033 CYCLE TOURING AUSTRALIA

PEDALLING THE RED CENTRE

AUSTRALIA
4,872 Kilometres - 78 Days
11 August - 26 October 2010

FLIP-BOOK

VOICEOVER

PHOTOS 

PDF

Chapter 1: – Arrival and Beginnings

 

Bali to Darwin arrival and first impressions

We landed in Darwin just after three in the morning, the fluorescent hush of the airport giving everything a clinical sheen. Immigration officers unpacked my life with meticulous care, a small performance of vigilance that felt archetypally Australian: precise, unfussy, thorough. By four, we slipped through customs into a night not yet ready to yield, our arrival quietly setting the tone for the continent ahead.

Outside, beneath the sodium glow of streetlamps, we assembled the bikes—hands busy, minds excited—and pedalled toward the city with the first hints of dawn bruising the horizon. Darwin woke in order: joggers dashed past us, cyclists whizzed by, and dog walkers ambled along, yet there was an unspoken rule—no one made eye contact unless prompted. It felt curious at first, a choreography of polite distance I’d later recognise as its own kind of freedom.

We found refuge at Chilli’s Backpackers—clean dorms, communal kitchen, a sun-warmed deck and two glittering pools. The price, though, bit hard: AU$30 for a bed after months of US$10 doubles in Southeast Asia. I shrugged it off, went to the supermarket next door, and bought the map that would become our compass: the Stuart Highway. The strong Aussie dollar sent me back to the ATM; it wouldn’t be the last time.

By twilight, cultural contrast sharpened the edges of the day. The city breathed ease—bare skin an unremarkable outing, girls dancing on bar tables in crop tops and shorts, public joy spilling into the night without apology. Coming from Africa, the Middle East, the Indian subcontinent, and Southeast Asia, the looseness felt both unconventional and liberating. At a street-side café, cold beer in hand, I fell into conversation with a professional rodeo rider, his life threaded with dust and adrenaline. Australia unfolded like that: surprising, alive, and a touch wild, etching itself into memory before we’d even left town.

 

Chapter 2: Southbound on the Stuart

 

The Track - Darwin to Adelaide River

We left Darwin late, throats dry from the previous night's beers, and followed a bicycle path that shadowed the highway through Paterson. A bike path here felt almost comedic—this vastness hardly crowded—yet it worked, quietly and without fuss, as if good infrastructure were simply a birthright.

“The Track” stretched south—2,834 kilometres of sealed ribbon through the outback, connecting Darwin to Adelaide—and it was a dream to ride. Wide shoulder. Sparse traffic. Rest areas like commas in the long sentence of the day. A gentle headwind pinned the heat and, oddly, the flies, whose abundance puzzled me; there was nothing visible to attract them, yet they arrived in loyal swarms.

Fifty kilometres in, Ernest’s first Australian puncture snagged our rhythm. Not long after, a bushfire surged along the highway shoulder—authorities controlled it, but the sight crackled with menace. Then, as if to reset the scene, a wallaby bounded across the scrub, a neat silhouette against the late light.

We rolled into Adelaide River after 124 km, and at sunset, our shadows stretched and unravelled behind us. The campsite felt like luck—hot showers, a communal kitchen, and a lawn so green it felt theatrical under the towering trees. The river kept its secrets; we saw no saltwater crocodiles, though their reputation saturated the place. This country belongs to the Kungarakan and Awarai peoples. European names scattered through the landscape read like annotations of erasure, reminders of ownership ignored, histories intertwined.

 

Wartime Echoes and Outback Kindness

Between Adelaide River and Pine Creek World War II lingers in quiet ways—memorials, faded campsites, lonely cemeteries, airfields reclaimed by scrub and silence. The road itself was kind, well-maintained despite the heat, generous with water points and places to rest. We drank at Hayes Creek, then wrestled rolling hills and headwinds toward Emerald Springs. The pesky headwind turned out to be a blessing in disguise as it provided a cooling breeze and kept the flies at bay. Between Darwin and Katherine, the outback offered luxury of a different kind: frequent water stops, shady picnic tables, and camping spots that felt designed for recovery. Pine Creek charmed on arrival—Lazy Lizard’s grass and showers a minor miracle. Then Ernest’s stove sputtered and died, the shop and restaurant shut. Hunger sharpened the night until a bar lady appeared like a guardian, unlocking the adjoining shop so we could buy Vegemite, crisps, and bread. I hadn’t eaten all day; somehow those humble ingredients fused into a perfect, salty salvation.

Pine Creek carries the weight of its gold rush. In the early 1870s, workers digging holes for the Overland Telegraph Line found gold by accident; twenty years of fever followed, leaving behind a town stitched with legacy and stories.

 

Flies, Coco’s chaos, and the Dreaming

Breakfast was quick—coffee strong enough to stand a spoon and sandwiches swallowed on the move. The flies swarmed our faces, colonising nostrils and the corners of our eyes, their persistence turning eating into a sport. Dry air cracked lips and skin, a reminder that this was only Day Three, and the track would demand more. We rode uphill in small increments, water breaks cut short by the relentless buzz.

Ninety odd kilometres later, Katherine gave us Coco’s Backpackers—cyclists’ discount, chickens skittering about, a building held together by personality. It was perfect for a rest day and bike triage: Ernest fixed tent poles, patched tubes, and revived the stove. A local farmer offered him work rounding up cattle; he declined. Secretly, I wished the offer had been for me.

This land is a meeting place for Dagoman, Jawoyn, and Wardaman people. The Dreaming—their cosmology where past, present, and future tangle—imbues the place with meaning that is felt as much as understood. Mythic beings shaped land, flora, fauna, and people, leaving a blueprint for living. The connection to country hummed beneath everything, a low, steady note I carried with me.

