For ages, the hijab, a head covering worn by Muslim women, has been a symbol of the East, a symbol of modesty and mystery. The practice of veiling has deep seated religious roots, originating when the wives of the Prophet Muhammad veiled themselves from worshipers who came to visit their home (which was converted into the first mosque). However, the hijab is an avenue for political expression as much as a religious garment.

Many think (and have thought) of the Middle East and the West as two opposing spheres of thought and cultural heritage. Despite the gross over-simplicity of this idea, the belief has been and is being used in conjunction with the practice of veiling to support political movements and rally people around nationalistic ideologies in the Middle East.  Kemal Atatürk, in his campaign to westernize Turkey in the late 1920s dissuaded Turkish women from wearing the Hijab.  For the garment was seen as a cultural artifact, alienating to the West. Today, with an awareness of the cultural connotations of the hijab, some women use the garment as a socio-political tool and veil in tacit rejection of the West, be it of the American occupation of Iraq and Afghanistan or of past damage to Syria, Lebanon, Jordan and then Palestine during the period of colonization and systems of mandate.

It is certain, though, that many women today still wear the hijab for reasons of perceived chastity and modesty. It seems that veiling can at once empower women and strip them of identity or agency. But there is no doubt that it is an injustice when women are forced to veil or not to veil for social reasons.

One way the veil can empower women is by allowing them to move freely within public spheres and escape sexual harassment on the street, a growing problem in the Middle East. It is thought that women wearing the hijab are harassed less because they are “good Muslim women,” mothers and wives who project an air of modesty. So we can consider the veil as a tool that allows women to be treated with respect in public spheres, rather than as sexual objects open to verbal or physical harassment.

But the question I have is: what came first, the chicken or the egg? Do women veil to escape harassment, or did the trend of veiling prompt widespread harassment of unveiled women?

A strange concept, certainly counter-intuitive, but bear with me. The veil, in religious terms, serves the purpose of covering a woman’s body in order to quell the devious thoughts of men. Perhaps extreme, but there have been campaigns which push women to veil that promote just such an idea. The caption of this add reads: “A veil to protect or the eyes will molest.”

This poster characterizes women’s bodies as sweet and tempting, and men’s eyes on them as spoiling. It seems that the consensus here is that a woman’s body is inherently sexual, something to be desired. The act of veiling springs from this belief, and attempts to counter the issue by obfuscating the temptation of the body.

However, it seems to me that wearing the hijab reinforces, intensifies, and to some extent creates the belief that women’s bodies are sexual objects, cementing this belief as a culturally accepted conviction. This phenomenon fits in with the sociological theorem “If men define situations as real, they are real in their consequences.” In this mode of thinking, if veiling is accepted as the norm for women’s dress, a woman who chooses not to veil is automatically deemed immodest, and, however unfairly, can be seen as fair game for harassment. In this vein of thought, the hijab desexualizes individual women, but sexualizes the concept of “woman,” possibly creating issues for women who do not veil.

Others would argue that veiling at times has an effect opposite to that of quelling temptation directed toward the covered woman. Veiling can give women a more subtle power as sexual agents. As Scott and Woody can attest, there is a certain allure and eroticism associated with the garment. Furthermore, when someone sees a veiled woman,  one’s imagination can create the woman as attractive, unbounded by how she may actually appear behind the façade of cloth.

No matter how veiling is perceived — by foreign men as alluring, by foreign women as confounding, or by its wearers as preserving or political, the veil will not be lifted any time soon. As religious conservatism gains momentum in places, more and more women are choosing to cover. With global tides carrying people and Islam across borders and seas, it is becoming all the more necessary to understand the implications of this sartorial phenomenon.

When Scott asked if I could write a post on Islamic Finance for the blog, I nodded with enthusiasm. To be honest I am a relative newcomer to this topic and a non-Muslim, and though while supremely curious I feel I run the risk of offending others on a subject that can be sensitive. Nevertheless, here we are.

The first thing that caught my attention about Islamic finance is its recent origins. Although religious scripts governing Sharia law have been around since Prophet Mohamed’s time, Islamic finance only emerged after the Second World War. It didn’t emerge as a result of new, groundbreaking economic principles, but as a response to a series of clashes between western and Muslim nations, which led to a rise in pan-Islamism.

Among the consequences of this movement was a change in the ways of commerce among Muslims. As Gulf nations withdrew petrodollars they held in the West and began dumping them in their own backyard, cities like Dubai and Kuwait emerged as hubs for the practice and display of Muslim financial piety. By the 1970s, Islamic scholars, economists, and intellectuals were busy studying and interpreting passages of the Quran for the creation of a framework for Islamic finance.

Theological Underpinnings

There are several factors that appear to make modern day Islamic finance different from conventional finance, the most important of which is the prohibition of interest. Wikipedia amply lists all these traits.

Al-Baqarah 2:275 Those who consume interest cannot stand [on the Day of Resurrection] except as one stands who is being beaten by Satan into insanity. That is because they say, “Trade is [just] like interest.” But Allah has permitted trade and has forbidden interest. So whoever has received an admonition from his Lord and desists may have what is past, and his affair rests with Allah . But whoever returns to [dealing in interest or usury] – those are the companions of the Fire; they will abide eternally therein.

