We, I believe wisely, decided to skip breakfast our last morning at the Patradissa in Bandung, Indonesia, ordering just hot water to mix with powdered coffee before throwing on our packs and unfolding the cycles for the ride to the train station. We were getting better at riding fully loaded with our packs, but still there were some issues with top-heaviness and rear viewing due to all the luggage. Regardless, we made short work of the journey, in part, I would guess because two large foreigners on folding bicycles laden down with 50 pounds of AsiaWheeling gear are not a common sight on the streets of Bandung, so people gave us quite a bit of room, and plenty of honks, waves, and shouts of “hello mister!”

At the Bandung Station, as we folded our bikes, this time we were completely free from solicitations from baggage handlers, as though word has spread that AsiaWheeling was in town and determined to transport their own luggage.

The train ride to Yogyakarta, (or Jogjakarta depending on your map) was gorgeous and also quite time intensive. We had loaded up on a number of Indonesian snacks for the ride, so we munched happily on cheese and banana flavored crackers and wiled away our time on correspondence. Of interest as well were these Sundanese fried leaf snacks… very tasty.

Meanwhile, endless volcanoes and valleys full of rice paddies rolled by as we ground our way over the rusty Indonesian tracks.

We climbed off the train in Jogja and were greeted by a large statue of what appeared to be Ronald McDonald, with a large die on his head. This, we thought, must be an example of the thriving Jogjakartian modern art scene. This was more or less confirmed when we later discovered a statue of the Hamburgler sporting a bad case of the stigmata. Very progressive of the Yogjakarta municipal government, we thought.

The skies were beginning to threaten rain, and with time against us, we unfolded the cycles at the station, attracting an unprecedented crowd, and took off in search of a hotel. The first four that we visited proved to be either too expensive, too shabby, or full, but the fifth proved quite beautiful and affordable, a place by the name of Losman Setia Kawan with a lush garden courtyard, unlimited free coffee, wifi (a deal maker in and of itself), breakfast, and very clean rooms. As an added bonus, the walls of each room were painted with a giant stylized gecko, and the beds sported richly patterned Batik sheets. In short, we were thrilled with it, so we checked in.

Immediately the skies opened and we retreated into the room, knowing it would blow over soon. In fact, we had began putting on sunscreen in preparation for the return of the sun and the inaugural Yogyakarta wheel when the staff of the hotel arrived with some complimentary tropical drinks for us. A delightfully ambiguous iced juice, we drank it down and hope the ice was sanitary.  On AsiaWheeling, we take special care of the ice we consume, as it’s often frozen in gigantic chunks from tap water and hauled across the city on the backs of motorcycles covered in burlap sacks.  This particular ice turned out to be a safe bet.

By the time we had finished our beverages, the sun was back out and we commenced wheeling. Jogjakarta is a fantastic city for cycling, with moderate traffic, and beautiful tree-lined streets. We noodled our way south past endless Batik shops, and trinket markets.

By sunset, we had found our way onto the tiny and lightly trafficked back streets of the city, where we were forced to contend with many “sleeping policemen.” Sleeping Policeman is the Indonesian slang for speed bumps.

Our Dahons handled them well though, and we noodled past small community gardens, local shops, and children fishing in garbage filled rivers, all the while attracting many smiles and waves.

Soon the hunger hit and we decided to stop in a nearby restaurant. The place was mostly empty, but we had a good feeling about the waypoint, so we sat down.

We wandered around the restaurant, which sported traditional Javanese architecture, and peered into an ornate lit case, which contained various dishes, piled high in banana leaf-lined baskets. “This is a jackfuit restaurant,” one of the waitresses explained, and thus exhausting her English vocabulary began pointing out all the occurrences of the Indonesian word for jackfruit on the menu. We ordered two of the “special” plates and they proved to be absolutely delectable, with plentifully herbed chicken, crispy fried tofu, and mushy sweat shapes, accompanied of course by a steaming orb of rice. Part way through, the restaurant offered us some complimentary chicken hearts and lungs, all tied up with veins, glistening and steaming, and very interestingly spiced. They proved to be supremely tasty as well.

As we were sitting and digesting, some locals came over and invited us to join them. This occurred at about the same time as an intense rain shower began thundering on the stout clay roof overhead. Our bikes were parked safely under a corrugated plastic overhang, so we relaxed and chatted with these fellows waiting out the rain.

They turned out to all be quite interesting and accomplished gentlemen. One of them was a gregarious and ruthlessly smiley businessman in the construction industry. Another was a telecommunications contractor, whose business card sported some five different phone numbers, one for each of his telecom clients. Another fellow was a health care management consultant, well dressed and with a bright smile. The consultant was an avid cyclist, and a Mac user, who proudly proclaimed so with buttons on his backpack. The final fellow turned out to be the owner of not only this restaurant, but an entire chain of restaurants of which this was only a member.

We asked these fellows for recommendations for our upcoming wheel in Jogja, and they more than rose to the challenge with suggestions, helping us by making detailed markings on our map, and providing us with notes.

We were amazed by the startling array of clove cigarettes held by the gentleman, which all but the consultant smoked (he chose Marlboro Lights). Of particularly nice scent were the mentholated cloves in which the telecoms gentleman indulged. Clove cigarettes make up about 90% of the Indonesian cigarette market, which is one of the largest in the world by volume of cigarettes consumed. The oil of the clove acts as an anesthetic and creates a crackling noise when ignited. The Indonesian word for these cigarettes is Kretek, which is onomatopoeic reference to this crackling noise.

We also requested some recommendations of good Javanese music to share with you, dear readers. At this our new friends positively bubbled, producing multiple Discs and taking turns plugging our flip into their computers in order to give us songs. Here are two of the many fine tracks they gave us:

Traditional Javanese Gamelan Music

[audio:http://asiawheeling.com/music/JavaneseGamelan.mp3]

“Aneka Palaran”

[audio:http://asiawheeling.com/music/AnekaPalaran.mp3]

At one point, the construction fellow began expressing to us that he was torn between leaving for a meeting with the mayor of Jogjakarta and continuing his discussions with us. We joined in with the rest of the table in encouraging him to go and meet with the mayor. So he excused himself to return back newly duded up in a well pressed and flamboyantly patterned batik shirt and bid us a final farewell before dashing through the rain and climbing into a minivan that had just arrived to pick him up. It was probably 8:00 pm by this point. I guess the mayor works late here.