 

Underground rivers and road camaraderie

Twenty-eight kilometres south, we turned off to the Cutta Cutta Caves, limestone forming underground cathedrals over millennia. The science felt secondary to the sensation: cool air, the slick touch of time on rock. Fifty kilometres later, a rest stop under a massive tree offered sugar and shade—jelly sweets, quiet, and the small relief of stillness.

Mataranka appeared after 115 km and welcomed us to Bitter Springs campground. Population: roughly 420. Place of water, gold, and the Overland Telegraph’s long inheritance.

 

Larrimah and the Pink Panther Bar

We found the hot spring—a clear, mineral ribbon through green—and slid into warmth that softened the day’s edges. Breakfast done, we packed pasta sandwiches thick with generosity; a communal kitchen had offered leftovers from travellers who practise a quiet culture of sharing.

On the road, caravans and campervans waved us along, tiny gestures knitting a mobile community in the space between lay-by and horizon. Whether it was wind, slope, or the bread-and-pasta alchemy, we arrived in Larrimah, only 80 kilometres away, before three, and pitched tents at the hotel famous for its Pink Panther bar. We learned about Gorrie Airstrip—wartime, the longest dirt runway in Australia—and then surrendered the afternoon to shade while Ernest coaxed his front hub back to dignity.

 

Bras on the ceiling, snacks at camp

There were no water stops between Larrimah and Daly Waters, just road collapsing into haze. We punctuated the distance with small markers: memorials, signs, anything that could be counted and named. Daly Waters pub did the rest—expensive beer and a ceiling draped in bras, travellers’ tokens everywhere. The liquor licence dates back to 1893, oldest in the Territory. In the 1930s, Qantas used Daly Waters as a refuelling stop on the Singapore leg of its Sydney–London route; I imagined the buzz when a plane descended on that quiet.

We pitched the tents a few kilometres away at the Hi-Way Inn amongst wallabies and parrots. During this time, we met incredibly kind and generous travellers who invited us to share beer, crab, and other snacks. Their welcoming spirit and the camaraderie of the motorhome community fostered a sense of belonging, making us feel part of a friendly, shared adventure.

 

Ghost Towns and Grey Nomads at Newcastle Waters

Morning arrived with parrots and cockatoos shouting colour through the trees. The day itself was uneventful. Newcastle Waters sits like a pause mark on the map—once a gathering point for drovers moving cattle overland, now a ghost town with an old store and hotel holding the bones of its story.

Rest areas became social theatres: free, sometimes with water, often filled with Grey Nomads in campervans. People were friendlier there, sleeves rolled up for conversation, and nights stretched easily into shared talk beneath a vast sky.

 

Renner Springs Reflections

The wind rose overnight, but mainly stayed crosswise and manageable. Dunmara offered water forty-five kilometres in, and two motorcyclists jolted the day with their arrival. Beyond that, the road simplified itself into the ordinary—a repeater station, two cattle grids, tracks peeling into unknown scrub.

Warumunga country holds water and life around springs and lagoons. Aboriginal people have lived in Australia for tens of thousands of years, hunter-gatherers with a profound attachment to place. I thought about how little evidence they left compared to the waste a single day of cycling could produce. The contrast shamed me. European colonisation also shamed me—brutal, arrogant—scarring one of the world’s oldest continuous cultures. The road is for contemplation as much as distance.

 

Chapter 3 – Toward Tennant Creek

 

Tailwinds and Ice Cream Grace

The Stuart felt increasingly like commerce under the sun—prices pitched high where options were few—and even locals shook their heads. Yet the riding was easy: flat roads, frequent water, the peculiar blessing of a tailwind.

Banka Banka appeared sixty-two kilometres down the line. The camp matron made sure we understood the importance of refilling water; she was right—it was a gift. Shade and sandwiches followed, albeit under watchful eyes that suggested we shouldn’t roam far. The outback gathers characters the way the ocean gathers driftwood.

Fifty kilometres later, a rest stop delivered luxury: flushing toilets, cold drinking water, and the shock of kindness—an Australian couple offered ice creams. That cone was pure joy, the taste precise and unforgettable.

With the wind at our backs, we slid past Three Ways Junction and into Tennant Creek just before six, and after pedalling almost 170km. The sun gilded the edges of town and arrival felt like relief and readiness.

 

Tennant Creek: Legends and Laundry

A day of leisure was spent in Tennant Creek. Internet devoured time as I uploaded photos and tucked words into place. Supplies multiplied until my panniers looked ready to burst. Laundry flapped on lines; the bike and tent took their turn under my hands.

Tennant Creek spins its own legends—one-eyed Jack Noble and his blind partner, William Weaber—men whose partnership founded Nobles Nob Mine, which produced astonishing amounts of gold in its day. Small towns whisper like that: stories tucked into corners, waiting. I love them all.

 

Devil’s Marbles at Dusk

Wind screamed overnight, and we started late, heads bowed into a road strung tight with mirage. Then the land changed—huge boulders stacked like titans in warm light. Devil’s Marbles drew us off the highway, their presence both playful and solemn.

A cyclist appeared, bound for his own horizon, and we chatted until the sun pushed us onward. The National Park campsite tempted us, but water demands ruled the day. We rode the extra ten kilometres to Wauchope, the sun throwing a crimson finale behind us as a full moon lifted to the left. A lone dingo trotted across the scene. The outback has a way of staging its own theatre.