But this prohibition isn’t unique to Islam. The Old Testament also regards the charging of interest as immoral. Exodus and Deuteronomy specifically regard lending to the poor as a sin.

Biblical Parallels

Exodus 22:25 - You shall not give him your silver at interest, nor your food for gain.

Deuteronomy 23:19 - Thou shalt not lend upon usury to thy brother; usury of money, usury of victuals, usury of any thing that is lent upon usury

Leviticus 25:37 - Thou shalt not give him thy money upon usury, nor lend him thy victuals for increase

It was only during the European Renaissance when Protestant reformer John Calvin changed the status quo. He argued that not all rules in the Old Testament set out for Jews (who were permitted to lend to gentiles) were applicable to Christians and that one must not interpret these passages in a literal manner. The bible should simply serve as a guide. But Calvin’s real concern was the exploitation of the poor through high interest rates. In Calvin’s letter to Oekolampadius, he writes that he is unwilling to condemn usury so long as it is practiced with equity and charity. Whoever borrows should make at least as much, if not more, than the amount borrowed, meaning that as long as one is fair and reasonable, charging interest should be allowed.

Calvin’s words were such a blow to the Church that interest became legalized across Europe. This was a major turning point in history. It is interesting that Calvin’s view, which forms a basis for modern day capitalism and bank lending, was effectively reversed by Islamic scholars in the 1970s. Is this to say that Muslims, who did business like others in corporate America up until the 1970s, were all of a sudden subject to the new rules of Islamic finance? Yes, in a sense. But there is a twist to it all.

According to Sharia scholars, a guaranteed rate of return on an interest rate is prohibited because the lender and borrower typically bear an unequal level of risk. For example, Sharia scholars prohibit the issuer of a bond to default on an interest payment and then go bankrupt, because those at the bottom of the pecking order virtually have no claim to their monies. Therefore much of Islamic finance is about creating a mechanism that reaps the benefits of bank lending with the appearance of profit sharing (Mudharabah).

Financing Structures

Consider a car loan. If I were to take out a loan in the UK, the bank lends me money and I repay the loan at a predetermined interest rate. Should I become unfit to service the loan, the bank revindicates (repossesses) the car, collects what is owed, and refunds the remainder (if any). If I were to go to an Islamic bank, the bank buys the car, and then sells it to me at a premium, also to be repaid at predetermined intervals (Murabahah). Although I end up paying the same amount under both scenarios, Islamic scholars believe that the latter scenario is only fair because should I default, the bank simply revindicates the car with no further claim on me. In the earlier scenario, the bank may further pursue me for any remaining principal if the repossession doesn’t provide enough. Thus Islamic banks do charge for the time value of money.

Another popular Islamic investment product is a sale/lease bond, aka Sukuk. Suppose I am a property developer and wish to build an apartment complex. I would sell a piece of real estate to a special purpose vehicle (SPV), which raises the funds by selling share certificates. The SPV leases the asset back to the issuer (me), thereby collecting principal plus interest and passes the proceeds back to the sukuk holders in the form of rent. At the end of the lease, the SPV sells or gives the property back to the issuer.

Other types of Islamic financial transactions exist. But to me the above examples are enough to suggest that Islamic finance is nothing more than smoke and mirrors. Islamic finance uses complicated structures to achieve the same goal as conventional finance, but with added cost and decreased transparency. At the end of the day, profit and interest by any other name is still profit and interest. It is hard to imagine that this was the Prophet Mohamed’s objective.

Interest in Indonesia

Having grown up in the world’s most populous Muslim nation, I want to share my observations on Islamic finance in this part of the world. In my opinion Indonesia sees Islamic finance like a dot in the horizon. I can assure you that the majority of business done in Indonesia is definitely not Sharia compliant. Even more fundamentally, more than half the population, which lives in poverty, has probably never even heard of Islamic finance.

The problem with Islamic finance is that it has no global standardization. It emerged in the 1970s in the Middle East, which explains its varying level of demand in different Muslim countries. And as Islamic finance continues to emerge in different parts of the world, it faces the danger of generating greater differences and inconsistencies. A recent Bloomberg article calling for certification among Muslim scholars is further testament to this problem.

Don’t the Saudis own shares in Citi? Are wealthy Indonesian Muslims putting their money into Singapore or their own Sharia banks?  As the market continues to develop, time will tell how market priorities interplay with religious doctrine.

AsiaWheeling is pleased to announce the launch of a much discussed and long awaited piece of functionality. We are speaking, of course, about AsiaWheeling’s Project K9.

But what is Project K9, you ask? Well, there are some things we can tell you, and some that will have to remain secret for now. To give you a basic idea, Project K9 is a treasure hunt, taking place all across Asia, the middle east, and Siberia, and we want you to get involved.

From now on, AsiaWheeling will be exploring cities not merely in search of the extremes of experience, but also in search of treasures that have been requested by our readers. Still a little confused? I understand. Perhaps an example of one such treasure would help to shed some light on the subject.

