We allowed ourselves to sleep in a little after the intense wheel to Borobudur, and AsiaWheeling indulged in a prolonged breakfast on the sunny patio of the Setia Kawan. Slowly but surely the Indonesian fishy crackers were growing on me, though from time to time it seemed, I got a bite which tasted like some of the more ruddy parts of Providence, Rhode Island. Rome wasn’t built in a day either.

Today was to be a day of missions and waypoints. The first of which was the post office for some project K9 business.

We found the Indonesian post to be efficient, fast, and cheap, providing a diversity of services and materials. We were in and out in no time.

Next stop was the train station, where we were to buy tickets to Surabaya.

This also proved painless, cheap, and fast. Everyone in this country seemed interested in helping us, and we took to the streets feeling like kings.

The next mission was a little less straightforward. One issue that we had been experiencing with the Panama hats, so far, had been a propensity to get caught up in the wind and depart our heads, usually heading for some foul sewage-filled gutter or yawning crevasse.

Our solution to this problem was to engineer a strap that might be applied to the hats in order to attach them more securely to your humble correspondents’ noggins. When we returned to stash the tickets in the safety of our room, the fine staff at the Setia Kawan directed us to a street that was rumored to contain nothing but tailors, and as the sky oscillated between looking like rain, and brutal sunshine, we worked our way up the street.

The first fellow we talked to quickly understood the issue and indicated to us that he would be happy to attach a length of what looked like seatbelt to the hats. When we expressed that this was not exactly optimal, he frowned and and produced a kind of lacy material, which might have gone well on a pair of ladies unmentionables.

When this also proved to be not exactly in line with the AsiaWheeling aesthetic, he tried once more with the seatbelt, and eventually flagged us on down the road.

We were refining our own ideas about the design as we went, and our interactions with the next fellow were even better. I indicated to him where to attach buttons and used Scott’s sunglass strap as an example of the kind of cord we needed. He frowned and consulted his team before finally shaking his head as well and sending us on down the road.

The third team of tailors got it, and though I kept repeatedly banging my head into the jagged and rusted metal roof of his little tailor’s stall, he indicated to us that he would be able to to get the job done, but that we needed to go down the street and purchase some buttons and cords.

Luckily no more than a half block away there was a great Mecca of buttons and cords. We were able to select from a plethora of choices.

In the end we selected two stout crimson leather bands, and a pair of graphite buttons. The entire ensemble was finished off with a touch of class, when we opted to upgrade to the 30-cent brass clasp.

Back at the tailor’s shack, I banged my head a few more times, as he worked on our hats.

The end result was fantastic, and when we asked him how much we owed, he said nothing. We decided to pay him anyway, and climbed back on the cycles, for the first time fearing not for our hats.

The last waypoint was a shopping mall, where we sought sustenance.  It was complete with a booth selling DVDs, VCDs, and CDs of Indonesian and foreign pop music.  Playing on the screen was Britney Spears’ Womanizer music video.  Quite entrancing.

Also displayed at this mall were ornate traditional dresses burgeoning with sequins and silk, for all the peacocking needs of Yogjakarta’s female elite.

Dining at a Thai restaurant next to a bowling alley in the mall, we fell into the Wikireader once again, and then were sated.

On our way home to the good old Setia Kawan, we stopped at another mall on which the ground floor was an expansive supermarket called “Hero.”

We found it to be full of some very fascinating items, and laden with supplies.  Stocking up on nuts, crackers, and water proved to be an eye-opening waypoint.

We wheeled back to the Setia Kawan just in time to avoid a howling downpour which wore on well onto the night.