 

UFO Country and a Pub Full of Stars

Cold tightened its grip overnight; sleeves finally came out of hiding. Wycliffe Well claims energy lines and UFO fame, the pub walls thick with clippings and belief. I pitched on grass and kept my eyes on the sky, wondering whether the sightings owed more to the craft beer than cosmic visitors.

Wind and rain hammered the tents overnight, so we stayed—French fries, bottomless coffee, stable internet, and the easy fellowship of another South African cyclist persuaded to linger. Stories traded under a bruised sky have their own warmth.

 

Barrow Creek: A Cold and Dark History

Morning bit hard, the air sharp as the edge of a blade. Coffee and toast over the fire steadied us, and we waved Clyde off before tracing the road to Taylor Creek Rest Area for water. A headwind tested patience the rest of the way to Barrow Creek.

Barrow Creek looks half-forgotten—little in the way of amenities, a surprisingly welcoming pub—and holds a grim chapter of outback lore: Peter Falconio and Joanne Lees, a VW Kombi stopped in 2001, a shooting, a desperate escape, and a body never found. The space feels haunted by what remains unanswered.

The cold persuaded an early camp. Ernest cooked pasta; the stars were flawless. We crawled into sleeping bags and let the chill have the night.

 

Fruitcake Kindness at the Centre of Australia

We set our sights on Ti Tree, and by 9:00 AM, Ernest was impressively ready to hit the road, marking an early start for us. The anticipation of potato salad sparked a spontaneous shopping spree for potatoes, crisp lettuce, fresh vegetables, and creamy mayonnaise.

As we pitched our tents, as if on cue, a warm-hearted lady appeared, offering us a slice of her homemade fruitcake—a delightful pairing with our coffee, reminding us that even in the vast, remote outback, kindness thrives. The people here, though perhaps a bit eccentric, are some of the warmest and most welcoming souls you could ever hope to meet.

With our early arrival, I found a sunny spot to relax while Ernest eagerly prepared our much-anticipated meal. Ti Tree itself is a tiny settlement, but it boasts a unique claim to fame—the geographical centre of Australia, nestled near Central Mount Stuart. This area, known as Anmatjere Country, stretches over a remarkable 4,000 square kilometres and is home to around 2,000 people, with about 60% speaking Anmatjere as their first language. It’s a beautiful reminder of the rich tapestry of cultures that enrich this vast land.

 

Ti Tree to Aileron through Prowse Gap

As August comes to its frosty close, I found it hard to leave the warmth of my tent until the sun started to cast its golden rays over the land. The short ride from Ti Tree quickly transformed from the chill of dawn to the promise of adventure. Just around the corner, vineyards beckoned, and I couldn’t resist splurging on a lovely bottle of port. After cruising for about 40 kilometres, we hit the first rest stop of the day, a perfect oasis for refilling water bottles and savouring delicious potato salad sandwiches.

With the road stretching ahead, another 20 kilometres zipped by, leading us to the charmingly tiny Aileron, nestled through the scenic Prowse Gap. Though it was still early, I couldn’t resist cracking open the port for a sample, a delightful reward for the journey so far.

As night fell, Aileron turned into a frosty wonderland. Ernest, ever the culinary wizard, whipped up some delightful, deep-fried dough balls — paired with a warming soup that perfectly complemented the richness of the port. Under a blanket of a billion stars, I huddled in my sleeping bag, marvelling at the celestial display. Alas, not even the soothing warmth of the port could fend off the biting cold of the night.

 

Tropic of Capricorn

With the morning sun rising, I reluctantly packed up my chilly campsite and couldn’t resist snapping a few pictures of the towering 17-meter-tall Anmatjere Man, a striking figure of local heritage that weighed an astounding 8 tonnes and was erected back in 2005.

The day unfolded with a relentless headwind as I cycled onward, feeling the breeze push against my efforts. Eventually, Ernest took the lead, and I happily tucked in behind him, drafting and conserving energy. The Tropic of Capricorn Rest Area soon emerged on the horizon, a welcome spot to finally set up our tent.

As evening approached, I was pleasantly surprised by the arrival of a motorcyclist from Germany, who’d embarked on an epic journey nearly mirroring ours since Turkey. The tales he shared of his travels added an extra spark to the night, making the adventure feel even more vibrant and connected as we swapped stories beneath the expansive, starry sky.

 

Chapter 4 – Alice Springs and the Road to Uluru

 

Onto Alice Springs

Morning light revealed the Tropic of Capricorn marker, a quiet monument to latitude and imagination. Travellers stopped for photographs, their chatter punctuating the desert silence. We packed quickly, knowing Alice Springs lay just thirty-six kilometres south—a short ride, but one that carried the weight of anticipation.

The road climbed gently to 727 metres, the highest point on the Darwin–Adelaide route. Cresting it felt symbolic, as though the journey itself had tilted toward new horizons. Alice Springs appeared like an oasis of order: streets, shops, the promise of showers and dentists. I aired my sleeping bag in the sun, washed the grit from my clothes, and let the town’s pulse fold me in. After weeks of outback rhythm, civilisation felt both comforting and strange.

 

Alice Springs: Teeth, Storms, and a Book for a Rainy Day

A crown came loose, sending me to the dentist. AU$180 later, I understood why so many outback smiles are incomplete. The campsite’s “BBQ” was gas-fired, a betrayal of the word, though Ernest didn’t mind—his first real meat since South Africa tasted to him like triumph.

We resupplied: a new tyre, pedals for Ernest, a bike computer for me. The town buzzed with travellers, each orbiting their own stories. Alice Springs felt like a hinge, a place where journeys paused, repaired, and set off again.