Scott was catching up with Gabriel Lepine (pictured left) over cocktails at the Macao Trading Company in New York City. As the two discussed AsiaWheeling’s new treasure hunt initiative, Gab became intrigued. He immediately put his order in for something to grace the wall of his Tribeca apartment. The request? A wooden mask. The price? About $100. A simple request and the perfect challenge for AsiaWheeling.

From there, we ventured off to the east in search of such a mask. We were to find it two weeks into our journey in Yogjakarta, Indonesia, the Javanese cultural capital. The masks felt sturdy and robust. Together, the pair consisted of a king and queen. It seemed like the perfect fit for our man Gab.

We made our way to the Indonesian post office, wrapped it in newsprint, burlap bags, fibrous twine, and brown paper, and sent it on its way to the Big Apple. Corresponding with Gab, we showed him the map below which documents its discovery location.

“I love it, it’s great.” Gab exclaimed upon receiving the masks. Soon, we’ll post a photo of the masks on the wall in their new home, though for now, the loot is pictured below.

Want to place an order in the Project K9 system? There’s still plenty of the trip left and we welcome you to challenge us with requests. Just fill out the request form here, and we’ll follow up over email seal the deal.

Our night at the Hotel Sayang Maha Mertha in Legian, Indonesia droned on at a snail’s pace, as we tossed and turned, attempting to sleep over the roaring laughter and screeching conversation of drunken Spaniards courting similarly intoxicated American women around the nearby pool. Our fan buzzed and creaked overhead, while the coil of mosquito repellent incense which we had lit smoldered apologetically amidst the late night din.

Needless to say, we were happy when the sun began to rise, and though the aforementioned noise seemed to switch seamlessly from crazy hour carousing to young children splashing and yelling in the pool, we were at least free now to get up and wheel a little.

The breakfast at the Hotel Sayang Maha Mertha proved quite tasty. Though we were forced to pay a little extra to flesh out the free breakfast with an egg, the addition of infinite cups of coffee was quite welcome.

In good spirits despite our lack of rest, we initiated beach mode and took to the streets, arriving in short order at the sea.

Though in the sunset it had been glowingly idyllic, we could see in the light of day that Kuta Beach too was a fascinatingly post-apocalyptic sight. We made our way across refuse blowing in drifts in the sand, waving good morning to the many fellows who made their living wearing Coca-Cola and Billibong branded shirts while raking up the evidence of yesterday’s defilement of the beach. We entered the surf to find that with each wave, we became entangled in rubbish, plastic bags mostly. We waded out some waves, and body surfed for a while before the sight of what looked like medical waste in the water turned us back toward land.

Back on the cycles, we explored the north of Legian. We worked our way along a surprisingly Sanur-like beach path. This one was about five times as wide, sporting the same gray brick and barriers every kilometer or so, which required us to hoist the speed TRs up and over before continuing on.

After we reached the end of the path (where we found a large tower advertising sunset bungee jumping), Scott called an Uber-Rausch and we worked our way back toward the Hotel Sayang Maha Mertha along the meandering back roads of Legian. One of our missions for the morning was to find some kind of protective system for our derailleurs. One lacking of the Speed TR is its vulnerability to damage on the derailleur during transit. So far we had been lucky, but from the scratches and damage to the bags that held the bikes while they rode in the belly of the airplane, we knew we were playing with fire.

We tried a number of solutions, including a variety of local wooden hats. Finally, we found a couple of plastic bowls (Melamine Ware brand) and a ball of twine that we decided would serve as a stopgap in our search for a better solution. Armed with this equipment, we checked out of the hotel, and after picking up our laundry, we decided to wheel to the airport.

Though this was our longest trip to date on the cycles while fully loaded with our inventory, it proved surprisingly easy, in part due to the flat terrain and in part to the friendly nature of the local motorists. This is not to say, however, that we did not make quite a sight arriving at the Balinese airport by cycle. The guards at the front gate, sported looks of 50% grin and 50% befuddlement as they flagged us through the bomb check station.

We arrived at the international terminal, and quickly began to disassemble our cycles, struggling briefly to attach the plastic bowls, attracting a small crowd, receiving reprimands for attempting to use the wrong kind of baggage cart, briefly alarming the security guards with the ukulele, and finally making our way toward the Air Asia counter.

At the counter, we were somewhat furious to discover that we would need to pay an extra $15 dollars each to transport the cycles (sports equipment charge…). After quickly recovering from that unanticipated expense, we were hit with another, when we learned we would need to pay approximately 30 bucks each to get out of the country. Luckily, we had, in anticipation of the unsuccessful trip to the Gilis, taken out a fair bit more money than we had spent. But it is worth noting, dear reader, that had we been out of cash, this might have become quite a sticky boarder crossing.