The alarm began ringing at 6am (playing the theme to Sim City 2000; if you know and love this tune as well, please let us know in the comments) and Scott and I pulled ourselves out of the warm, slightly sweaty, and intensely patterned comfort of our beds at the Setia Kawan. Knowing we had a gnarly wheel ahead, we ordered the house Indonesian breakfast and laid in to our piles of sweet fried rice, sunny side up eggs and fishy crackers. We had been struggling to warm up to the fishy crackers, but with the wheel ahead, we decided we needed all the calories we could get, so down the hatch they went as well. The ride was to be a little over 35 kilometers to Borobudur, and another 35 back, making it one of the more intense of the wheels of AsiaWheeling to date.

Outside our hotel, the sun shone bright, and the sky lacked even a hint of rain. Bolstered by the solid breakfast, we set out, wheeling hard northward. Part way into the ride, Scott’s chain began to squeak (all the previous day’s rain no doubt), and we began pulling over at little roadside shops, many of which, amazingly, did not have any lubricant, claiming their specialty in tires or radiators did not necessitate the keeping of such materials on hand. In the end, we found an auto grease-covered auto mechanic who was able to give us a little used motor oil, served from an old honey container, for free no less, which solved the squeaking quite nicely, albeit in a very sticky and black way.

We wheeled on through the morning, passing endless small businesses that survive from the traffic on the road to Borobudur. Most were selling either automotive supplies and services or snacks and souvenirs. The vast quantity and diversity of Indonesian souvenirs is quite amazing, perhaps amplified by the fact that, as we have come to understand, they are all made in the Jogjakarta area. At one point, we passed a uniformed group of school children out for a morning jog. Needless to say, we were a big hit with them.

Finally the urban sprawl died away and we were once again surrounded by rice fields, furniture workshops, and smallish compounds full of fellows chipping away at stone to create ornate garden statues, and smaller souvenirs.  At one point we called a waypoint to investigate what appeared to be a large ornate cemetery in the distance. A fellow came up to us and immediately began teaching us Indonesian at an alarming and incomprehensible rate, while his compatriots struggled to fix their truck which had developed a number of debilitating problems. The fellow had progressed to lesson 7:  how to say “Barak Obama was used to live in Indonesia. Big ups Obama!” when we began to get restless and suffer from short-term memory overload.

Back on the road, we had been directed by the fellows at the Setia Kawan to follow the buses, and so we did, taking a few turns, and from time to time stopping to confirm with a local that we were indeed headed for the great temple. Soon we began to see smaller temples in the centers of villages along the way and were sure we must be almost to that greatest of Buddhist pilgrimages. In preparation, we stopped at a little shop, and loaded up on water and indulged in some little snacks. It was only 10:00 am but we were starving.

We sucked down three liters of water, some soft drinks, and a package of Indonesian pastries, and soon we were off again.

Borobudur was incredible. Generally, AsiaWheeling attempts to avoid the touristy activities. But for this we’d decided to make an exception. I’ll let the photos and videos speak for this place, though if you are interested in more of the history, I highly recommend the wikipedia article, which we devoured on our WikiReader..

Luckily, we had coordinated our outfits such that we were both wearing the AsiaWheeling uniform.

Before we got too far into the wheel back, we stopped at the same little shop. The owner seemed happy to see us and even more happy when we purchased another three liters of water, a can of Pakari Sweat and some fake M&Ms. These calories proved just barely enough to get us back into the Yogjakarta area, and once we were about 10 miles out, the hunger started to take a very strong hold. Our reality became distorted, and we struggled not to become unhinged beasts on collapsable bicycles.

We had heard from the beautiful and well traveled Mai Mitsuboshi that in the vicinity there was a restaurant that specialized in all variety of mushroom dishes. This was to be a waypoint, and we had even gained the name of this place during our dinner with the Yogyakarta rainmakers two nights before. Unfortunately, it seems that the sweat and grit of the road had claimed this scrap of paper, leaving us with only knowledge of the theme and approximate location of this restaurant.

We began pulling off the road from time to time, attempting to communicate “mushroom restaurant.” As you can imagine, this was met with at times hilarious, but none too productive results. Finally, rabid with hunger and at our wit’s end, we pulled into General Electric’s Indonesian headquarters, the first fellow we spoke to took pity on us, in our ragged and disoriented state, flagging down a nearby driver, who questioned us some more, and then, may the angels sing his praises, related to us the location of the restaurant.