The rain continued to pour outside, and we continued to chat and drink tea. Finally, Scott and I felt we had to be going, so we took advantage of a lull in the downpour to ride back to the Losman Setia Kawan. Feeling quite delighted with our introduction to Jogjakarta, we collapsed into bed, opting not to set the alarm.

Greetings from India!

Hello, नमस्ते (Hindi – Namaste) and اسلام Ùˆ عليکم(Urdu – As-Salam-Wa-Alaikum). Thought I will open this post like most of our Bollywood movies open – with the title of the film being shown in the three languages – English, Hindi and Urdu. Very symbolic of the secular country that India is.

Now that we are returning to India for AsiaWheeling 2.0, the upcoming series of blog posts attempt to recapitulate and put into context the important events that have happened since. The aim is to orient the wheelers and AsiaWheeling followers to a fresh India understanding and an even more immersive experience than the last time.

Be it BRIC or BASIC, the emergence, then, and the recognition, now, of its power(soft or otherwise) and influence in the world has come to be widely acknowledged and accepted. But what needs to be carefully observed and studied is whether it is indeed the case or is it just rhetoric?

Does India really have what it takes to clean up its home first – improve the livelihood of its people, provide basic living amenities to large sections of its underprivileged population and better infrastructure to the industries, provide better access to health care and education to its young population, foster entrepreneurship and create a sustainable job creation environment, take care of the environment and otherwise improve the quality of life of its people. While the jury is still out on how much progress has happened on this front, we see India increasingly playing a larger and more active role in the world forums, be it the WTO talks or the recent Copenhagen Summit.

Observers and policy-makers expect that the combination of India’s internal growth and the strengthening of its voice in the global arena will propel India into the big league on the world stage.

We will now take a look at different aspects of India’s society, politics, economy and people to understand how they have been shaped in the recent times.

Politics

The one thing which keeps India bound together, apart from craze for the game of Cricket and movies, is the strong and robust democracy. Considering the complexities involved in governing a country like India, it is a matter of pride that by and large, Indian democracy has grown and matured in the 60 years that India has been an independent country. No doubt there are and there will be challenges and some even severe. That India has been able to stave these off successfully and continues to grow, some might say slowly, is because of the strong foundation of democracy and an open culture.

2009 witnessed the world’s largest democratic exercise being conducted in India – the elections to the Lok Sabha, the more powerful lower house of Indian parliament. With an electorate of 714 million, it was a great logistical achievement to have successfully carried off an activity of this scale.

The incumbent United Progressive Alliance (UPA) led by the slightly left of center Congress party came back into power with Dr. Manmohan Singh, an Oxford educated economist widely credited for the economic reforms carried out in the early 90’s, being at the helm of affairs for a second term. These elections also saw a stronger emergence of Rahul Gandhi, son of Rajiv Gandhi (a former Prime Minister) and Sonia Gandhi (current Chairperson of the UPA and President of the Congress Party), grandson of Indira Gandhi (a former Prime Minister) and great grandson of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru (India’s first Prime Minister) as the next face of the Congress Party. If the Congress does well during the next elections in 2014, he is widely tipped to be the Prime Minister. Concerns are being raised though about such a strong domination of Indian politics by the Nehru-Gandhi family.

Interesting to note that the campaign slogan for the Congress Party was Jai Ho, the anthem from the Oscar-winning movie Slumdog Millionaire, which also won Oscars for two Indians, A R Rahman and Resool Pookutty.

The other front, the National Democratic Alliance (NDA) led by the right of center Bhartiya Janata Party did not do as well as expected and even went on to lose the vote share from the last elections. Inability to put up a united face by its top leadership and the inability to handle an incident of alleged inflammatory speech in one of the most crucial states in India, Uttar Pradesh by one of its young faces, incidentally also from the Nehru-Gandhi family, perhaps cost the party dear.

The campaign approaches of the two main fronts were in stark contrast. While the UPA used the traditional media – print, television, outdoor events to a large extent, the BJP ran an Obama-style internet campaign to connect with the younger audiences projecting the Party President and a former Deputy Prime Minister L K Advani as the party’s PM candidate. The jury is still out on the success or the failure of this campaign, but it is heartening that mainstream politics has understood the need to use technology to reach out to their audience.

While we are on the use of technology in politics and connecting with people, India perhaps already has a success story. Dr. Shashi Tharoor,a former UN diplomant used technology effectively, notably the Internet and especially Twitter, earlier during his campaign for and (now presently in office as) the Minister of State for External Affairs. With over 600,000 followers on Twitter, he is being called India’s Twittering Minister and even Twitter co-founder Biz Stone acknowledges this in one of his regular emails to Twitter users.

A very important aspect of the 2009 elections was the decline of the Left parties that wielded considerable influence in the previous UPA government, though they were supported only from the outside. With the gradual decline of their influence in strongholds like West Bengal and Kerala, one wonders whether their ideologies and policies are still relevant in these times that have seen very fast transformation.

Having said that, Indian democracy definitely needs diverse views and opinions and a healthy debate among those holding different points of view. But then, it is also not very healthy when certain sections holds hostage the government policies to suit their ideologies like the Left did during the last government. With the conservative Left no longer part of the government, there are expectations that economic reforms will gather pace and the government will take a more open approach in its policies toward its people.

In subsequent posts, we will try and cover other aspects of India to help us understand it better.

We leave you with this video of Dr. Shashi Tharoor speaking at the TEDIndia event held in Mysore recently where he talks about India’s soft power and how it’s the people and the culture that make a country strong and not necessarily the military or the economic might. Highly recommended, please do watch.

Welcome to India!

Our first full day in Bandung began to the sound of a morning downpour. However, when we went downstairs to breakfast, we found the sun to be shining, and the streets dry. We returned to our room, the window of which looked out directly onto a filthy brick wall about a half meter from the glass. We peered out it but were not able to locate the downpour. Eventually, we narrowed it down to the toilet in our bathroom, which we promptly deactivated by means of a grubby, rubber coated lever.

Back downstairs at breakfast, we had already sent our “toast” back once in an effort to achieve some toasting, but it seemed the humidity of Bandung and the lack of a toaster at the Patradissa were conspiring against us. I made an effort to combat the lackluster nature of the toast by over buttering. Unfortunately that too proved ineffective when my maneuvers were foiled by the presence of some petroleum-based butter substitute that refused to melt in my mouth, instead coating the interior with a thin, Vaseline-like substance.  I attempted to counteract this by applying vast quantities of ambiguous jam, which merely sweetened the toast to a cloying and terrible shape in my mouth.