On the other side, we found many small shops, and restaurants, where food and drink was valued at 500% to 1000% greater than the normal Indonesian level, and at the end of the terminal our gate, which required another complicated security check. We had loaded up on drinks for the plane, which we were now forced to consume on the spot or discard. As the snaking security line for flight QZ 8496 to Singapore wore it way down, we engaged in the bizarre and fraternalistic practice of consuming as much liquid as possible in the shortest amount of time, upon which we had to submit our bottles to the recycling for security reasons. With my belly expanded to full capacity and glugging with our prematurely purchased beverages, I thought about a scene from the movie Charlotte’s Web, with which my sister had quite the affinity during my youth.

Meanwhile in the Denpasar airport, a uniformed man was intently scrutinizing my ukulele case, which turned out to still be holding the bike tool from our last wheel. The fellow explained that we could not take such a tool on board (perhaps for fear we would loosen all the Allen bolts on the aircraft?). We frowned at each other, and I tried to explain the importance of this tool and the mission of AsiaWheeling using sign language. He still frowned and refused, plunging his hand into my bag and removing more materials that he now seemed to consider forbidding. He then held up the ukulele pitch pipe and sternly questioned me as to its function. I began to blow into the pipe, producing a sweet note, which appeared to temporarily transport the fellow to a distant and dreamy place. He began to walk slowly away from me, still clutching the bike tool, with the distant gaze of a moth approaching a candle. Then suddenly he snapped around, and without a word replaced the tool in my bag, smiled a large and very Indonesian smile and bid me safe travels.

It’s a magical world we live in, dear reader. A magical world.

According to our map, the journey to Kuta should have been very short, but for one reason or another the drive took quite some time. Upon finally arriving, our driver was very kind in indulging us as we drove from hotel to hotel comparing rooms and rates. Finally we selected a very cheap place, by the name of Hotel Sayang Maha Mertha with a nice pool and the welcome return of free breakfast. It seemed to be frequented primarily by rowdy Spaniards and overweight Australians. Our kind of people.

With our debts paid, and our belongings safely stashed in the room, we took to the streets. Our first waypoint was a laundry joint, where we dropped off some truly foul and rankly sopping articles of clothing. In exchange for a few pennies per article, we would be saved the labor of hand washing and attempting to line dry in the foglike humidity of this boiling land.

That done, we headed for a cafe that might provide Internet and sustenance. Both we found to be available in moderate quality. As we awaited the arrival of fried noodles, boiled greens, and a kind of seafood soup, I booted up the MacBook and waded into a sea of unread email. As always, this process began with a scan for fires that might need to be put out. This time the scan pulled up a fierce bogie, necessitating the hasty scarfing of our food when it finally arrived.

It seemed AirAsia had canceled our flight, and as best we could determine from the poorly worded piece of computer-generated communique, our flight to Singapore had been moved to the 28th.  Looking at the email below, would you know exactly what was meant to be communicated?

This was some three days in the future and well overshot our plans to meet AsiaWheeling Dive Master and Instructor David Miller in Singapore. Obviously, we needed to speak with AirAsia and understand how they intended to get us to Borneo in a timely fashion.

Back on the cycles, we rode furiously toward the local AirAsia office, hastily locking our bikes to a telephone pole, and dashing into the relatively freezing and stark interior of the AirAsia office. A woman sat behind a large red plastic desk, quietly typing away. We were relieved to find she spoke English quite well, and even more relieved to find that our flight could be easily moved forward to the following day at five, leaving us time for a morning wheel. It would get us to Singapore in time to run our personal errands before meeting up with the esteemed Mr. Miller.  It turns out that the email was actually trying to say that for three days, the given flight would depart and arrive at a later time.  Either way, now it was aces all around.

Much relieved, we returned to the same cafe, and feasted like wild beasts on the Internet connection. Before we knew it, the sun was sinking low in the sky and we had not even visited the beach yet. Rumored to be quite beautiful.

So we packed up our things, grabbed some bags of our favorite local crispy-snack-shape called “Taro Net” as the convenience store was blasting swooning eletrohouse music.

Dave Darell – Children (Club Radio Mix)

[audio:http://asiawheeling.com/music/dave%20darell%20-%20children%20(club%20radio%20mix).mp3]

Pushing off, we pedaled for the beach. We got there just as one of the most miraculous sunsets of my life climaxed on the horizon.

We parked the bikes and sat down in the sand to watch bright oranges flash against purple and blue clouds in an evolving and shimmering light show. Really, truly, something to behold.

Indonesia had treated us well.  And at this moment, watching the beautiful pastel painted clouds pass over and young merrymakers frolic on the beach, we knew it was time to leave these islands.  The next morning we would be bound for Singapore, and whole new array of challenging pleasures.

The sun began to warm our room at the Rocky Bungaloes and we were confronted for the first time on AsiaWheeling 2.0 with the challenge of acquiring breakfast.

Rocky was hard at work outside on a restaurant for this place, but in the meantime, we would have to fend for ourselves.  Workers were perched on this restaurant frame, assembling it piece by piece.

We achieved finding an already fabricated a restaurant with little difficulty, hanging a Rausch outside our hotel and pedaling the short distance to Uluwatu Beach proper. There we found many restaurants all catering to the foreign surfing crowd, and selected one with a view of the water.