It was about two kilometers away, and we tore into the wheel. A new kind of electricity filled us at the thought of food, and we made very short work of the trip, despite the fact that it was all uphill, and the sun was beating down on our already quite burned skin.

And, dear reader, we were decidely not disappointed.

The restaurant was shady and dark, with many fountains, and the most enticing aromas wafting from the place. While the parking attendants marveled at the Dahon Speed TRs.

I ordered a refreshing lemon and mushroom drink, and Scott a honey and lime. These were followed by mushroom satay dripping with a sweet peanut sauce; crispy fried mushrooms peppered and served with a red chili sauce; herbed and curried mushrooms complete with rice topped with more crispy mushrooms, mushroom lemongrass soup, and a mushroom and egg dish wrapped in banana leaf, and toasted over a fire.

We tried as hard as we could to savor the feast, rather just inhale it, and achieved some non-trivial success. And then leaned back to relax and enjoy the rise in blood sugar.

The wheel home was glorious. It was almost all downhill, and we flew along, pedaling very little, but covering the remaining 10 kilometers in no time. We had grand plans for further missions, but after such a wheel, we could do little more than relax in the garden at the Setia Kawan and play the ukulele until the sun hung low in the sky and the call to prayer began to sound all over the city.

Our first full day in Jogjakarta began with rain. We collected ourselves and walked down to breakfast. Lacking coffee, and still somewhat asleep, we agreed to the waitress’s suggestion and ordered the European breakfast. It was fine, and certainly beat the pants off our untoast experience in Bandung, but left something to be desired in terms of volume and butter content. We vowed, after being revived by coffee to go for the local option in the future.

With the rain seemingly done, and the sun back out again, we climbed on the speed TRs and headed south. We kept riding until the city began to dissolve into jungle.

Here we discovered a truly unbelievable expanse of furniture makers and sellers. For kilometers, we rode by nothing but furniture, and we were astounded by the prices. Ten dollars for a very solid hand-built chair. Lots of cheap tables and couches, all made of deep rain forest woods, and without the use of nails or pegs. Quite unbelievable.

We wheeled on until even the furniture sellers were gone and it was just us and the rice farmers. Rice takes an order of magnitude or two more labor to grow than wheat or corn, as evidenced by the fact that there are always many people out in the rice fields, scooping mud, redirecting water, spreading various powders, and generally keeping things in line. All without shoes.  The rice farmers also seemed to be enlisting the help of a number of strange stork-like birds, perhaps for pest control? If you know anything about this farming method, please tell us in the comments.

We wheeled on past plot after deliberately flooded plot, until the sky began to threaten rain. We were just able to duck into a small local shop in time to avoid the huge pelting drops. The interior of the shop was so packed with inventory that I was almost unable to make it up to the counter to be refused access the the bathroom. Perhaps the only inhospitable event to date in our adventures in Indonesia.

The rain lasted no more than 10 minutes, and we were once again off. We caught the Jogjakarta ring road and took it part way around the city, eventually angling back toward the shopping district, where we were fixing to have lunch and conduct some operations for Project K9.

The rain began again quite suddenly as we were passing a local bank. We called a quick waypoint and dashed for cover.

This time the rain ceased to quit, and eventually the security guard at the bank agreed to watch over the cycles and lend us an umbrella so that we could go out and find some food. Huddling under the umbrella like two young lovebirds, we sloshed through the centimeters of water which ran in the streets. Luckily, right around the corner, we discovered a gigantic grocery store and mall with a vast, but none too clean food court.

We selected a place called Basko, which seemed to be a chain and also the name of a certain kind of everything but the kitchen sink soup: two different kinds of noodles, meatballs, chicken pieces, fried shrimp cracker bits, and a variety of leaves. We were famished and the Basko proved nourishing and tasty.  From there, we spent a few minutes inspecting the offerings of the grocery store.

