Driving out to the Indus West Side hospital took quite some time, working our way from the center to the outskirts on Bangalore’s smokey and crowded streets. At we drove, we noticed a roadside stand advertising a big red cross, and a hand-painted image of a fellow wearing an exaggerated frown, arm in a sling. “What’s that?” I asked our India Bureau Chief, Nikhil. “That’s a bone setter,” he explained, “many people in India do not have the money to pay or the time to wait for a doctor to set their bones, so they might visit a non-licensed bone setter who will set the bone and splint it for about a dollar.”

Amazing, I thought to myself. Once again we find in India emergent solutions to problems traditionally tackled by the government. To be sure, Bangalore bears many examples of the extremes of experience, and as I pondered this, we pulled up to a gleaming brand new glass and metal structure on the outskirts of town. This was the Indus Westside Hospital, a new operation, established with the goal of bringing western medicine at a price that could be affordable to more than just the rich. We made our way inside to where we were welcomed into the office of Dr. Shankar Bijapur, who was more than kind to us, offering us tea and biscuits, and sharing with us the story of this hospital.

He began by outlining for us the basic design of the Indian state-run hospital system. Depending on the size of one’s city, the hospital will have a certain level of equipment and expertise. Because of this, many people are forced to settle for medical care from under-trained or under-equipped providers. But things are changing. Now India sports a number of world class medical institutes. However, these are, for the most part, used only by the rich because of price tags that are orders of magnitude greater than at an Indian government-run facilities. Dr. Shankar Bijapur has some ideas about how to fill the gap between Indian state-run practices, and those for only the hyper rich, providing international standards of medicine, with a significantly diminished price tag. But how? The short answer is by clever capitalization on the mission of the hospital.

Circular, I know… so let me explain: The first part of the answer is funding.

The Indus Westside is funded in part by an international team of doctors, roughly three quarters of whom have also pledged to add their professional expertise into the project at a future time. Funding also comes from philanthropists who have adopted some interesting conditions. For instance some donors have agreed to pay for operations for the poor and needy, allowing the hospital to count on revenue even when the customer is of dubious financial means. The project takes on no debt from banks or private equity, leaving it more freedom to run the project on its own schedule, as it pleases. As the organization gets off the ground, the managers will also take a heavy cut in pay. The other part is in the facility: The land on which the hospital was built was also negotiated at a very cheap rate. The city of Bangalore wants a hospital of this caliber to be built, and Dr. Bijapur was able to use that fact to negotiate unheard of rates on his 100-year lease.

The equipment in the hospital is of the best quality, but purchased at a cut rate due to the humanitarian mission of the organization. Also, building materials and labor in India are very inexpensive. At this point in the interview, we paused to let another doctor enter the office. He was a foreigner, and working on a premature birth. “We need to wait for a decrease in pressure before de-intubation.” “Understood. But how is the family?” Dr. Bijapur later explained to us that the family, having worked with Dr. Bijapur before, had come from across India and at great expense to receive treatment at this brand new hospital. We continued the interview as he took us for a tour of the facilities.

One focus of the hospital is the care of mother and child, but it is also geared toward treating the many victims of traffic accidents that are expected to visit from the nearby highway. Consequently, it features a state-of-the-art burn unit, and is equipped to treat with trauma victims and provide emergency surgery. The hospital has 200 standard beds plus 50 intensive care beds. A normal room has three beds, with one dedicated nurse. Intensive care rooms contain more equipment per bed, and are more heavily staffed.

Patients at the Indus Westside are also treated to a more holistic approach to healing, with in-house massage, steam baths, and use of traditional remedies in congress with western allopathic approaches to healing.

Climbing back into our taxi cab, I found myself thinking about our own medical system in America. Any way you look at it, health care is going to be expensive, and the approach being taken by the Indus Westside gave me some hope that we just might be able to keep ourselves healthy without having to part with an arm and a leg.

The sun rose on Semporna in the same way that Lady Madonna must have looked at the children’s stockings needed mending, and the Sim City 2000 theme rang out from my cell phone, propelling us downstairs for the SCUBA Junkie English breakfast, included as a bonus feature with the accommodations. On the way down, however, we were sorry to be informed that there would be no vacancy for that night, and that we would need to unload all our belongings from the room, trusting them to a ruddy corner underneath the stairs. This was somewhat stressful, and we decided we might well mitigate the situation by eating first.