Weather reports promised drama. Rain arrived in sheets, drumming on canvas, turning the ground to mud. We stayed tent-bound, venturing only to the roadhouse for coffee and the small miracle of a book swap. I curled into my sleeping bag with borrowed pages, the storm outside a soundtrack to stillness. Sometimes the road insists on rest, and the wise thing is to listen.

The next day, the rain eased, but the wind still bullied the tents. We lingered another day, caught between impatience and prudence. Supplies were topped up, bikes checked again, panniers repacked with care. Alice Springs had given us pause; now it was time to ride south, into the desert’s next chapter.

 

Parrots and Cockatoos

Birdsong launched the morning—parrots in unruly colours, cockatoos crested like royalty, budgies flashing green sparks across the sky. The road south was kind, flat and steady, and Stuart’s Well appeared like a punctuation mark in the emptiness. The roadhouse offered dust and a patch of ground; sunset gilded everything in honey.

Night brought a sky unpolluted by light. Stars flared like fireworks, shooting across the black in silent arcs. Signs warned us to keep gear away from the fence—local horses had a taste for towels and tents. Somewhere, someone had a Harley with bite marks. The desert has its own humour.

 

Red Dust and Wild Dogs

Two rest stops saved the day, between Stuart’s Well and Erldunda, each with water that felt like grace. Trees thinned, shrubs took over, and Henbury’s meteorite craters lay forty kilometres off-route, tempting but unreachable. Formed 4,700 years ago when a meteor shattered into fragments, the site whispered of violence and geology. We rode past, regret tucked into my panniers.

Erldunda arrived after 110 kilometres with the bustle of a junction: restaurant, pub, campsite, motel. It is the pivot to Uluru, where red dust deepens, and dingoes prowl. A sign warned of poisoned bait for “wild dogs,” euphemism masking cruelty. The outback prefers truth, even when it bites.

 

Tailwinds & Fruit Cake

Tailwinds blessed us, carrying us westward in the direction of Uluru. We stopped only for water and fruitcake with Daryl and Gloria, campervan companions whose kindness sweetened the day. Rest areas here are simple—shade, bins, sometimes water—but they gather characters like magnets. We continued biking for about 135 kilometres, then pitched at one, grateful for the small mercies of shelter.

 

Icy rain and Emus

Rain hammered the tents overnight, wind tearing at the canvas. Carson, a Taiwanese cyclist we’d heard about for weeks, appeared like a rumour made flesh. We hesitated, then rode into icy rain. Curtin Springs greeted us with French fries and an emu that patrolled like a sentry. I walked faster; it matched pace. I ran; it ran. Finally, I dove into my tent, Olympic form be damned. Later, I braved the shop for bread: AU$7 for a loaf, the world’s most expensive carbohydrates.

 

On to Yulara

Morning delivered a rainbow and, mercifully, no emu. The wind, however, did not relent. We hammered toward Yulara, heads down, jackets flapping like flags. Uluru’s silhouette rose in the distance, immense and magnetic. By evening, the resort’s bustle surrounded us—balloons, camel rides, helicopters, brochures promising adventure. The rock itself waited, silent and sovereign.

 

Uluru: Awe and an Uneasy Climb

Housekeeping lingered into late morning; then we rode to Uluru, and I was startled by its enormity. Rising 350 metres above the desert floor, the base walk is 9.4 kilometres. Even in flat light it commands the horizon, a mass of presence that reshapes scale and quiet.

We took photos, joked under a cold sky, and returned with a small stone in the heart: tourists clambered up a sacred site despite the signs and the stories. Pilgrimage isn’t always reverent. The irony lingered.

 

Part 5 – Southward to Adelaide

 

Campfires and Argentinian Stories at Curtin Springs

Ernest delayed departure - first swapping battered tyres, and we left around midday, reaching Curtin Springs by five. Firewood for sale turned the evening into ritual—sparks rising into the cool night, beer shared with Rudolfo from Argentina, now Melbourne-based. Stories folded into the flames, the desert listening without comment.

 

Rain, mud and French fries at Mt Ebenezer

Wind pressed against us all day, uphill stretches grinding patience thin. We arrived at Mt Ebenezer after five, French fries tasting like salvation. The roadhouse buzzed with travellers, each carrying their own fatigue. Night fell heavy, and we surrendered to sleep.

Rain thundered at dawn, tents sagging under the weight. We stayed put, venturing only to the roadhouse for coffee and a corner to write. The storm turned the world to mud, but inside, stories and warmth carried us through. Sometimes the road insists on stillness, and the wise thing is to obey.

 

A dead straight path through the desert

Clear skies returned, and a tailwind ushered us along the 60-kilometre stretch to the Stuart Highway junction at Erldunda. From there, the road beat a dead straight track south through the desert. An additional 75 kilometres along the Stuart Highway brought us to Kulgera, sporting a place to pitch a tent at a roadhouse. However, Kulgera was nothing more than a pub and restaurant, with a population of barely 40.

 

Crossing the border with coffee and cake.

Morning was icy, the wind sharp. Twenty-two kilometres later, we crossed into South Australia at a border rest area. Gloria and Daryl reappeared with coffee and cake, their kindness a feast in miniature. Forty kilometres further, another rest stop offered water and shade. A campfire invitation sealed the evening, generosity glowing in the vastness.

 

Rain struck at dawn, but we rode anyway. Cold clamped the body, drizzle soaked everything, and Ernest battled two flats. Wild horses and a giant kangaroo flashed across the road—strange companions in bad weather. By the time we reached Marla, 125 kilometres south, shivering and spent, soup and leftover vetkoek restored humanity. Marla is more service town than destination, but sometimes that’s enough.

