heat of exertion. The road wound steadily
upward, climbing the flanks of two volcanoes. Hills grew steeper, each ascent
demanding breath and patience, each descent offering only brief relief before
the next climb rose ahead.
Approaching iconic Borobudur, the rain thickened,
soaking us as we searched for lodging. The annual Waisak Festival had drawn
thousands of pilgrims, monks, and visitors, and accommodation was scarce. We pedalled
through the downpour, weary and dripping, until at last we found shelter.
Borobudur itself was more than a temple—it was a
symbol, a monument to awakening. Constructed in the 9th century, abandoned,
buried by volcanic ash, and rediscovered centuries later, it stood as a
testament to resilience. Its terraces spiralled upward, each level carved with
reliefs depicting the Buddha’s teachings, each step a metaphor for the human
journey toward enlightenment.
Ernest and I rose early to explore before the
crowds arrived. Mist clung to the valley, the stone cool beneath my hands. From
the summit, the view stretched across rice fields and villages, framed by the
looming volcanoes of Sumbing and Merapi—smoke curled from Merapi’s peak, a
reminder of the island’s restless geology. I thought, half in jest, that it had
better behave until we were safely gone.
Soon, the temple filled with pilgrims and
schoolchildren. Giggles echoed through the corridors as groups of students
pressed notebooks into our hands, asking for autographs. Their joy was
infectious, their curiosity boundless. We posed for photos, signed names, and
laughed, swept into the festival’s energy.
By midday, the heat grew oppressive, and the crowds
thickened. We retreated to our lodging, content to let Borobudur’s grandeur
linger in memory.
Borobudur was not only a monument—it was a reminder
of endurance, of awakening, of the human capacity to rise again after collapse.
For me, it was a place of deep resonance, a sacred pause in the journey, a
moment where hardship and beauty converged into something timeless.
Chapter Ten: Harmony at Prambanan
Leaving Borobudur, the road carried us past Mendut
Temple, where Buddhist celebrations were still underway. Police had cordoned
off the streets, but bicycles were waved through, and we cycled past chanting
monks, their voices rising in rhythm with the incense smoke. It felt like a
blessing, a gentle farewell from Borobudur’s spiritual embrace.
The descent into Yogyakarta was chaotic, the city
swollen with pilgrims and tourists for the Waisak Festival. Every corner was
crowded, every hotel full, and the air buzzed with celebration. With no space
to linger, we pressed onward, and soon the spires of Prambanan rose against the
horizon.
Prambanan was different. Where Borobudur spiralled
upward in stone reliefs, Prambanan soared skyward, its Hindu temples clustered
like a forest of pinnacles. Built in the 9th century, mysteriously abandoned,
and scarred by earthquakes, it remained awe-inspiring. The air here felt
lighter, calmer, as if the stones themselves carried serenity.
The temples stood as reminders of Java’s layered
history: Buddhist and Hindu, side by side, each leaving its mark, each offering
its own path to meaning. For me, Prambanan was a sanctuary, a place where the
road’s noise fell away, and the spirit could breathe.
Travel is not only about movement. It is about
finding stillness in unexpected places. At Prambanan, amid soaring spires and
quiet courtyards, I discovered that stillness, and with it, a deep sense of
peace.
Chapter Eleven: Into Solo
My morning at Prambanan was spent wandering among
the temples, their spires rising like stone flames against the sky. Despite
scars from the 2006 earthquake, the complex remained magnificent—an ode to
Hindu devotion, its carvings alive with gods and epics. I lingered, tracing the
reliefs, breathing in the calm. Prambanan had given me peace, a sanctuary of
stillness after the chaos of Yogyakarta and the grandeur of Borobudur.
But Ernest was impatient. Temples held little
interest for him, and his personal needs pressed us onward. By midday, we were
back on the road, heading east toward Solo.
Solo was a city of tradition, conservative in
rhythm and tone. Its streets bustled, but its atmosphere felt restrained, as if
modernity had been tempered by deep-rooted custom. Food was a challenge—most
dishes came with meat or eggs, and language barriers made ordering difficult. I
asked for a spring roll and was served an omelette stuffed with vegetables.
Ernest devoured it happily, adding to the two omelettes he had already eaten at
breakfast. For me, it was another reminder of how travel demanded compromise,
patience, and sometimes resignation.
Yet Solo was not without its contradictions. Ernest
managed to find beer and ham, luxuries in a city where such indulgences seemed
out of place. The conservative pulse of the town clashed with his irreverence,
and I couldn’t help but feel the tension between tradition and defiance.
We stayed an extra day, though I would have
preferred to spend it among temples rather than in Solo’s crowded streets. The
city was not unkind, but it was not where my spirit wanted to linger.
Travel is often about contrasts—peace and
impatience, tradition and irreverence, harmony and tension. In Solo, those
contrasts pressed close, reminding me that the journey was not only about
landscapes and temples. It was about companionship, compromise, and the uneasy
balance between two travellers moving along the same road but not always in the
same rhythm.