Refueled, we exited the mall to find the rain had once again stopped.

The remainder of the wheel followed the pattern of the first half, with a cocktail of scheduled and unscheduled (rain-related) waypoints. One of which was at a stand that appeared to deal in traditional sexual remedies, and elixirs. The fellow spoke little English, but seemed thrilled to have us post up there for a bit.

With the rain continuing into the night, we opted for dinner at a nearby cafe, frequented it seemed, exclusively by foreigners, and covered with the same gecko-themed artwork as the Setia Kawan. The food was just fine, and they played Brazilian and Cuban music very loudly throughout the entire ordeal. We wiled away the rest of the evening reading about rice production on the WikiReader and discussing the fantastic possibilities associated with a South American/Caribbean wheeling. For that, however, I guess you, dear reader, will just have to stay tuned.

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.

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.

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.

Well, this is it. It has begun. The last few days have whirled by Scott and me like a blustery fall day, peppering us with goodbyes –to old and new friends, family and loved ones, and some of the less obvious things like English signage and running water. With both hearts weighted by these goodbyes, and lighted with excitement about the untold wonders that lie ahead, we strode onwards through a wind of passports and visas, various cables, bottles upon bottles of pills, and many packings and unpackings of our bags.

We stood amidst this bluster in the luxurious and surveyed  our inventory for the next ten months. Scott and I carry three items each. A general backpack, a technology/carry-on bag, and our Dahon collapsible bicycles.

We stared out across the gleaming carpet upon which all the equipment that was to propel us over these ten months was laid, and marveled at the immensity of what lay ahead. For those of you who are not so into inventories, by all means, cease your reading immediately.

For the rest of you out there, who share Scott’s and my own propensity for lists… I give you without further ado, our inventory.

Mobile Pharmacy:

• Imodium
• Benadryl
• Pink Bismuth Tablets
• Imitrex
• Prevacid
• Dramamine
• Medicated Eye Drops
• Jarrow Brand Saccharomyces Boulardii + MOS
• Jarrow Brand EPS tablets
• Tamaflu
• Diflucan
• An Epi Pen
• Promethazine
• Malerone
• Flagyl
• Nitrofur MAC
• Ciprofloxin
• Hydroco/APAP
• Azythromycin
• Metronidazol
• Flexaril
• Doxycycline (a lot of it)
• Tetrazodone
• Bandages
• Moleskin
• Micheal’s Paraherbs
• Red Bull Energy Shots

Woody’s Carry On:

• AsiaWheeling Business card holder
• Bundle of AsiaWheeling business cards
• 1 Canon Power Shot A610
• 1 Battery Charger
• 2 sets ear plugs
• 1 Alphasmart Dana
• 1 pouch filled with cables
• 1 MacBook Pro
• 1 Dop kit (toothbrush, dental floss and the like)
• 1 copy of Nick Danziger’s “Danziger’s Travels“
• 1 copy of Micheal Chabon’s “Gentleman of the Road”
• 1 Document pouch including:
• 3 photocopies of my passport
• Evidence of my exit flight from Indonesia
• A copy of my diploma
• A signed and notarized letter from our great helmsman commending us to the journey

Woody’s large backpack:

• 4 pairs of Ex-Officio Travel Underpants
• 5 linen shirts
• 1 AsiaWheeling t-shirt
• 1 Russian short-sleeved Liz Claiborne knock-off
• 1 pair of Japanese men’s pants
• 1 pair of running shorts
• 2 pairs of Smart Wool Socks
• 1 wool sweater which my father purchased in the seventies
• 1 Master Brand Braided Steel BIke Lock
• 2 mini bungi cables
• 1 Master Brand micro luggage lock
• 1 black raincoat and rain pants
• 1 spoke wrench
• 1 triangular allen wrench set
• 2 Knog tire patch kit
• 1 dive mask
• 2 Wiki Readers
• 1 flashlight
• 1 clothesline
• 1 pair of gloves
• 1 steripen
• 1 quick dry towel
• 1 silk sleeping sac