The coffee was free, hot, and strong. Good would be a stretch, but sometimes plentiful will do here on AsiaWheeling. The breakfast consisted of a mismanaged flow of fired eggs, which appeared at irregular intervals gleaming greasily in a bent aluminum pan. Next to that pan were two similar pans, containing room-temperature, cloyingly sweet baked beans, and slightly less than room temperature recently un-canned chicken franks.

The toast was hot and fresh though, as long as one was able to battle through the crowds of zombie-like 25-year-old Australian and Dutch people, freshly pried from bed and distantly working to resuscitate themselves for the day’s diving, and actually secure a slice. We did so quite effectively, probably because of our training in Jakarta traffic. We were soon quite full of this mediocre slop, our moods lifting due to the introduction of caffeine, and back in the room packing our things.

Once we had packed our stuff up completely, Scuba Junkie informed us that they had misspoken, and that indeed they would have a room for us that night. We rejoiced and asked whether it would be the same room we had just had. “No, no, sir. Please leave your things here and we will show you the room when you return.”

Scott and I silently thought to ourselves, for not the first or last time, that had we been unlucky enough to have chosen to take Malarone during this trip, this type situation would have distorted and inflated into a gut-clenching, terrifying ordeal. Thank goodness  for the doxycycline, which allowed us to simply agree and make our way to the boat to Sibuan.

Aboard, David sprang into action, outlining the skills that we would be learning. Among those important for today’s dives were buoyancy control, recovery of the regulator (the device that delivers air to the diver), breathing from a malfunctioning regulator, out-of-air drills, underwater removal and clearing of the mask, and swimming while breathing through the regulator without use of the mask at all.

The sun was shining something more like Lucy in the sky with diamonds by the time we reached a small island by the name of Sibuan.  Sibuan, we later learned, meant “sunburn” in the local dialect. The island was aptly named, because except for a few coconut trees, it was almost completely devoid of shade. It was, on the other hand, a paradise of clear blue water, vibrant reefs, and it sported a little village inhabited by a local ethnic minority which for lack of a better word, I will humbly refer to (as the locals do) with the term “Sea Gypsies.”

The Sea Gypsies are mostly of Philippine descent but often hold no passport whatsoever. They have established communities on the many small islands that dot the Celebes and Sulu seas, and make their living fishing, farming seaweed, and occasionally trafficking untaxed imported cigarettes and booze smuggled in by pirates from the Philippines.

The Sibuan Sea Gypsy settlement was small, and the women covered their exposed skin with sand, which clung to them creating a kind of gritty sun protection and perhaps even played the roll of a kind of make-up (by all means, dear reader, please let us know more about this use of sand in the comments).

It is now that I must pause the tale to recount a relevant experience that took place before AsiaWheeling was even a glimmer in Scott’s and my eyes. It took place in a cold and dark, but wondrous place by the name of Bates College in the land of Maine. I was kneeling at the bottom of a swimming pool in this place, surrounded on all sides, and for some feet overhead by cool blue chlorinated water. I was breathing from a regulator, and peering through a mask at a much younger David Miller. He had a large red beard at the time, in which he buried his regulator. We knelt together at the bottom of this pool, staring at each other, sucking in dry mechanized squirts of air, and exhaling plumes of bubbles, which quickly departed for the surface.

David signaled “OK” and I responded. He raised his hand, gesturing to me in the way one gestures to the musical guest after he or she has been introduced. I took another deep breath from the device in my mouth, and reached up to remove my mask. As water poured in, I felt in enter my nose, forcing its way up to where contact with the softer membranes of the interior began to produce pain. I began to panic, and snorted little squirts of water into my nose, and eventually into my lungs where they made me cough. By now, all alarms in my system were firing, millions of years of evolution chastised me for breathing water, my eyes burst open in the stinging chlorine, and I could see David, a blurry ghost before me. My breath through the regulator was painful and punctuated by squirts of water into my unprotected nose. With a final shaking inhale, I replaced the mask, clearing it of water in one savage snort, then commenced a furious fit of sucking and coughing into the regulator, attempting to clear my lungs of that from which I could not breathe life.

David signaled a worried looking thumbs up (the signal for surfacing), and I responded with something unintelligible, jetting to the surface, and pulling myself to the pool side. There I lay, coughing and exhausted, and under the grip of a splitting headache, brought on by the great stress of the experience I had just had below.

