032 CYCLE TOURING INDONESIA (1) - 3 KALAMANTAN, BORNEO & 4 SULIWESI ISLAND

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.

032 CYCLE TOURING INDONESIA (1) - 2 JAVA ISLAND

Across the Archipelago: Indonesia by Bicycle - Sumatra to Bali

2 JAVA
1,215 Kilometres – 44 Days
20 March 2010 - 3 June 2010

PHOTOS

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.