Refueled by two wicked cups of coffee, a plate of honeyed banana pancakes, and one very salty omelet, we decided to head down to the beach. Once again, the beaches in the area proved significantly stranger than the paradise we had found in Candidasa. The beach itself was more like a small inlet, into which giant waves of clear blue-green water crashed.

In order to access it we had to make our way through a number of concrete ledges, filled with clusters of surf shops and eateries catering to surfers, and serving burgers, pizzas, spaghetti, and beer. We finally reached the beach by way of a very steep collection of differently shaped concrete steps. The sand was clean, and the place seemed deserted. We attempted to wade out into the sea, but when strange currents began pulling at our lower extremities, we headed once again for dry land.

In climbing up out of the sand and into the rocky area surrounding the inlet, we saw a number of wooden ladders and walkways, all in varying states of disrepair and offering access to unknown regions above.

Exploration of these areas uncovered a number of observation platforms , some ruined and one still standing, from which one could see surfers riding the large  and pounding waves that were forming in an area of water separated from us by a shallow reef. Certainly, we thought, this is not the place to learn to surf.

We took a moment to ponder the global spread of surfing. It was due to young men with a similar spirit of exploration and adventure that brought surfing from its origin to the western world, and then east again.  Surfing began  in Polynesia, where the most talented surfer was named the tribal chief, and first witnessed by Europeans during an expedition to the islands in 1767.  From Polynesia and Hawaii, it spread to southern California and then to Australia, where it held a relatively small following until the 1960s.  With the release of the film Gidget, it grew from an underground fad to a mainstream cultural phenomenon through films, music, and fashion.

How does this relate to wheeling?  As the movement grew, the beaches of Oahu, Santa Cruz, and Huntington became crowded, motivating adventurous surfers to explore.  This brought them across Asia and Africa, putting surfers in contact with indigenous people in a relatively happy-go-lucky, non-combative fashion.  Such an exploration is detailed in the classic and influential 1966 film, “The Endless Summer. ” An excerpt plays below of the two travelers embarking in their suits to be the first surfers on a break in Ghana.

Since then, surfers have been discovering breaks all over Indonesia, such as breaks on the southern point of Nias Island, where one can also spend time with one of the last remaining Megalithic cultures.  By wheeling these many new places on land, we felt a connection to the surfers that had come before us and plied the waves of Uluwatu.  AsiaWheeling may not have the same infectious style of dress, which has now been adopted by the youth of Indonesia from their Australian  neighbors, but we’re at least trying to educate the world on the utility of the Panama hat.

Heading southward, we mounted the cycles and began to ride the rolling hills of the Bukit Peninsula. It was to be the southernmost wheel of the entire ten-month trip. We worked our way on the meandering steep roads, through Balinese farmlands, low-laying salt jungle, and many, many roadside stands selling water at up to 10 times the average price we had hitherto experienced.

Lunch took place at a roadside rooftop restaurant that clung to the side of a hill.  The food was tasty; the view was spectacular.

The clientele were mostly Australian surfers, tolerating the relentless cycle of Avril Lavigne records which the proprietors chose to broadcast.

At one point, near the southern tip of the island, Scott’s planetary transmission failed, and we pulled over to the side of the road to do some repairs to the mechanism. The moment we stopped wheeling, the immensity of the sun and the heat fell on us in a thick and sticky blanket. This was below the equator, and is the southerly most point of the entire trip. Since the month was January, we were in the depths of summer. Without our motion through the air to evaporate our sweat, we were soon drenched. Though the repair took no more than five minutes, we remounted the cycles with our clothes pasted to us and eyes stinging from the salty mixture of sweat and sunscreen.

We spent the rest of the day wheeling from beach to beach. None of them were able to come close to the wonderland we had found in Candidasa, but each proved unique and fascinating in its own way. We even found ourselves revisiting some beaches, using different entrances.

By the end of the day, we were tired, hungry, and in high spirits, only dampened slightly when we discovered that in Uluwatu, the Internet was not working, so correspondence (including a large load that I knew would be waiting for me, since my birthday had since transpired) would have to wait.

Instead, we relaxed in the hotel pool, conversed with some Dutch university students, and watched the sun set shimmering gold and purple across the glassy surface of the sea.

We awoke our last morning at the Beautiful Kalepa Mas, free of mosquito bites, due a late night investment in a “coil” – a locally popular type of mosquito repellent. The sun was shining beautifully, and it was not without some pulling of the heartstrings that we departed from our luxurious and most affordable accommodations.

But depart we did, and loaded the speed TRs into the back of a shiny Kijiang bound for the unknown land of Uluwatu. What did we know of this place? It was a mecca for surfers, renowned for its beaches and waves. Scott was interested in surfing, and an investigation of maps suggested a hotel that was well positioned in the midst of a number of well known surfing beaches.

As the sun beamed outside, we snacked on Indonesian crackers, watching the signs for the many places we had already seen fly by outside. Soon, the city dissolved into farmland, and we turned off the main road onto a smaller, quite winding, and notably hillier bit of road. Then, quite unexpectedly, the driver pulled off the road, and announced we had reached our destination.