And then there was the coffee that accompanied the breakfast. I can’t hope to do it justice, but perhaps we might get within a stone’s throw by visualizing the boot scrapings of a horse stall mucker, dissolved in lukewarm water, and left out all morning long in a rusting kettle. But this is not a website for griping. So please, dear reader, accept my apologies. I merely encountered the most distasteful breakfast of my life, and am now finding myself griping.  You know there are few things we take extremely seriously here on AsiaWheeling, and coffee is one of them.  So onward, we reviewed the course of the day’s wheel.

Griping aside, and still somewhat in need of sustenance, we began our wheel. Our first waypoint was up in the north of Bandung, a place called Dago, where we were to climb up into the foothills overlooking Bandung. It was rumored to be a very beautiful view, and we were excited to get out of the bustling inner city.

The sun shown bright as we wheeled up a steady but manageable incline towards Dago. The wheel was brisk and invigorating. Somewhere near the top of the current foothill, we called a lichtenstein at a random tree lined road. The road turned out to meander its way to the courtyard of what appeared to be an elementary school. From where we called a waypoint, we could just barely see an open pagoda full of little children all dressed up in what appeared to be Tae Kwon Do garb, practicing semi-graceful kick routines.

To the right of the school was a tea house that had at one point charged about 10 cents admission just to see the view. Now the ticket stall lay long unused, so we locked our bikes to it and proceeded into the establishment. Inside we discovered why. What must have at one point been a stunning view was now dominated by a number of large hotels and a power station. Still the area was rich with foliage and the air was sweet and clean, so we decided to settle down for a cup of coffee.

The coffee was an improvement over the first day’s cup by a factor too large to express without serious use of exponents, and served with what appeared to be a quarter of a cup of sugar stuffed into a small plastic bag. When they want something to be sweet here, they pull out all the stops. We lingered for some time, enjoying the screams of the Tai Kwan Do kids, which mingled well with another group of children who seemed to be learning Solfège.

A 15 cent bottle of water later, we were bombing down the hill on the Speed TRs,. blasting by traffic, and receiving all kinds of shouts and whoops from the locals. At the bottom of the hill, Scott called lichtenstein and we found ourselves in bumper-to-bumper stand-still traffic. In an attempt to avoid it, we pulled onto a side street. The pavement there was disintegrated to the point of near unrideability and we thanked the powers that be at Dahon for the wide and Kevlar-lined tires.

This crumbling avenue dumped us out into a vast market, where it truly was impossible to wheel, due to thousands of people haggling over all kinds of goods. So we dismounted and began to wander through the market, in hopes that it had been the source of the traffic, and on the other side we might find an operational thoroughfare. We stopped in the market to buy a wrench, giving us now the ability to change tires on the Speed TRs. We paid about 50 cents. Robbed blind I am sure.

On the other side of the market, the traffic was only marginally better, and we were forced at times to dismount and walk the bikes, taking our chances on the also teeming sidewalks. Eventually the traffic thinned and motion resumed. By now we were quite hungry, with the un-toast attempting to make peace between the good and evil cups of coffee, which battled for supremacy in our guts.

The next waypoint was to be a musical instrument factory, recommended to us by the illustrious Mr. Fu. Upon our arrival, we made a beeline for the restaurant. It served traditional Sundanese food, like we had had the night before, and was disarmingly delicious.

I might take a moment here to digress about Indonesian chickens. There are two kinds of chickens here: imported chickens that look much like those you might find at Safeway or Whole Foods and village chickens, which are little scrappy things that look much more like, well, birds. We have been sampling the village chickens and I might dare say they taste more flavorful and provide a more texturally satisfying meat, compared to the many chickens I have eaten in the U.S. Perhaps, and I invite speculation in the comments, this is due to the fact that village chickens spend their lives wandering around, actually getting exercise. Although just thinking of what they must eat while wandering around Indonesia is somewhat terrifying. Well, we’ll report back to you if we experience any village chicken-related liver toxicity or the like.

After another splendid Sundanese meal, and a few bottles of water, we strolled back to find a group of music students practicing some sort of jazzy exotica on traditional Indonesian instruments. We paused to watch them noting this interesting costume.

We toured the rear of the compound as well, where the instruments are produced, and wandered through the gardens and the store. Prices were very reasonable, and I found myself tempted to buy a very nice sounding drum. But the illustrious Mr. Fu had explained to us that these were all made in Jogjakarta and we could likely get them cheaper there, so I held off.

In the meantime, we cornered a student for a tour of the Anklung, the instrument that seemed to form the backbone of this place. He played us a little ditty. Bear in mind this fellow is a student, so please go easy on him.

Coming back into town from the Anklung workshop, we found what we thought at first was a mirage.  It was Dunkin Doughnuts in the middle of Bandung, just waiting to serve us a cup of coffee.  At the same prices as Boston, it was one of the more expensive encounters of the day.

Back on the road, we pedaled south, through entire neighborhoods devoted to different goods and services: motorcycle repair, signs, key copying, pets, and a fantastic one for fish.

All very interesting.

Badly in need of a refreshment, we pulled up to the hyper square, an interesting geometrical idea, and also a mall in Bandung. We over payed for bottle of halal water and took a breather.

With rain once again threatening, we high tailed it back to the Patradissa. In no time, it was pouring, and we were huddled at the tables in the common space, humbly working on this very correspondence for you, dear reader.

The Bandung train station was filled with bright sunlight, and we attracted quite a crowd as we unfolded our Speed TRs outside the main entrance. Children gathered in droves, causing the local police to shoo them away and maintain order, or so that they themselves could get a closer look.  During the next few days in Bandung, many, many local men were to approach us and compliment our bikes in a language we could not understand. In fact we were to engage in quite a number of lengthy conversations in which we would speak English, and the other party would speak Indonesian, or even a Sundanese dialect. While very few of the actual sentences could be translated, these conversations somehow moved forward. A very strange occurrence, this communication by willpower, but very powerful and the connection undeniable.

Riding the Speed TRs with our packs proved to be feasible, but we certainly had room for improvement. As we pedaled across the hot pavement of Bandung, we found ourselves to be less maneuverable, and at one point, on a brief uphill, my front wheel actually lifted from ground under the back-heavy weight distribution of the pack.

Riding with the packs also proved to make us a bit of a magnet for solicitation from the locals. As we rode, many people came up to us on motor-bikes and in cars and asked us questions in Indonesian, or broken English. “where are you from?” “good bicycle!” and “hello mister, where are you going?” formed the lion’s share of the English queries. All comments were posed with smiles and in a very unthreatening manner, though some of them certainly were bait for scams.