Chapter Twelve: The Long Road to Caruban
Leaving Solo, the road stretched smooth and flat, a
rare gift in Java. Trucks and buses thundered past at alarming speed, their
horns blaring, their bulk pressing close. Care was constant—every kilometre
demanded vigilance, every moment a negotiation with traffic.
Yet beyond the sprawl, farmland opened wide.
Cassava, rice, and sugarcane grew in abundance, their fields stretching toward
the horizon. Roadside stalls offered everything imaginable: baby monkeys in
cages, fancy chickens, songbirds with plumage bright as jewels. The sheer
variety was dizzying, a reminder of how commerce and curiosity thrived along
every inch of Java’s roads.
Then danger struck. A snake, already run over,
writhed violently in the road, striking out in its death throes. I didn’t see
it until the last moment. Instinctively, I swerved—and in doing so, veered
directly into the path of a truck. The driver reacted with astonishing skill,
swerving just in time, missing me by mere centimetres. My heart pounded, breath
ragged, gratitude overwhelming. It was a reminder of how thin the line between
life and death could be, how quickly the road could turn from routine to catastrophe.
By late afternoon, Caruban appeared, a small town
with easy comforts—food, beer, and a bed. After the day’s intensity, its
simplicity felt like luxury.
The ride from Solo to Caruban was not about scenery
or temples. It was about survival, about the fragility of the road, about the
gratitude that comes when danger passes, and life continues. Each kilometre
carried risk, but also resilience. And in Caruban, I found rest, thankful for
the skill of a stranger and the chance to ride another day.
Chapter Thirteen: Chaos in Surabaya
We left Caruban early, the road stretching smooth
and flat beneath our wheels. For hours, progress was steady, the kilometres
ticking by with surprising ease. Trucks and buses roared past, but the farmland
softened the ride—fields of cassava, rice, and sugarcane shimmering in the
heat. It was a day of endurance, of rhythm, of simply moving forward.
But as Surabaya drew near, the road changed. The
final fifteen kilometres into the city were a nightmare. Traffic thickened into
a wall of chaos—buses swerving, motorbikes darting, horns blaring in relentless
chorus. Each turn demanded focus, each intersection a battle for space. By the
time we found lodging, darkness had already fallen, exhaustion pressing heavily
on our bodies after cycling 160 kilometres.
Surabaya was vast, industrial, and unrelenting. The
city pulsed with energy, its streets crowded, its air thick with dust and
diesel. Yet even amid the chaos, there was a sense of arrival—a milestone
reached, the eastern edge of Java within grasp.
Then the explosion came. A deafening blast
shattered the night, scattering rubble and glass across the street. Power cut
instantly, plunging the city into darkness. Sirens wailed, people ran, panic
rippled through the crowd. Within moments, soldiers filled the streets, their
presence sharp and urgent.
For a heartbeat, fear gripped me. Was this an
attack? A riot? The uncertainty was as terrifying as the blast itself. Later,
we learned it was an accident—a gas-storage warehouse had erupted, killing
three people. But in that moment, the distinction hardly mattered. The city had
shaken, and so had we.
Surabaya was a place of industry, of chaos, of
sudden violence. Yet it was also a reminder of resilience—of how quickly life
can fracture, and how quickly it can resume. The road had carried us here,
through farmland and fury, and now it waited to carry us onward, across the sea
to Borneo.
Chapter Fourteen: Crossing to Borneo
Morning in Surabaya began with fatigue and unease.
The explosion the night before still echoed in memory—sirens, rubble, the
sudden fragility of life in a crowded city. Yet the road demanded continuation,
and the harbour beckoned.
The ferry was no cruise liner. Tickets were cheap,
the vessel crowded, and the decks filled with families, traders, and travellers.
Trucks, cars, and motorbikes rolled aboard, and we wheeled our bicycles down
into the belly of the ship, stowing them among the machinery.
I was not well. Diarrhoea gnawed at me, and the
thought of twenty-four hours on a crowded boat without proper facilities filled
me with dread. Six meal vouchers were handed out, suggesting the journey might
stretch longer than promised. The air was thick with diesel and sweat, the hum
of voices constant.
Mercifully, the crew offered an upgrade: a private
cabin at a small fee. It felt like salvation. Meals were brought to the door,
and for once, there was space to breathe, to rest, to endure the crossing in
relative comfort. Outside, the decks swarmed with passengers queuing for food,
laughter and chatter rising above the sea’s steady rhythm.
The boat departed late, hours behind schedule, but
time mattered little. As the lights of Surabaya faded, the sea opened wide, and
the horizon carried us toward Kalimantan.
Java had been relentless—traffic, temples, illness,
explosions. It had tested endurance in ways Sumatra never had, pressing
humanity close at every turn. Yet it had also offered moments of peace: the
serenity of Prambanan, the grandeur of Borobudur, the quiet generosity of
roadside hosts.
Crossing the strait, I felt both relief and
anticipation. Java was behind me now, its density and chaos etched into memory.
Ahead lay Borneo, with its rivers and forests, its own rhythm waiting to be
discovered. The journey was far from over. The road continued, and so did I.