 

Stars across the sky – Cadney Homestead

The road stretched long, the desert unbroken. Cadney Homestead appeared like a mirage: roadhouse, fuel, food, a patch of ground to pitch tents. The day’s distance weighed heavily, but the night offered relief—stars scattered across the sky, silence deep enough to hear your own pulse.

 

Chapter 6: Opal Dreams and Desert Winds

 

Blowouts and freezing weather

The section between Cadney Homestead and Pootnoura was a short 80 km distance. Still, it took nearly the entire day as the weather was bleak with low clouds and a freezing wind. Add being delayed by Ernst having two blow-outs due to his new tyre tearing along the side wall, and it turned out to be a positively miserable day.

I stuck the iPod in my ears and battled on to Pootnoura Rest Area, which had both water and shelter, and, as it looked like rain, I had my tent up super-fast, and by super-fast I mean SUPER-FAST, as by then I was pretty good at pitching the tent.

 

Opals and Dust – Arriving in Coober Pedy

Morning began with a battle against the wind, coaxing water to boil for coffee while canvas flapped and dust swirled. Supplies were low, so despite the stormy forecast we pressed on.

The ride was punishing—icy gusts from every angle, progress slowed to barely ten kilometres an hour. Road trains thundered past, their slipstreams threatening to throw me off balance. I clung to the bike, teeth gritted, determined not to be blown into the gravel.

Forty kilometres north of Coober Pedy, a surprise: the dog fence, a 5,500‑kilometre barrier stretching across southeastern Australia to keep dingoes out. Soon after, the landscape transformed into opal country—countless pits and mounds of earth, scars of relentless digging. Coober Pedy revealed itself as the “Opal Capital of the World,” a town defined by its subterranean treasures.

 

Coober Pedy was unlike anywhere else. Corrugated iron houses lined dusty streets, eccentric fortune‑seekers wandered in search of opal dreams, and the desert heat pressed down with ferocity. The solution was ingenious: homes carved into old mines, underground dwellings where temperatures never rose above 23°C.

The town carried a cinematic quality—its stark desert had lured filmmakers, and props from past productions lay scattered like relics. We camped at the Opal Inn Caravan Park, our days filled with laundry, resupplying, and exploring. Beneath the surface, Coober Pedy hummed with resilience, a frontier town where survival demanded invention.

 

It was time to leave the idleness behind. The sun returned, the wind softened, and the road stretched flat and endless. The landscape offered little more than molehills—optimistic miners still probing for opals.

Before departure, I tried to withdraw money, but the bank was offline. A roadside sign reminded us there would be no facilities for the next 254 kilometres. Cash wouldn’t matter; survival here was measured in water and endurance. Ingomar Rest Area, when it arrived, was its usual theatre of odd characters and eccentric travellers, each with stories etched by the road.

 

Red wine and stories at Bon Bon Rest Area

Another day, another headwind. The road lay pan‑flat, the countryside unchanged, and monotony pressed hard. I felt the onset of white‑line fever, hypnotised by the endless stripe beneath my wheels.

Mercifully, the distance was short. At Bon Bon Rest Area, we pitched tents to escaped the wind. Rest areas always gathered remarkable people. Jen, a seventy-year-old from Adelaide, was driving north to scatter her late husband’s ashes in Darwin. Her stories were captivating, and with each glass of red wine, they grew more compelling. The outback is full of such encounters—grief, resilience, and generosity mingling under the stars.

The following day, the wind remained relentless, flattening spirits as much as the landscape. Ernest and I fell silent, not on speaking terms, each locked in private battle with the elements.

Glendambo appeared like a necessary punctuation mark. With a population of thirty and an annual rainfall of just 185 mm, it will never be more than a roadside stop. Yet it offered what mattered after 90 kilometres in the saddle: a campground, a motel, a roadhouse, a store. For me, that was enough.

 

The Dark History of Woomera

In Glendambo I woke to change – at last. A tailwind lifted us south, carrying us past vast salt pans until Lake Hart spread before us, brim-full after rains. The expanse resembled an ocean, dazzling white under the sun.

We nearly sped past Woomera, so eager were we to finish, but a flat tyre forced a pause. The town carried a darker history—once headquarters for rocket and nuclear testing, its legacy marked by suffering among Indigenous communities exposed to fallout. In the centre, rockets stood on display, their small size belying their deadly power.

 

As we left Woomera for Rangers View Rest Area, 120 km away, salt lakes and dusty stops lined the way south. At Ironstone Lagoon Rest Area, seventy kilometres beyond Pimba, we found water—a rare gift. By evening, we reached Ranges View, where the wind roared like a beast. My tent strained against the gale, and I half‑believed it might lift me skyward despite my weight. Sleep came fitfully, the storm rattling canvas and nerves alike.

 

Chapter 7: The end of the Legendary Stuart Highway

 

Arrival in Port Augusta

Morning broke in splendour. Sunlight poured across the land, wind stilled, and wildflowers carpeted the soil. Stuart’s Desert Pea bloomed in crimson profusion, a sea of petals stretching to the horizon.

Relief washed over me as Port Augusta came into view. The Stuart Highway ended here, its long spine finally complete. Civilisation returned—streets, shops, the hum of a town. The campsite lay just outside, inexpensive and welcoming, with facilities that felt luxurious after weeks of dust and wind.

 

By morning the wind rose again, but we stayed put. Routine filled the days—laundry, internet, resupplying. Wandering through town, I stumbled upon an Aboriginal art display. Dot paintings and Dreamtime stories unfolded in colour and symbol, a culture layered with meaning far beyond my grasp. Fascination mingled with humility; the more I learned, the more I realised how much remained beyond understanding.