Five years later, at Sibuan Island, off the coast of Malaysian Borneo, I was diving again for the first time since that ill fated day, and I had just reached that very skill that had reduced me to a pain-stricken weakling on the side of a pool somewhere in Maine. I was  making progress, though. I had been able, with some difficulty, to clear a partially and even a fully flooded mask, even taken small sips of air through the regulator with a filled mask, though under significant duress. Now it was time to remove the mask. I had attempted to do so earlier in the day, and found myself unable to, each time rising to the surface, pale and shaking, struggling to control my breath and the shake in my voice.

It was now or never, it seemed, as Scott had completed his demonstration of the skill some time ago. I needed to keep the mask off for 30 seconds of breathing, followed by another 30 of mask-less swimming in order to move forward. Shaking and nervous, I plunged into the sea, allowed by self to sink to the bottom and knelt there, awaiting courage.

Scott and David looked at me, with matching tufts of blond hair waving patiently in the sea. We stared at each other and blew bubbles. And then, harnessing the most mild uptick in confidence, I reached up and first fully flooded then removed my mask. The water began to work its way into my nose, and as I sucked bits of air through the regulator, the water level in my nose would rise up to the edge of the tipping point, sending huge surges of fight-or-flight chemistry into my body. My hands were violently shaking now, and my ability to control when I drew a breath was tenuous and demanded all the focus I could muster.

I sat there, allowing the sea and the bubbles of my own breath to crawl along my face, eyes mashed shut, and praying that time would elapse with all haste toward the point at which David would tap my forehead to indicate the experience would be over. It seemed like ages. I waited at the threshold of my own self control. I coughed into the regulator, and somehow snorted and drank down a gulp of seawater though my nose. My heart hammered in my chest, and blood rushed in my ears. Then, finally, I felt a touch on my forehead.

I smashed the mask back onto my face and cleared it with a painfully intense burst of air which was something like a cough, which escaped in equal parts through the nose and mouth. I opened my eyes to see David, staring at me with two big thumbs up, miming an underwater round of applause. He signaled to me to ask if I was okay. I signaled yes, but something was wrong. My heart was beating even harder than before, and my head was beginning to hurt, beginning to hurt really bad. I felt weak. I signaled to David and Scott that something was wrong, calling a return to the surface.

As soon as my head broke the surface, I felt like someone had driven an ice pick into my brain. I had not experienced a true migraine since I was in high school, but that was certainly what was happening now, and a bad one at that. David tried to calm me down, but all I could to was struggle toward shore. “I need to lie down, I need to get to the beach,” I clamored.

On the beach, I pulled myself onto the sand, and began to roll around, searching for a position that might cause some relief from the pain. Scott and David were clearly both alarmed. And though I told them to keep going, they called an end to even their portion of the dive.

I spent the next couple of hours sprawled on a number of surfaces, from time to time struggling to my feet and wandering to a new location on Sibuan, the sunburn island, searching for relief. The ice pick burned white in my skull, and the pain was making me dizzy and nauseous. Eventually, I spotted what looked like a woodshed, covered by a slanting roof, and protected from the sun by a great patched piece of advertising tarpaulin. I stood up once again, against the pain and nausea and made my way toward the shelter. In the woodshed, I was finally able to find some relief in sleeping for a moment, but quickly awoke to David’s voice.

“You can’t just wander off without telling anyone.” He was right and I apologized. The boat with the other SCUBA divers had returned and they were having lunch on the beach. I told David to go eat, and began to search again for departure from reality when I noticed I was not alone. It seems that the children from the sea gypsy village had discovered this strange writhing white guy tangled in a half undone wetsuit in their woodshed. They did not say a word, but gathered around me in a kind way. Looking at me curiously, and smiling warmly whenever I made eye contact with one of them.

I struggled to make some small talk but the effort pushed me over the edge, and I sprang from the shed, barely able to make my way to some sandy underbrush before I became quite violently sick. I hobbled weakly back to the shed, savoring that bitter relief that accompanies such events, and rejoined the kids.

My condition improved steadily as the day wore on, but for obvious reasons my SCUBA tutelage was put on immediate suspension. I wandered the coast of the island, and chatted with a French couple that was snorkeling there, while Scott and David initiated the final dive for that day.

Back in Semporna, the mood was contemplative as we mulled over what to do. It was finally decided that the following day would be a break from SCUBA, giving us some time to plan next steps.We feasted that evening on crab, which we selected from a tank of large specimens at a local Chinese eatery, and returned to Scuba Junkie to find that we were invited to return to the very same room that we had been asked to vacate that very morning.