It turned out that Uluwatu was not a town, per se, but just a region of beaches, farms, and scattered hotels. Our hotel was quite beautiful, though, and had an expansive view of the ocean. The rooms were spacious and the hotel had a very clean and new-looking infinity pool.

The place was called Rocky Bungalows, as we later learned not for the rocky nature of the landscape, but for the owner, a simultaneously friendly and rather tattooed fellow by the name of Rocky. At $20 a night, we decided it would do for the next two nights, so we unloaded our belongings and took to the streets.  The hotel also featured a fearsome creature caged for security in the drive up roundabout.  We call him killer.

The subsequent wheel was good but hard. The destination was a beach known as Dreamland. Once a secret, it was now well known and rumored to be quite stunning. Not long into the wheel we found ourselves tackling one of the most difficult uphills of our lives. My ears popped and my legs burned as we struggled up and over a mountain. The sun burned hot and bright and in the stifling humidity the sweat poured out of us. Lack of blood sugar and water whipped our backs like a cat o’ nine tails. Finally after one false positive after another, the hill ended, and we descended into the cooling breeze. The beautiful west coast of Bali was laid out before us. And from the summit, it seemed it might all be accessible now without even pedaling.

The hunger hit as we were entering the first established city of the ride. And we passed a place by the name of de X-treme Culinare,  and something about it called to us (besides from the brilliance of the name). We feasted there on fried noodles, chicken satay, and fish stew, while chatting with the owner, who had made his fortune as a cook on a cruise liner.

In addition to the grub, he gave us much needed directions to Dreamland, which we had inadvertently passed on our way to de X-treme. You see, however, we had passed it because we assumed it to be either a resort hotel or a posh housing development. And it turned out to be both, so it was a more complicated kind of mis-navigation that caused the error. Now on the correct road, we found the approach to be a long, wide, and newly paved downhill, with opposing lanes of traffic separated by a wide and grassy median, lined with palm trees.

After a number of long and fast descents (thank goodness for the modification to the Panama hats), we arrived at the entrance to a number of compounds. One of these, we knew, must be the beach, but which one? We were turned back from our first two attempts, one of them proving to be a nightclub, and another a golf course. Finally we found the right entrance, and locked the bikes to a telephone pole.

We strolled down a steep and crumbling approach, across a newly built concrete walkway, and out into a scene of pure post-apocalyptic glory.

The tide was in, and waves were breaking right at the shore. Only a thin strip of sand separated the breaking surf from the steep rocky cliffs that backed the beach. From time to time, a large wave would close the gap completely and crash against the cliffside. A large group of souvenir and apparel merchants had been forced to erect their umbrellas on the small bit of land that was protected from the unpredictable surf, and the beach goers were trapped in a decision between enduring the harangues of the hyper-concentrated souvenir merchants, or braving the dangers of the frothing and angry sea.

Despite large flags proclaiming the deadliness of choosing the sea, most beach goers decided it to be the lesser of two evils, and were picking their way carefully down the beach. The water was blue, but littered with both sea plants torn loose by the violence of the surf and garbage deposited there by humans. The sand was littered with wrappers, bottles, and rotting seaweed. We spotted enough broken glass to cause us to re-don our shoes.

All in all, it proved a fascinating waypoint, and after climbing back over the hill toward  Rocky Bungalows, we were quite exhausted. We relaxed part way back at another local surfing beach, by the name of Padang Padang beach, still quite dirty but not nearly as dramatic as Dreamland.

It proved good for relaxing and playing the ukulele, but after the virgin beach we had so much enjoyed in Candidasa, we were beginning to develop a bit of a discerning taste for these places, and before the osmotic pressure to purchase sarongs for project K9 became too great, we departed for home.

Ubud shined brightly in the relative cool of the morning, as we munched on fried eggs at the hotel restaurant. Allow me to explain, dear reader, if it is not already obvious, that we would certainly prefer to be eating Indonesian breakfast foods (rather than Jaffles and the like), but that here in Bali breakfast was (as, it seemed, in all of Indonesia) included with a night’s stay. So we felt pressure to break our fast in the hotel restaurant, which offered only western choices that among many lackluster qualities featured significantly smaller portions than the Indonesian equivalents we had enjoyed in Java.

Some shopping around secured us a car and driver to Candidasa for a few dollars, and with that we were off.

We asked the driver if he had eaten lunch, and he assured us that he was just as hungry as the two travelers in his 1990’s era Toyota Kijang.  He suggested suckling pig.  Being Hindu, Balinesians do not restrict pork from their diet.  This was a fantastic  blessing, as it led us to a delectable meal eaten right on the street of a small town outside Ubud.

Candidasa had come to us on recommendation of a French Canadian network administrator turned Balinese photographer, and a highly respected member of the court at Naughty Nuri’s.  The ride was about an hour and 40 minutes, and took us out of the mountains and through coastal rice paddies and coconut plantations. Candidasa proved a gorgeously sleepy little hamlet, and we quickly found amazing and quite affordable accommodation therein.