 

Chapter 8: Into the Wind Port Augusta to Adelaide

 

Encountering Australia’s many rules.

After two days of leisure and a new bike helmet for me (thanks to the many Aussie laws), we resumed our quest. The headwind rose like a wall, battering us hour after hour, trucks and buses buffeting us dangerously close to the edge of the road. By the time we reached the coastal community of Port Germein, I called it quits, exhausted and rattled.

The campground sat opposite the town’s pride—the longest wooden pier in Australia. It wasn’t cheap, but the kitchen was well-equipped and the showers restorative. A fellow cyclist, Grant from Perth, was camped nearby, attempting to ride home from Sydney in just thirty days. His ambition made my own journey feel almost leisurely.

Port Germein itself looked forlorn: a scattering of houses, a small hotel, a general store, a jetty, and the campsite. Yet the town carried its own rhythm—crabbing. Nets leaned against fences, hung from verandas, and seemed to belong to every household.

 

By morning, the wind eased, though the landscape told its own story—windfarms spinning steadily, old windmills twisted and broken, evidence of a region perpetually gust-tossed. Still, the ride was beautiful. Green fields stretched for miles, dotted with small towns—Waretown, Red Hill, Lake View—each a punctuation mark in the long sentence of the day.

Snowtown greeted us with its modest community of 600, 3 churches, a hotel, and a general grocer. We pitched tents in Centenary Park, a recreation area with manicured bowling greens, tennis courts, and a football oval that doubled as a cricket pitch in summer. The town carried a quiet pride, its facilities polished and orderly, its atmosphere calm.

 

I emerged from the tent to find the wind had turned in our favour. The sky was a perfect blue, the air warm, and the ride glorious as we biked the 90 kilometres between Snowtown and Dublin. We pedalled past deep green wheat fields and seas of yellow canola, salt lakes shimmering in the distance, and villages with names that sounded like stories—Lochiel, Wild Horse Plain, Windsor.

Tiny Dublin offered a rest area, and we pitched our tents gratefully. Only the next morning did we notice the discreet “no camping” sign. The road has its own humour, and sometimes it hides in small print.

 

Milestones-Reaching Adelaide

On a breezy but sunny Saturday afternoon, we rode into Adelaide. Another continent crossed, another city reached. The entry was astonishingly easy—wide roads, orderly traffic, no honking, no chaos. After months of battling deserts and winds, Adelaide felt like a gentle embrace.

The caravan park sat along the banks of the Torrens River, its location beautiful, its atmosphere quiet. Rules abounded, stripping away spontaneity, and most people seemed to hide in their mobile homes. I missed the eccentric travellers of the rest areas, their stories and camaraderie.

Still, Adelaide was spacious and pleasant, a city of parks, river walks, and cycling tracks. Very organised and lovely for those who like that. We wandered malls and river paths, ate pizzas and drank beer at sidewalk cafés, indulged in chocolates, and blew the budget spectacularly. My worn sandals and tattered clothes felt out of place in the polished city, but possums visited at night, black swans floated downriver, and parrots woke us in the morning.

I bought a new rear hub, which Ernest fitted, though it cost me a set of tyres for his bike. Plans shifted daily, but by the end of our stay, I had decided: I would cycle to Melbourne, then fly to South America, beginning the long haul north in the summer.

 

Chapter 9: The Road to Melbourne

 

Adelaide to The Great Ocean Road

At first, I thought Adelaide was dull, but leaving the city revealed its hidden beauty. The path climbed over the Adelaide Hills along the Crafers Bikeway, winding past Stirling, Aldgate, Bridgewater, and Hahndorf—Australia’s oldest surviving German settlement. Forested slopes and quaint villages made the morning ride a delight.

By midday, the weather turned: icy winds, clouds, and drizzle. Mt Barker offered refuge, its red wine warming against the chill. A South African family, newly immigrated and still house-hunting, occupied one of the nearby cabins. Their optimism felt contagious.

 

The cold bit hard as we left Mt Baker via secondary roads through Littlehampton, Nairne, Native Valley, Callington, and Murray Bridge to Tailem Bend. Each village was picture‑perfect, neat and orderly, with restored stone buildings that spoke of history. Farmlands stretched wide, horses grazed, and even llamas appeared, oddly at home.

From Murray Bridge, the path ran south along the west bank of the Murray River. Headwinds stripped away humour, leaving me questioning why I was out here at all. At Jervois, a motor pontoon ferried us across the river to Tailem Bend. Once the tent was pitched, a hot shower, a glass of red, and a bowl of pasta restored cheer.

 

We paused at “Old Tailem Town,” a pioneer village of 105 structures relocated from across South Australia—church, school, cinema, bank, shops, railway station—an authentic tableau of the 1800s.

The ride to Meningie was windy, but mercifully short. The town, perched on the shores of Lake Albert, offered vistas of water and sky. At sunset pelicans drifted past, terns dived for their meal, and the lake glowed. It was so lovely we stayed another day, resting in the calm.

 

The road between Meningie and 42 Mile Crossing traced the Coorong National Park, a day of joy on the bike. A slight tailwind, wetlands alive with birdlife, and names that delighted—Policeman’s Point, Salt Creek. At 42 Mile Crossing, where we pitched tents in a park camp. The water tank was dry, the kitchen swarmed with bees, flies and mozzies attacked in chorus. Yet, it felt part of the rhythm of life: ups and downs, irritations folded into the ride.