We rode on in search of a hotel, applying the old and relatively reliable Indian method of asking many people for directions and averaging the results. As the sun beat down onto our Panama hats, we began working our way through a list of possible spots, assembled for us by the illustrious Mr. Jackson Fu.

A Halal Hotel

Soon, a deep and gnawing hunger began to lay in and we became sweaty, thirsty, and exhausted. Traffic in Bandung was very thick, and locating hotels was becoming quite tiring.  The first place we had in mind seemed to no longer exist. So, though it was not the cleanest, cheapest, or most well lit place in the city, we decided to settle at the Hotel Patradissa, not far from the train station.

As Scott put it, the place was “totally halal.” With a giant back-lit, foil-embossed photo of the largest mosque in the world (in Mecca) playing a central role in the lobby, and a special prayer room, located, coincidentally right next to room 11 (ours). The entire establishment appeared to have been decorated thirty years ago by someone of my grandmother’s age, and never dusted.  The beds were soft and springy and the bathroom marginally terrifying.  The room had an odd funk of ripe jungle, but the common outdoor spaces were clean and filled with sunlight. The staff was uncompromisingly friendly and hospitable. Of course there was no beer for sale in the locked teakwood armoire that may have once stored prized crystal.

With our packs safely locked in the room, we took to the streets. Since our map of the city was not yet well developed, we headed back to the section where we had wheeled previously. We rode and rode, through thick smog and the racket of hundreds of poorly muffled engines, searching in vain for an eatery that looked as though it might not wreak havoc on our digestive systems. These seemed few and far between. We wheeled and wheeled, and the hunger began to clutch our reality, distorting our behaviors and clouding our judgment. The city streets were a choking mess of dusty motor-bike jams and inconveniently-placed truck deliveries.  Our blood sugar was bottoming out and both of us became singularly focused on acquiring calories without the accompaniment of deadly bacteria.  We continued to sweat.

Safety at Last

Eventually, we decided that a giant garment trading mall might contain a food court that might contain a sanitary restaurant, so we negotiated a parking spot for our cycles with a nearby lot attendant, chained the steeds to a load-bearing pole, and entered the fray.  We prayed that in this country where underwater torch-wielding scuba divers remove re-bar from bridge pylons to sell the iron, our beautiful pump-enabled seat-posts would not be stolen.

The mall was quite large, with seven or eight packed floors. Each floor contained hundreds of small stalls selling lengths of fabric, batik, and finished products like shirts and jeans. Like all malls, we thought, this one must have a food court atop it.  We took escalator after escalator, climbing skyward in search of sustenance. Finally we found the snaking hall of restaurants. This court contained a great number of stalls, many of them selling traditional Sundanese food, which looked delicious, but at least in our altered state, seemed too dangerous.  Cooked village chickens hung splayed from the rafters and purveyors called out to us to sample their dishes of dubious hygiene.  Quite a few of the vendors were burning charcoal, so the room was filled with a stifling and acrid smoke. Gripped now by hunger and wandering forlornly through crowds of shawled women, we finally arrived back where we had started. None of the places looked sanitary. And the smoke was beginning to cause our eyes to water.

We decided that the safest bet was noodles, due to the heavy use of very hot water in their production and we finally settled for one of the many stalls that looked marginally more sanitary, but still a gamble. The noodles were luscious; glorious; and refueling.  A pleasant surprise. As the sustenance entered our systems, we felt our entire reality morphing, becoming more manageable. We began to grin like fools, and even to laugh aloud.

We spent another hour or so strolling in the mall, investigating the textiles and manufactured oddities therein.

We returned to the exterior world to find it had rained quite hard during our time in the inside.

Outside the Mosque

The cycles were safe and sound, and we re-entered the traffic very much new men. We made our way back through the fuming traffic toward the city center, where there was a very large mosque, and a large grassy brutalist square. We paused there to relax and take in the scene. However, it was no more than five minutes later that we were joined by a small army of children, poking at our bikes, and calling out to us “hey mister” and “where are you going mister?”

One of the children had a large guitar, certainly longer than he was tall. Had he simply played an entire song for us I certainly would have given him a princely sum or 30 or 40 cents, but instead, he was unable to play more than a few chords, before his urges to touch us or our cycles overcame him, or he dissolved into bouts of uncontrollable giggling at the bizarre nature of the situation he found himself in. We were also joined by a number of high school- to college-age men and women, requesting photos with us and the cycles, one of whom presented us with her business card. Scott looked at the card, astonished. “You sell equity futures?” The pretty young school girl blushed, nodding her head.

The extremes of experience, indeed.

We bid our goodbyes to the small entourage of doughnut salesmen, wandering musicians, and curious children that had collected around us and hit the streets. An hour or so of wheeling later, the skies began to threaten rain again, so we made our way back to the hotel Patradissa.

Finally a Feast

Though our room was dank and musty, the common space of the hotel proved a glorious and luxurious space wherein to collect ourselves, and consult the WikiReader, in order to better acquaint ourselves with the town. While we were sitting, a Dutch couple arrived and looked at the Patradissa, then left in search of somewhere better. As the rain continued to fall, in sporadic bursts, we saw them reappear and finally purchase a room for the night at the our hotel. They had been traveling for some time, but had just arrived in Indonesia. We enjoyed chatting with them, and briefly entertained the idea of journeying up the volcano together the next day. We eventually came to our senses upon council from the illustrious Mr. Fu and decided wheeling was a better investment of our time.  After all, we were here to wheel.

As they retreated to rest inside, we climbed back on the cycles to explore the glistening streets of Bandung in search of more food.

As though transported there by divine providence, we found ourselves parking the bikes at a quaint and auspicious looking Sundanese place by the name of Dapur Ku.

Sundanese food is served in a kind of buffet hybrid style, which involves approaching a large bar that displays to the eater the full array of menu items, laid out in baskets lined with Banana leaves.

The eater then selects a number of these items, and they are brought back to life by a brief visit to the grill, the firer, or the steam bath, and presented at your table. We selected a number of glorious items: a grilled fish on a stick, chicken in a bamboo tube, fried tempe, a hot bean mush, and a variety of fresh cucumbers and cabbages. And proceeded to enjoy them all thoroughly. Sundanese food is spicy enough to wake up the taste receptors, while remaining manageable enough to experience a diversity of flavors without excessive cleansing of the pallet.

So, once again full and happy, we locked our cycles to a lamppost retired to a local cafe to compose this communiqué for you, dear reader.