Books:

• Edward W. Said – Orientalism
• David Byrne – Bicycle Diaries
• Niall Ferguson – The Cash Nexus
• Lonely Planet – Central Asian Phrasebook
• Luxe Guides: Hanoi, Ho Chi Minh City, Laos & Cambodia, Phuket

Electronics:

• Flip MinoHD Video Recorder
• Earbud Headphones
• WikiReader
• MacBook Pro
• Olympus E-P1 Micro 4:3 Digital Camera
• Various USB and international charging cables
• Wintec WBT 201 GPS DataLogger
• MiniMaglite flashlight

Mobile Pharmacy:

• Doxycicline 280 Pills (Anti-Malarial)
• Ciprofloxin (60 pills Antibiotic)
• Acetomenaphen with Codeine (Pain Killer)
• Azythromyacin (Antibiotic)
• Jarro Dophilus EPS Pro-Biotic
• Saccharromyces Boulardii + MOS
• Michaels ParaHerbs
• Michaels Adrenal Xtra
• Band Aids
• Ibuprofen
• Ultrathon Insect Repellent

Dop Kit:

• Tooth Brush
• Tooth Paste
• Razors
• Sunscreen
• ToothPicks
• Dental Floss

Corporate Identity:

• 600 AsiaWheeling business cards
• 500 AsiaWheeling stickers

Clothing:

• AsiaWheeling 2.0 V-Neck T-Shirt
• AsiaWheeling 1.0 V-Neck T-Shirt
• Muji V-Neck Undershirt

• William Cheng & Sons Button-Down Shirts (3)
• Christie’s Panama Hat
• wool sweater
• Microfibre towel
• handkerchief
• 3 pairs Exofficio boxer-briefs, cotton boxer shorts
• raincoat
• 2 Carhartt Shorts
• Levis 514 jeans, khaki pants
• 4 pairs socks

Shoes:

• hiking boots
• Havana sandals
• Blue Zig Zag Wino Canvas Sneakers (Size 13)

Bike Equiptment:

• 3-size allen wrench
• tire irons
• Knog Patch Kit
• repair kit for Planetary gear shift
• Dahon Speed TR Folding Bicycle
• Knog Nerd, Frog, and Gecko Lights

Misc:

• RedBull Energy Shots
• Sunglasses
• Neck Pillow
• Scuba Mask
• Maglite, Pencils, Muji Pens
• Passport
• Documentation, Sir Kensingtons Work
• Pack Lock
• Quickdry Towel
• A copy of my Brown Diploma, My Eagle Scout Award, and a letter of service recognition from Congress, as well as our Mandate from the Great Helmsman David Campbell

Bags:

• Karrimore Track 30 Daypack
• REI Starlite Backpack

Cash:

• USD, HKD, SGD, VND, CNY, JPY in various amounts

It rained all the rest of the day in Seoul and we worked furiously on correspondence (as you can see by the date of this entry, we did not finish it all). But, as night fell, the rain ceased and a warm muggy night crept in on the city. Armed with a recommendation from one of the workers at this, our second hostel of the day, we set out upon the wet streets of Seoul. The fellow had drawn for us the characters for the name, and distinctive shape of this restaurant’s sign on the back of an old Yim’s house business card (dammit, Yim).

We initially had some problems finding the place, mostly because the skies opened once again and rain poured on the city, disorienting our searches. We huddled under a single umbrella and approached strangers showing them the card. Unbeknownst to us, we were presenting the character upside down, so each person we showed, took some time to discover what exactly these strange white guys wanted from them. Finally we asked a motorcycle delivery man. He pointed us in the right direction, and seeing the sign and slowly turning our now soaking wet Yim’s house card upside-down our spirits soared with success.

(more…)