 

Loading up, a magpie dive‑bombed me, declaring I’d overstayed. A strong tailwind carried us swiftly east, pies at Kingston fortifying us before reaching seaside Robe.

Camping by the ocean was bliss. In town, a restaurant served veggie burgers and fries so enormous they bordered on rude generosity. Along the road, we met Anneke, a Dutch lady cycling home to the Netherlands. She carried no watch, no odometer, no companion—only a credit card, passport, and water. She rode by daylight, slept when dark fell. Her simplicity was inspiring.

I woke to rain drumming on the tent, steady and unyielding. Ernest surprised me by packing early, but I refused to budge. The day belonged to drizzle, and I stayed cocooned.

 

The next morning was mercifully dry, though bitterly cold. I dressed for the Arctic and set off for Millicent, 80 kilometres away. Three Australian cyclists en route from Adelaide to Sydney crossed our path, their gear enviably polished. I eyed their bikes with longing.

 

The map promised a short ride to Mt Gambier, and a tailwind made it effortless. We arrived early, but soon the weather turned—drizzle, gusts, freezing air. I shopped for warmer clothes, surrendering to necessity.

The following day worsened. I lay wrapped in my tent, listening to wind and rain. Salvation came in small comforts: a packet of chocolate-coated peanuts, a few magazines left in the kitchen, endless cups of coffee.

 

Morning came with rain and high winds, but clad in new woollies, I braved freezing weather and biked out of Mt Gambier. The coastal route to Portland wound past Nelson and through state forests, hills rising and falling under grey skies. Magpies attacked again—spring in Australia is their season, and cyclists their favourite target. My helmet proved its worth.

Portland arrived like mercy. Miserable, I chose a cabin over canvas. Equipped with TV, microwave, kettle, toaster—it was luxury. Warm, dry, comfortable, we stayed another day.

Back on the bike after a day of rest, the weather was kinder. A slight tailwind carried us the 100-odd kilometres through forests and into historic Port Fairy, its harbour and old buildings charming. Warrnambool was larger than expected, with a central campground. The day ended with a hot shower, hot chocolate, and a muffin—small indulgences that felt grand.

 

 

Chapter 10: The Great Ocean Road

 

Coves, Caves and Arches

Sun returned at last. We lingered in Warrnambool, then rode the 70 kilometres to Port Campbell, past dairy farms, cheese factories, and rolling pastures. Black swans glided across wetlands.

The road delivered us to the Great Ocean Road, its limestone coast sculpted into pinnacles, coves, caves, and arches. We stopped often, awed by the drama, snapping pictures at every turn.

 

Loch Ard Gorge and the Twelve Apostles

The day remained sunny, wind light. Loch Ard Gorge and the Twelve Apostles offered breathtaking views before the road climbed into eucalyptus forests. Lavers Hill, perched atop the Otway Ranges, is a small settlement in the trees. Glow worms were rumoured, but the cold kept them hidden.

 

Descent into the Otways

From Lavers Hill, the road plunged steeply, speeds topping fifty kilometres an hour, exhilaration rushing through the descent. The joy was short-lived; the climb into the Otway National Park demanded effort, winding through dense forest and fern gullies before releasing us into Apollo Bay.

From there, the path hugged the coastline, a magnificent stretch of sea and cliffs leading to Kennett River. We camped across from the beach, a place close to paradise: koalas in the trees, ducks waddling through camp, colourful birds flashing overhead. Alan and Heather from England were there too, cycling for nine months. Remarkably, we had met them years earlier in Kannur, India—a reunion stitched by the road.

Ernest cooked a massive pasta dish, too much to finish. By morning, the pot was empty, the lid discarded under a tree—wildlife had feasted. Then came sorrow: Ernest learned his mother had passed away. RIP Mrs Markwood.

We lingered with Alan and Heather, departing only at midday. At last, the sun warmed the ride, the first in weeks. The coastline dazzled, the road sweeping past Lorne and Aireys Inlet, sea and sky in perfect balance. Rain arrived just as Anglesea rolled into view, timing merciful.

 Chapter 11: The Final Stretch

 

Crossing the Bay - Anglesea to Rosebud

Rather than cycle via Geelong, we chose novelty: the ferry from Queenscliff across the mouth of Port Phillip Bay to Sorrento. From there, the road traced the eastern shore toward Melbourne.

The ride to Rosebud was effortless, only eighty kilometres; the coast was built up but pleasant. That evening, I splurged on pizzas from the shop across the way—a welcome break from pasta, indulgent and satisfying.

 

Melbourne Arrival

I worried about cycling into a big city—traffic, chaos, the hunt for budget digs. But Melbourne surprised me. It was Sunday, the route into town had a bicycle lane, and the ride felt orderly, even welcoming. Crossing the Yarra River, the path delivered us directly into the CBD.

King Street Backpackers offered neat rooms, a kitchen, and a communal area. Prices stung, as everywhere in Australia, but comfort mattered more. Yet the locked doors and closed spaces left me feeling claustrophobic, missing the eccentric openness of roadside camps.

Logistics consumed the next day: securing a bike box, arranging a taxi, booking flights. The next day, I would leave Australia behind.

I hadn’t seen half the country, yet the journey had been rich. I hadn’t wanted to come at first, but Australia had surprised me—its landscapes, its people, its rhythm. The experience confirmed a lesson: never judge a country before visiting. Media and hearsay distort; cycling offers only fragments, shaped by weather, mood, and company. My reports are not factual histories; they are only impressions stitched from the road.

 

Farewell Australia

 

Dust Behind, Horizons Ahead

Melbourne - Cape Town - Ushuaia

The flight was long and tedious, carrying me from one end of the world to another. In those days, the Melbourne–Buenos Aires route refuelled in Cape Town, and passengers could break the journey at no extra cost. I seized the chance.