It is worth a moment here to digress and mention the quite integral role that coffee plays in the AsiaWheeling lifestyle. It seems, dear reader, that during our first few days in Jakarta, we had somehow forgotten this.

Shortly after our arrival, you see, the illustrious Mr. Jackson Fu had disclosed to us that he was somewhat of a recovering cafinist (unfortunately a common trait among the AsiaWheeling board of advisors). Not long after we first met, I remember him mentioning that during university, it was not uncommon for the illustrious fellow to consume the elixir in truly vast quantities with his Italian flatmate, resulting in what he described as a furious nervous energy, erring on palpitous, which he found quite counter productive. Since then, he’s switched over to drinking two liters of orange juice every morning, which we can only imagine produces a similar effect.  Out of respect for this fact, we had been consuming just one small cup of joe in the mornings. This dosage proved effective in staving off “the zombies,” and preventing debilitating headaches, but I dare say both Scott and I found some component of our reality to be lacking.

Nearing the end of our time in Jakarta, we finally began to increase the coffee consumption towards the normal 2-3 cups per day and found ourselves experiencing an alarming increase in lucidity as well as general voltage. Indeed our enjoyment of life grew from an already respectable level, to a truly magnificent elation. Calls of “highway speeds” become much more common and the general pace of wheeling increased.

And I might as well digress further to draw your attention to Indonesian coffee, and specifically how delightful it is. If traditionally prepared, it is a cousin of the Turkish/Armenian/Greek variant, featuring a luxurious sludge at the bottom of each cup, but is generally served in much larger quantities than those more European brews. While we have found milk to be a rare addition, sugar is added quite liberally (too liberal for our taste). The coffee itself is quite fresh, as evidenced by a deep golden crema lacing the top of the brew, and produced locally. Many attribute the nickname “java” to refer to the indonesian island of Java, which your humble correspondents are right now quite happily traversing by rail.

You may be thinking, “is this coffee occurrence merely a mislabeled effect of the jet lag wearing off? Or was it really that coffee has this wonderful power, to bring the extremes of experience more easily within reach? I dare say the truth lies somewhere in between… but one thing which cannot be denied is that as we venture further into the journey, we cannot count on such delightful abundance of this very important liquid. So until we must turn to Nescafe powders once again, Indonesia, we raise our glass to you.

Our stay with Jacksonhad been wonderful, luxurious, and action packed. Jakarta had left a most delightful spicy sweet taste in our mouths, and introduced a light and airy quality to our wallets.  And I would be lying to you, dear reader, if I did not mention a quite tangible bitter-sweetness upon our departure. Silence reigned at the breakfast table, as Scott, Jackson, and I munched cornflakes and glutinous rice balls enveloped in banana leaves.

We had slept few hours the night before and were badly in need of coffee, but with our 9:10 train to Bandung leaving in less than half an hour, our goodbyes to Jackson’s family were brief and punctuated with warnings against missing the train. Our best bet was to purchase that all important beverage as we rode the rails, and devote this time to folding the bikes, and attempting not to leave any vital belongings in Jakarta.

Though Jackson had warned against it, we found ourselves swept up in the armies of baggage handlers, all asking “Where are you going mister?!” and struggling against us to help us with our bags. One of them offered to show us to our platform, which was helpful, and when our train came, then hastily loaded our cycles into a place that later turned out to be an illegal stowing spot. For this great service, he successfully extracted a princely and unheard of tip of 50 cents (due to our lack of bills in smaller denominations). While this was by all measures an occurrence of highway robbery, we had managed to get aboard and were off towards the unknown once again. No worse for the wear and, between the two of us, short less than the cost of a diet cola in the United States.  We were again at the edge of the rift, peering over into the great abyss.  What would the rest of Indonesia have in store for us without the gentle tutelage of our so honored bureau chief?

The train ride proved quite comfortable, with plentiful coffee, which we gladly indulged in, and many exotic and interesting smelling dishes for sale, which we declined, fearing for our gastronomic safety.

Outside, the urban sprawl of Jakarta transitioned to cobbled-together slums, which blended quite smoothly into jungle villages and rice paddies. Our train climbed slowly up into the mountains, and soon we were looking out over handsome vistas of complex rice farming operations, which nestled themselves amidst steep volcanic mountains.

Our train wove through this lush green landscape, its wheels grating against the rusty track and sending vibrations up through the body of the train, through our seats, and up into our tray tables, which disturbed the sediment in our cups of coffee and washed tiny deposits of silt up onto the higher portions of the drink.

AsiaWheeling has a few classes of penpals at the Cherokee Trail Elementary School in Colorado.  Here, and periodically throughout the journey, we will answer some of their questions about life on two wheels.

We received a few questions in the comments of a recent post, the answers to which are below.

Q: Do you feel safe around all the people there?

A: Not all the people, but most. Indonesians are in general very friendly and welcoming. Every once in a while we encounter someone who is trying to trick us into giving them money for nothing, or over-charging us. On a very rare occasion we might meet someone who does not like Americans very much, or does not want us to photograph them or their stuff. In these cases, we try to be as respectful as possible. There are many reasons why people don’t like America or tourists in their country and we understand that.

But on the whole, we feel very safe, and enjoy meeting new people both locals and other travelers.

Q: How far do you ride on the cool bikes every day?

A: We ride between 10 and 70 km a day. It really depends on the weather, the traffic, and the way points that we chose.

Q: Do you like the food?

A: We love trying new foods, and whenever we can be reasonably sure that it won’t make us sick we try new things. Most of them we like. For instance, a few nights ago, we had some chicken hearts and lungs that were incredible, all wrapped up with veins and very well spiced. Sometimes we have things that are strange, but not so tasty, things like some very fishy crackers that are popular in Indonesia, or some fried cows lungs, which I think had sat out too long.

Q: Have you met anyone new (not a part of Asia Wheeling or their families) there?  How did you meet them?

A: We meet new people all the time. We meet lots of fellow travelers in hotels and on the streets. We also get to meet many locals. Since there are not many white people here (did you know that being a white person is actually quite rare and special on planet earth?), people come up to us and ask to take their picture with us, so we make friends that way. We also need to work with locals to buy tickets and get food and shelter, so we are constantly meeting new people.

Q: Have you seen any other people that you knew before (like the plane trip)?

A: Nope so far all new people. Soon we will have some other friends come join us, though. So stay tuned.

Q: Where are you sleeping and how long do you stay at each place?