Our hotel, a place by the name of Kelapa Mas Home Stay consisted of a number of small duplex bungalows set in the midst of an ornately manicured and somewhat sprawling Balinese garden, complete with multiple stone temples, curling tiled walkways, and a private beach in the rear.

We were to be staying that night in a beach-facing bamboo bungalow, complete with private porch, two large beds, and the most delightful outdoor bathroom, which was quite clean and sported a cold-water shower that was no more than a large jug, cemented into part of the roof, which when activated, overflowed through a spout and down onto the bather in a refreshing deluge.

Though the urge to linger was strong, we decided to mount the cycles. There was much to do this day, and the first order of business was the beach. This, of course, demanded that we switch into AsiaWheeling beach mode.  AsiaWheeling beach mode is a simple transformation characterized by subtraction.  Only a small pouch of  cash and keys are brought.  Mobile phones, wallets, and sadly the WikiReader gets left at home.  Swim trunks and a light shirt with sunglasses and sandals makes beach mode complete.  The camera is the only piece of digital technology on the better side of the beach mode cutoff.  Assembling ourselves, we climbed onto the Speed TRs.

We had read of a hidden and secret beach about seven km from town and were tearing out of town. The scattering of shops that constituted the city were quickly replaced by thick jungle, dotted with small wooden,pig and chicken farming operations.

You see, dear reader, the city of Candidasa was a boom town during the 1970s, sporting a number of developments and a large swath of white sand beach. Unfortunately, a miscalculated government project harvested a large amount of stone and coral from the surrounding reef, which had the unintentional effect of completely wiping out the white sand beach, and plunging the region into an economic and ecological doomsday.

The beach toward which we rode was the last stretch of virgin beach in the area, and was rumored to be quite glorious. We climbed over a small mountain, and began to snake our way down the other side. Traffic was light, the roads were relatively free of hazard; and we were feeling great.

On the other side of the mountain, we came to a number of temples and an even smaller townships, where we were able to purchase water and gain directions to the beach.

We now rode on an even smaller and more winding path, which switched between gravel and concrete. The path had plenty of Indonesian “sleeping policemen,” however, most of these had been broken in one place or another and excavated to create a clear path for those on only two wheels.  We slowly descended to sea level on a gravel path of rugged terrain.

Eventually the road dissolved into packed red jungle earth, and descended steeply. After paying a fellow the 25-cent entry fee, we found ourselves at the beach.

It was far from secret, but also not overly developed and crowded either. The place was about 300 meters of meandering white sand beach, with bright blue surf energetically lapping against it. The first third of the beach was lined with identical grass huts, from which the locals we selling everything from fresh green coconuts to back massages.  A team of men rolled concrete piping from one side of the beach to the other, evoking the myth of Sisyphus.

Further down the beach were lines of fishing boats and the beach became scattered with discarded puffer fish (which, being poisonous, are no use to the net fisherman after being caught.)

We swam in the ocean. lazed on the beach, and generally rejoiced in our good fortune.  Generously, a French couple offered to share their loungers with us because we were almost completely out of cash.  Luckily, the cost of two coconuts to drink was within our budget.  After we had drained the milk in our state of beach-induced dehydration, we were pleasantly surprised to find out that the service included a slicing of the young coconut and the fashioning of a spoon.  It was exactly what we needed.

When the sun began to lay low enough to indicate afternoon was well underway, we remounted the cycles and headed back into the city to deal with our primary problem: we were down to about two dollars in cash.

Back at the hotel, we wiped the sweat out of our eyes, and consulted the front desk about the location of an ATM.

It seemed the closest one was some 10-15 km away in the nearest large settlement. We would need to either ride it, or charter a cab for the round trip. In many countries to which we will travel on this trip such a situation would be cause for assessment and calculated maneuvering to avoid being over-charged or ending up between a rock and a hard place short on cash.

Here in Indonesia, however, we found the entire experience to be relatively stress-free. Feeling tired from the long wheel and the sun, we decided to splurge on an only mildly over-priced cab, and in no time a jolly fellow in a blue Kijiang appeared to drive us to a local grocery called Hardy’s which sported among other things an international ATM. We loaded up on cash wandered through the store with our driver. He recommended a number of interesting snacks, and we suggested he throw a few in to share with his family.  Below, at this supermarket, is the most Pocari Sweat one may ever see in a single place.

And the coffee aisle.

The snacks were being purchased for consumption on tomorrow’s boat ride to the Gili Islands. The Gilis are a small cluster of three tiny islands in the sea that separates Bali from the neighboring large island of Lombok. Our main reason for the visit was the fact that the islands have no motorized traffic, and reportedly run on only bicycle and horse cart.

Among other interesting attributes, a theft or occurrence of misconduct on the Gili Islands is handled by the village elder, as there are no policemen present. So as you, dear reader, can no doubt imagine, we were none too thrilled to learn that rough seas and need for repairs had canceled our ferry for the next day. Stripped of our plans to visit the Gilis we were forced to re-chart the last few days in Bali.