Family greeted me with wine and pizzas—some rituals never change. The time passed quickly, filled with familiar comforts. Then came another early morning flight: nine hours and twenty minutes to Buenos Aires, followed by three and a half more to Ushuaia. The journey was smooth, save for an overweight baggage fee on the final leg.

 

South America awaited.

032 CYCLE TOURING INDONESIA (1) - 5 JAVA, 6 BALI & 7 LOMBOK

Across the Archipelago: Indonesia by Bicycle - Sumatra to Bali

INDONESIA (1)

 5 Java, 6 Bali & 7 Lombok
1117 Kilometres – 32 Day
10 July – 11 August 2010

Photos

 

JAVA (2), BALI & LOMBOK:

From Volcanoes to Paradise 

 

JAVA (2)

 

Chapter Fourteen: Surabaya and the Road East

 

The ferry from Makassar to Surabaya was a trial of endurance—crowds pressed shoulder to shoulder, meals in polystyrene containers, and the shocking sight of rubbish dumped into the sea at night. When mechanical issues delayed our arrival, the chaos of unloading bikes and bags stretched into eternity. Yet stepping onto Java’s soil at last, breathing fresh night air, felt like liberation.

Surabaya itself was bustling, alive with markets and curiosity. Ernest was unwell, so I wandered alone, encountering bemused reactions to South Africa—“But you are not black?” and “Where in South Africa? Nigeria?”—reminders of how perspectives shift across cultures.

The ride eastward to Pasuruan was a short 67 km nerve-wracking ride, traffic pressing close, soot and exhaust thick in the air. Guava juice stalls offered a sweet reprieve, and a tranquil guesthouse garden became our refuge as we both succumbed to colds.

 

Chapter Fifteen: Toward Bromo’s Fire

 

We found the ride from Pasuruan to Probolinggo, flat, the tailwind gentle, anticipation building for Gunung Bromo. At dawn, I left Ernest sleeping and joined the throng climbing to the crater rim. The sunrise was breathtaking—light spilling across a vast caldera, smoke rising from Bromo’s cone, the air thick with sulphur.

For the Tengger people, Bromo is sacred, its myths alive in annual rituals of offerings cast into the crater. Standing at its rim, I felt the mountain’s pulse, its legends woven into the smoke.

 

Chapter Sixteen: Coastal Roads to Bali

 

We pedalled eastward from Probolinggo through mangrove swamps and coastal plains; the road was flat but chaotic with traffic. One hundred kilometres later, we arrived in Situbondo, where we found rest.

The next day started with promise, but a fierce headwind loomed on the horizon, quickly dampening our spirits. The terrain was slightly more undulating, but a shaded forest provided respite from the heat. A short ferry ride across the sparkling Sea of Bali whisked us away to the island that promises paradise.

 

BALI

 

Chapter Seventeen: Bali’s Contrasts

 

Arriving in Gilimanuk, paradise seemed to beckon—bungalows nestled in gardens called me, and we stayed the night.

From Gilimanuk to Medewi Beach was short - 60 km through a national park, the road enveloped in the green embrace of towering trees.  The vibrant Balinese Hindu culture was on full display, adorned with countless temples and shrines that punctuated the landscape with their intricate architecture reflecting ancient practices. Medewi Beach offered serenity, surf, and fresh food.

Bali truly felt like a slice of heaven, with its warm tropical climate, pristine beaches, and lush frangipani trees waving gently in the breeze. Everything about the island sang of paradise—the surfing, the friendly locals, and the vivid roadside stalls brimming with fresh fruits like striking red watermelons and golden bananas.

Denpasar demanded bureaucracy—visa paperwork for Australia and priority was to tackle the process. The paperwork was extensive, requiring countless forms, copies, and specific documentation. Once submitted, we waited.

Kuta overwhelmed with tourists, curio stalls, surf boutiques, and nightlife. Yet even amid the frenzy, joy surfaced: pizza, beer, laughter, and stories shared with fellow travellers.

Uluwatu’s cliffs revealed another side of Bali—raw surf culture, dramatic landscapes—but accommodation was scarce, and we returned to Kuta, indulging in small luxuries like a pool and balcony.

 

LOMBOK

 

Chapter Eighteen: Lombok’s Roads and Rinjani’s Shadow

 

From Padang Bai, we sailed to Lombok. Senggigi was touristy, but Senaru revealed the grandeur of Mount Rinjani, its volcano rising above villages. Roadworks made climbs punishing, yet children’s greetings—“Turist! Hello Mister!”—turned hardship into delight.

Labuan Lombok was meant to be a gateway to Sumbawa, but plans shifted. Instead, we circled back westward, through hamlets alive with horse-drawn buggies and oxen in rice fields, arriving in Mataram early.

 

Chapter Nineteen: Return to Bali and Farewell

 

The ferry back to Bali carried us once more across the strait, mats spread on deck, Pop-Mie noodles and snake fruit sustaining us. Padang Bai welcomed us again, and soon we cycled eastward to Amed, Lovina, and Tangerang—coastal roads lined with rice paddies, temples, and celebrations whose meaning blurred between joy and mourning.

Finally, Kuta returned, this time as a staging ground for departure. Bikes scrubbed, laundry done, gear sorted, and boxes found thanks to the kindness of a Malaysian traveller. Excess baggage fees loomed, but relief outweighed frustration.

On 11 August, we pedalled the short distance to the airport, whispering a final farewell: “Selamat tinggal dan terima kasih, Indonesia.”

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.