A: We stay between 2 and 7 days in your typical place, depending on how good the wheeling is there. We try to stay at all kinds of places except expensive. So we stay at youth hostels, business hotels, and family-run inns. Later on we might stay at a few super-fancy places, but those are few and far between due to the high cost.  Our favorite places to stay are old hotels with lots of character at affordable prices, such as the Hotel L’Orient in Pondicherry.

And now for the postcards.

Hey There Aiden,

Glad you’re studying about Asia in school.  It’s an interesting place.  Here, we drink a lot of water every day.  Because we’re out in the sun, riding bicycles, and taking medication to fight malaria which needs lots of water due to side effects of skin sensitivity.  On an active day, we consume about 5.7 liters of water.  Do you know how many gallons that is?

However, in most places in Asia, you can’t drink the tap water, because it will make you sick.  We either drink bottled water, or tea or coffee which is so hot that it kills the bacteria.  Bottled water here is not very expensive compared to in the United States.  In Indonesia, India, and China, a normal 600ml bottle of water may cost around 17 cents.

Staying hydrated by drinking water is important no matter where you are or what you’re doing.

Best,

AsiaWheeling

Greetings Garrett,

Thanks for your letter.  Our favorite colors are Ivory, Graphite, and Avocado as you can see from our website.  You’re lucky to have so much school and go on Ski Trips as well.

We’re so glad that you’re a math geek.  We are too!  In fact, we wear calculator watches because we do so much math every day.  Doing it in your head is good practice too, especially because you can’t use a calculator watch on tests in school.

Keep it up,

AsiaWheeling

你好，Ilka, 你的名字中文可以叫爱卡，很好听的名字，相信你的人长得也像你的名字一样美丽。中国地大物博，有很多好吃好玩的东西。 祝愿你好好学习，好好学习中文，将来有机会到中国来 看看。也欢迎你多上我们的网站，里面可以看到各个国家的奇闻趣事。最后，祝你越长越美丽。

高洁

大中华高级顾问

全球自行车探险 (AsiaWheeling)

Good Day Trevor,

Great to hear that you do so many sports.  We like Indiana Jones too.  In fact, our favorite activity is exploring the jungles like he does.

We also like doing math, drinking coffee, and understanding better ways to stay safe while traveling.

Your Friend,

AsiaWheeling

Hi Jake,

Nice stussy.  Those are all great sports. Stay active and be safe.  Our favorite number is 23.

Cheers,

AsiaWheeling

Howdy Austin,

We’re glad to hear that you like hockey and biking.  The most important thing is to be interested in things and do them as much as possible.

Keep riding that bike, and when you’re older, you can pick any part of the world to explore.

Wheel Safe,

AsiaWheeling

Rain poured from the sky in Jakarta as Scott, Jackson, and I diligently worked on correspondence. As the sky began to clear, we loaded the cycles into the back of the Kijiang and headed toward south Jakarta.

We were scheduled to have lunch with a Dr. Sharon Eng, a musician and globetrotter, who had developed a relationship with Jackson during his time touring Asia playing the viola. The morning’s rain had caused the city to descend into madness and gridlock. As we drove, we saw large parts of the road had been completely submerged. And as we made our way into south Jakarta, the flooding grew worse, and the traffic ground to a stand still.

In desperation, we exited the Kijiang and began on foot across mud and crumbling pavement toward the restaurant.

We entered a building and were suddenly transported to somewhere outside of Salt Lake City. Inside was a jumble of very high-end home goods merchants, with fancy bamboo flooring, and many signs in English advertising the fact that all the products were made with organic materials and a portion of all sales went toward protecting Indonesian rain forest wood.  It was a diamond in the rough of Jakarta’s soaked streets.  Walking into the restaurant, we chose a table toward the back.

The clientele of this restaurant, Koi, were a curious and varied breed, but all clearly well moneyed.  To our left, two Dutch women, one of about 34 and one of about 59 had recently been been seated across the table from each other, sandwiching a young boy with curly blond hair.  After we were presented with the chalkboard menu, the younger of the two women with her hair pulled smartly back came over to inspect it.

At our adjacent table, sat two ethnic Indonesians in their mid-twenties sporting British accents and refined, considered clothing.  The man wore facial hair and had his new MacBook on the table, complete with a Supreme sticker featuring Kermit the Frog.  The woman, strikingly beautiful, wore hair down to her shoulders and a blue blouse with white lace trim and black slacks, which buttoned well above her waist.  At the corner near the door, five women in ornate Muslim headscarves and silk, cassock-like dresses picked at duck-confit salad served in a crispy, edible bowl.

The restaurant itself proved to be, while expensive by Jakartian standards, quite delicious. Dr. Eng arrived shortly after she had completed her own battle with the traffic. We found her to be a fascinating, intelligent, and quite friendly woman.  Conversation ranged from a recent orchestral trip across China she had participated in, specifically the rabble-rousing caused by the Polish members of the tour.

While shocked that Jackson, her cerebral and talented music student, had gone into banking, she excitedly discussed potential joint-ventures.  If you can’t beat em, join ’em.  Sharon, any time you decide you are interested in a position on the AsiaWheeling board of advisers, just let us know.

With full stomachs and minds freshly opened by quite a few cups of coffee and pleasant conversation, we unloaded the bikes from Jackson’s Kijiang and hit the road. South Jakarta certainly had a different feel to it. Smaller structures, and 1 1/2 lane roads. We snaked our way through the city, following Jackson’s bishop. As we rode, the sky began to once again darken and a strong wind began to shake the overhanging jungle trees. Jackson suggested a revision to the waypoint roster, but it was already too late. The skies opened, and we were quite suddenly wheeling through a torrential downpour. We called a waypoint at the most proximate small store, and hove to in order to wait out the rain.

Our shop turned out to be across the street from the Ministry of Education, and we had the pleasure of sharing the overhanging awning with a number of employees who had ducked out for clove cigarrettes. At their current rate of consumption, it seemed to us that the bureaucrats would need to duck out again for more kreteks before the rain had even ceased.  We took a gander at the modern little market’s inner workings and pondered its many offerings, wondering how many isles of rhino-branded flu cures, lethal insect “bombs,” and muscle-enhancing powders we would walk through before the deluge halted.

This turned out, however, to merely demonstrate our ignorance of Indonesian weather, for no sooner had Jackson purchased us a few startlingly sweet Indonesian yoghurt drinks, than the rain had stopped and we were once again tempted to wheel.

The next waypoint was a haircut joint. Both Scott and I were in need of a little tidy-up. Jackson recommended a place by the name of Pax. This was an old school Indonesian barber, and the fellows there were all about professionalism. For about four US dollars, Scott and I received top notch AsiaWheeling haircuts on the spot.