Retiring to the beach in front of our bungalow, we recalled classic alternative rock tunes from the mid to late 1990s and nestled into some books as the twilight rolled out to the horizon.

With such a beautiful and affordable hotel, and the finest beach I have visited in my entire life only a glorious seven km wheel from town. We decided to spend another night at the Kelapa Mas in Candidasa and chart our trajectory from there.  As the ukelele continued, the sunset overlooking the Indian Ocean eased us calmly into an evening of rest.

And, believe it or not, dear reader, the next day we did something that has never happened in the rich and meandering history of AsiaWheeling Global Enterprises: we did the same thing two days in a row.

On the morning of our second day in Ubud, the skies opened, and torrential rains fell on the city. In the hotel restaurant, we decided to experiment with a dish known as the Jaffle which was served as a breakfast food in our hotel. It proved to be a very well buttered grilled cheese sandwich cooked in a kind of a press –which might for lack of a better word be called a Jaffle press. The coffee was tasty and fresh, but milk was served in the form of a strange and insoluble powder, which just floated throughout the cup as a kind of roiling particulate, like snowflakes in a night blizzard.

We responded to the rain by setting up the mobile offices in a nearby restaurant with a beautiful trickling water garden, large tables,made of minimally processed rain forest trees and a number of small sweet smelling flowering shrubs, one of which contained, notably, a large bat, which struggled voluminously to sleep in the small and exposed tree amidst the downpour and the sounds of the restaurant.

The Internet was, unfortunately, more like a thin trickle of information that would dry up from time to time, and we struggled to operate. The coffee on the other hand was stupendous, and served in a vast steaming kettle, just brimming with a thick fragrant brew, a bowl of deep brown local sugar and real honest-to-goodness milk, which easily balanced out the poor data flow.

And then suddenly the sun was out and we were off again, wheeling south, back to the monkey forest. When we saw a local looking fellow on a scooter take a small side path into the forest itself, we followed suit.

Inside the forest, we found ourselves pedaling along a slanting and coiling path of interlocked stone plates, immersed in an entirely unprecedented concentration of monkeys, fighting amongst themselves, harassing passers by, and generally creating the kind of ruckus that only primates can.

On the other side of the forest, we followed the path onto a large paved road, that was a straight shot through about a kilometer of Hindu temple after Hindu temple, many of them devoted to Hanuman, though a diversity of deities were represented. We wheeled on, through another concentration of touristy places, out eventually into the country, where terraced rice paddies and deep ravines containing roaring rivers reigned again.

Feeling the onset of the madness, we stopped for a bowl of Bakso (that delightful Indonesian noodle and meatball soup, which had saved us so many times before).

The Bakso joint was little more than a wooden overhang, which contained a modified version of a cart that had at some point patrolled the streets selling Bakso. Now, in its old age, the cart had been incorporated into this permanent kitchen. In addition, the restaurant sported several very solid teak tables.

We continue to be astonished by the quality of furniture here in Indonesia. Even a humble roadside noodle stand sports very well made and comfortable wooden pieces. If only project K9 were a little further on it’s way to fruition…

The Bakso was delicious and, all be they typically modest portions, a bowl was less than a dollar, and we were back on the cycles in no time. Rain seemed destined to revisit Ubud, and sure enough we were forced to duck into a protected roadside stand (once again sporting very nice hand-made furniture) near the street of temples on our way back. We snacked on peculiar peanut butter-filled pastries, crackers, and jelly, while the rain fell in buckets.

Wheeling through the streets, we explored the back roads of Ubud and came across all manner of shops.  Bicycle repairmen, light bulb saleswomen, Internet cafes and theaters all lined the green streets of the city.  Coming across a strange and ruptured statue of a young boy cast in concrete, we were briefly spooked.  You can see why for yourself below.

It was no more than 20 minutes later that the sun reappeared and we took again to the cycles. We struck out again into the hills, and climbed up a long street of merchants selling musical instruments, wooden masks, and oodles of furniture. Of particular interest was a shop specializing in furniture cobbled together from pieces of old boats. Beautiful rugged wine racks, dining tables, Adirondack chairs, and chests of drawers lay with peeling paint seemingly varnished with seawater.  A fantastic opportunity for western import here, no doubt.

From the summit of this elongated strip of craft houses, we descended back to the main roundabout affixed with Arjuna’s statue, and headed back home to wash up and prepare for dinner.

Dinner was again at the Dewa Warung, which had treated us so well the evening before.  As rare as a repeat dining experience is for AsiaWheeling, we felt there was a certain magic to the cocktail of food, people, and atmosphere that this place involuntarily cultivated.  This evening, we ended up speaking with a woman in town to produce a line of clothing.  A former modern dancer and roommate of circus performers, she provided fantastic perspective on the trade-offs between garment production in Bali and Pushkar, Rajasthan.  As luck would have it, she was a fan of durian and put half of a very large fruit on the table.  We happily obliged by sharing the fruit with her, which was sweet and meaty.

From there, it was a quick wheel home to our nest, followed by a deep slumber before the next day of transit.