These easily eclipsed the Agra cuts from the pilot study in terms of style and precision.  Points were also scored for cleanliness, and avoiding the “Desert of Flesh” which can often be found extending behind the ears after an AsiaWheeling haircut.

Newly shorn, we commenced meandering our way back to the city center where Jackson’s parents waited to take us out to a farewell dinner.

The dinner took place, not surprisingly, at a local mall. The food was incredible, and Jackson’s parents, who have been so generous and warm to us, proved to be quite pleasant dinner companions as well.

We feasted on delicious Italian fare and drank from specially requested ebullient burgundy glasses with a wine brought from household’s private collection.  Below, a ravioli topped with crispy ham is served.

As the clock ticked closer and closer to the departure of our 9:10 AM train to Bandung, Jackson switched into overdrive. Having dropped his parents off back at the house, we piled into the micro-SUV and began a whirlwind tour of Jakartian nightlife, visiting no less than nine establishments in five few hours.  Considering the driving required in between each waypoint, and the traffic which ground the city to a halt, this was no small feat.  After a final nightcap, we lay down for a final brief yet fitful night of sleep at the household.

After another fitful night of sleep at the compound, we indulged in our now standard breakfast of Paraherbs, corn flakes topped with nuts and berries, and extra-crispy toast.

Our first stop for the day was to be the Istiqlal Mosque, the largest mosque in Asia and the headquarters for the entire Indonesian mosque system. The building loomed in a most majestic and brutal way.

At the door we were scanned by a metal detector and asked to remove our shoes. We were met soon after entering by a woman of ambiguous age dressed in a flowing and completely unrevealing outfit of matching brown silk garments, including an elaborate head scarf. She showed us to a room  with a large wooden desk where I signed the guest book. “You are students of Islam,” Jackson explained, and so we were.

After signing the guest book, the four of us left together, strolling barefoot on the cool marble floors. The entire mosque was well ventilated and ornate. With both gentle breeze and plenty of natural light pouring though the perforated walls of the building, it was cool and pleasant inside. As we strolled, the muezzin was warming up to sing the call to prayer. As we strolled, our guide kept a running narrative and invited questions. “This is one of the hardest passages of the Quran to sing,” Jackson translated. “Today the mosque will get about 10,000 visitors. On Indonesian Independence day, that number rises to 200,000.

The building was huge, but with 200,000 people it must be a madhouse. We strolled past a giant cart full of welded steel donation boxes, toward the ancillary praying areas. These were tiled with hundreds and hundreds of little plots cordoned off and facing Mecca, for the use of people during prayer times. We also visited a great wooden drum, a gift from the president of Indonesia, and used for certain, more conspicuous calls to prayer.  The drum is carved out of a single tree and stretched on both sides with cow hide.  Javanese script adorns its side, and it hangs in a frame covered in intricate woodworking.

On our way out of the Mosque, we were ushered into the office once again, to retrieve the shoes and to make a donation. After some inner calculus, Jackson determined the appropriate donation to be 5,000 rupiah (about 50 cents each). It seemed she was expecting more, since she had been for much of the tour explaining to us how hip her daughter was, bragging about the number of facebook and twitter relationships she held, and explaining how her daughter would enjoy socially networking with us. But upon receipt of the donation, she became silent, and merely motioned us toward the door.

On our way back to the car, we took a detour across the street to a large Catholic church which stood dwarfed by the mosque. Our time in the church was short, and much less pleasant. The large stone building full of smokey candles seemed to amplify the sticky Jakarta heat and the dimly lit place felt somehow simultaneously claustrophobic and deserted. The courtyard outside was quite nice though with a number of fountains and plenty of the lush tropical vegetation which Jakarta seems unable to pave over, try as it may.

We hopped back in Jackson’s car and proceeded to a nearby hotel and spa for a 10-dollar massage. This is likely one of the most expensive massages in the city, but well worth the investment. An hour later we walked away from the building feeling supremely relaxed and rather starving. To deal with the starving situation, we piled once again into Jackson’s car. By now it was threatening to rain, and in the time it took us to exit the lot, the threat was mad good. A hammering torrent and large raindrops drummed on the roof of our Kijang, drowning out the Indonesian pop music on the radio.

For lunch, we visited a Padang restaurant. Padang is an interesting style of food service. In lieu of the normal menu and ordering process, the entire menu is simply served to you right then and there in a delightful steaming tower of dishes. The customer is invited to eat what he or she will of those dishes and is charged only for the plates that were sampled. We sampled quite a few, and were rather surprised at the bill, which by Indonesian standards was gargantuan, and by western standards was, well, standard.

Below, a special piece of fried beef lung.

Refueled and refreshed, we headed back to the residence after a cup of coffee in a small cafe tucked away in the Benhil neighborhood.  The rain was just letting up.

In Jakarta it is a common phenomenon to find it raining in one part of the city and merely just humid in another. “It is very likely,” explained Jackson, “that it is still raining at the Padang restaurant.”

Cool, we thought, and mounted the cycles.

The wheel was short but fantastic. We went in search of the terrible traffic jam that had been promised the first day, and find it we did.

By now we were all getting very good at wheeling in Jakarta. We wove confidently through the streams of vehicles and found it very easy to communicate with fellow travelers to gain access to streams of traffic we were interested in.

As we approached the financial district the sun began to set and the sky blazed with a tremendous orange and red sunset, which reflected off the many skyscrapers which pierced the skyline. As the sunset blossomed into full effect, we found ourselves in very lightly trafficed set of roads encircling a large central stadium. We executed long slaloms through the warm air, enjoying the freedom of the open road and the glorious colors which were slowing fading into the many palms that lined the stadium road.

Feeling like men who had discovered a deck filled only with aces, we wheeled around and through the stadium, by children playing soccer, and athletes who were executing a peculiar training technique, involving climbing up the ticket booths and hanging from the walls in bizarrely splayed positions.

Jackson took bishop and brought us to a golf course which somehow had found its way into the city center. He called a waypoint, and we strolled into the clubhouse and purchased some water. We strolled the course and drank our water as the last bits of sunlight left the sky, replaced by silhouettes and the faint clapping sound of hundreds of bats in flight.

That evening we feasted with Jackson’s extended family at a fantastic Chinese seafood restaurant in a  local shopping mall. The journey to the mall would have been a 15-minute wheel, but we chose to take the car and driver, since Jackson’s sister was accompanying us. This turned out to be the wrong move, as the recent rain had induced a horrific traffic jam or simply “jam” as they refer to it in Jakarta. The journey of only a few miles took us nearly an hour, and by the time we arrived the entire family appeared to be preparing to gnaw on their own arms.

I must take a break here to comment on shopping malls in Jakarta. They play a huge role, as gathering places for the more affluent citizens, and are to be found in great abundance all over the city. Jakartian malls dwarf all but the more gargantuan American malls, and sport many floors with luxury goods, expensive restaurants, and playgrounds for children.  As air-conditioned panopticons, they provide refuge from the sweltering humidity of the city in a see-and-be-seen world of look-alike strangers.

This one we were dining in was no exception, and after dinner we took a stroll. It seemed almost incomprehensible that this level of luxury and consumerism could coexist with the boiling overcrowded streets, 10-cent meals, and poverty-stricken slums which were to be found right outside.

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Our second day in Jakarta began as the muggy heat worked its way into our luxurious room at Jackson’s home. We had disabled the AC (AsiaWheeling likes it hot) and as my sweat glands engaged, so did my mind: we were in Indonesia, hosted by the illustrious Jackson, and we were about to begin the first full day of AsiaWheeling. The immensity of what lay ahead lit up my system and Scott and I sprung from bed to indulge in a little correspondence. Word from Maui Jim had come through, and our new sunglasses were to be waiting for us in Singapore. Thank goodness. Those will come in handy.

A beautiful breakfast had been laid out for us, and we dug into a scrumptious meal of Paraherbs, Corn flakes, milk and toast.  Soon Jackson appeared as well, having awoken some time earlier and broken fast on his own. We took a moment to inspect the cycles and then we were off.

Jackson had prepared an aggressive itinerary for today’s wheel, and we were excited to begin. We mounted our Dahon Speed TRs and Jackson his Wim Cycle mountain bike and we were off. We quickly curled our way out of Jackson’s neighborhood and into the boiling throngs of Jakarta’s center.

I marveled for not the last time at what a welcome breed of chaos is to be found on these streets. It is true that the Jakarta traffic is thick, at times stiflingly so, but your fellow quanta of traffic are also quite understanding. I might even at times say curteous… but I’m prone to romanticism.

We whipped through the traffic as the sun beat down. Twice our Panama hats were whipped off in a sudden bits of steamy wind, or by the foul breath of a large city bus, burning a mixture of diesel and coconut oil. But each time we were able to recover them unharmed. As we pedaled on, we quickly became accustomed to the ways of the road, ringing our bells, ignoring lanes, and doing our best to signal our intent. Jackson was a fine bishop and took us through the financial district, north into the realm of government offices, and eventually through Chinatown to the old city.

In the old city we stopped for a refreshment at the Cafe Batavia. “Batavia” is the old Dutch name for Jakarta, and the cafe was definitely a throwback. The walls were almost completely covered with photographs of western movie and music stars from the 1940s and 50s. A jolly rendition of Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree. We sipped lemon tea and looked over the plan for the day. We had already accomplished a lot on the wheel, but there was still more to come.

We left the Cafe Batavia and took a quick stroll through the large courtyard outside. There were fellows positioned all around renting large Indonesian steel cycles. Each rental came complete with a bamboo pith helmet, which we could only assume passed for a head protection in these strange lands. They seemed to be quite popular among the local merry makers, who rented the cycles and the hats, and used them to pull long lazy figure-8’s through the open square. Across the square was a museum, and for 20 cents, we entered and perused imperial furniture and some decidedly unpleasant dungeons. This had been the old seat of power during colonial times, and has since fallen into a public disrepair. As we strolled through, we could hear an alarming popping noise from above, and at times little showers of plaster fell from the ceiling. We navigated around a number of Indonesian school groups in tapered jeans and a few more showers of crumbled plaster to get back to our cycles.

The next waypoint was the docks. Other than some outcries from the gatekeepers for “parking fees” we road encumbered into the fray. It was an old port, which was now catering almost exclusively to old wooden boats, which were being loaded via crane and human back with all manner of materials, from large rusting oil drums, to brand new motor scooters, still swaddled in plastic wrap.

As we rode, the workers waved and smiled, some tried to sell us no doubt deadly snacks and drinks, and others, worked to conduct traffic.

The deeper we got, the more we found ourselves joined by fork lifts and skid loaders, and even mopeds carrying frightening loads. But thanks to a little vigilance and some direction of traffic, we made our way out of the docks no worse for the wear.

By this time we were nigh on starving, so we retreated to a pleasant little chain restaurant which Jackson proclaimed to be his favorite chain in Jakarta. It was Indonesian Chinese food, and quite tasty.

We could not idle long, however, since we were already late for a meeting with the illustrious  Denise Hartono, accounts receivable agent for NLG. She met us at her office, and presented us with some sports drinks. We diluted them half way with water and sipped them wile perusing the company products exhibit and discussing the water pump and diesel generator business in Indonesia. Fascinating stuff.

The next waypoint was a grubby electrical components market in a part of Jakarta called Glodok. We strolled through the market, poking our head into various shops and speculating as to the purpose of this sea of strange gnarled second-hand electromechanical devices. At one point, we stopped to photograph a man soldering circuit boards, and he offered to teach us his craft. We attempted to graciously take a rain check and soon we were wheeling again.

It was beginning to get dark and look like rain, so we stopped at an Italian cafe only briefly before returning home. The cafe had been started by an Italian who married an Indonesian woman. The place was quite interesting with Indonesia-fied gelato and a fellow singing Buddy Holly covers on a fractured guitar. His voice was amazing, and we tipped him well.

We joined some of Jackson’s family for dinner, which was incredible Indonesian fare, followed by a most intense and caloric dessert.  The food is called Murtabak and we drove across the city to the purportedly finest stand producing it.  The stand was clean as a whistle (save for the absence of flooring) and had laid out all the ingredients to show their quality: Kraft cheese, huge cans of butter, Ritz brand dutch sprinkles, and cooking oil.

After retreating to a rooftop lounge and ordering beverages, we laid into the sweet and heavy murtabak like condors on carrion.  It was the kind of food I imagine ultramarathon runners or extreme long-distance cyclists require after a race.  Luckily, it was just enough to quell the final remaining pangs of hunger that had hit after dinner.  From there, some of the troops continued on into the night, but Scott and I were somewhat embarrassed to find ourselves in the clutches of some none-too-subtle jet lag, so we returned home for another very fitful night of rest.