Loading image

Click anywhere to cancel

Loading image

Click anywhere to cancel

We awoke as the sound of blenders as the clank of silverware worked its way into our comfortable beds at the Prima Cottages. The other guests were outside enjoying their free breakfast. We were eager to join.

A very well salted fried egg later we were mounting the cycles, and took off to explore the city of Sanur. Quite honestly, dear reader, it felt like another country. Everywhere there were white people. The roads were very good, and all the signage was in English. In fact, almost every service person we encountered spoke surprisingly good English.

After a brief stop at the local Citibank ATM, we began working our way toward the beach. What had been misty gray light of morning had quietly become a scorching sunshine, and we were loving it. We ended up reaching the beach near what we reckoned to be its northern extremity, so we headed southward on a very new looking brick path. We dodged around sunburned and retired Dutch people, declining repeated offers of massages, drinks, and other goods and services, stopping from time to time to chat with the plethora of English speaking tourists wearing Panama hats. Truly a bizarre place.

Past endless rows of beach chairs for rent, past the Hyatt, past an infinity of little souvenir stands, past a number of what we would find to be extremely prevalent convenience stores by the name of “Circle K,” and quite a bit farther down the beach we finally broke free of the western tourist zone. The brick path we were on began to dissolve into an eroded scatter of crumbling stones, and we followed it away from the beach, over a small bridge where an Indonesian family was lazing in the sun, and into a salty jungle.

I heard a commotion to my right and was just able to catch sight of a lizard the size of a small dog bounding off into the jungle. The path had become quite bumpy by the time we parked the Speed TRs at a delightful little shrine that marked the end of the path.

It is probably worth pausing here to discuss the religious differences between Java and Bali. They are two very different islands, in many ways. Perhaps one of the most important is that while Indonesia is about 86% Muslim, Bali is about 93% Hindu. We have yet to hear the call to prayer here, an ever present part of our time in Java, and it seems that every couple of blocks there is a shrine to one god or another. Also Bali is by far the richest island in the country (per capita), and the great majority of that comes from tourism. So Bali is tailored for tourists and ex-patriots. More importantly, with its fine roads, beautiful scenery, and relatively sparse traffic, Bali is great for wheeling.

Meanwhile, back at the salt jungle temple, no sooner had we parked the bikes, than another couple of wheelers pulled up behind us. “I heard you talking about Rauchemburg, so we decided to follow.” The couple turned out to be American holiday makers here in Bali, and photographers by trade. We explained a little about the wheeling field commands and one of them replied “so what’s a left turn? Lévi-Strauss?”

Fair Enough.

At this moment, the heat was really kicking in, and AsiaWheeling decided to switch into beach mode

We also decided it was high time for a snack. Up until this point, we had been meticulously careful about the foods that we ate. Knowing from our experiences in India during the pilot study, that not doing so might just set you off into deep and debilitating stomach sickness.

But here in Indonesia, it was a different country with different rules, and we were ready to try eating at a more local place. So we selected a Warung (small roadside cafe) and proceeded to order a fine feast of roast fish, greens, and seafood fried rice. It was incredible, and for the record proved every bit as safe as the more expensive restaurants we had been eating at. The coffee was also superb.

Refueled and refreshed, we spent the rest of the day beach wheeling, with waypoints scheduled to jump in the ocean, and to snack on corn being grilled by the seaside.

On our way back to the Prima Cottages, we noticed a fellow who appeared to be rebuilding the engine of his muscle car using an electric drill on the side of the road. If anyone in the readership can shed some better light on what the fellow might have been doing, please share with us in the comments.

Our room at the Prima Cottages had in the meantime been sold to another customer, while we had been wheeling. But the lady was happy to put us up in one of the actual cottages. So AsiaWheeling reluctantly moved its belongings into an even larger and more luxurious accommodation in a stand-alone cottage with a private porch in the middle of a sculpted Balinese garden. Real rough.

From there, we struck off again down the beach and headed north.  After a while of wheeling, we smelled an intoxicating odor that turned out to be grilled corn.  Spiced with chili and slathered in butter, the ears proved to be a delightful and much needed snack to prevent the much dreaded blood sugar crash.

A few hundred meters down the beach, we found where all the locals were swimming.  The sand was black, with families gathered on the shoreline sitting on rocks and the embankment.  In the parking lot, youngsters on motorcycles showboated around and gunned their engines, giving us smiles all the while.

That evening, we followed the orders of the illustrious Mr. Fu and proceeded to a chic local eatery by the name of Ming’s. The meal proved to be quite a luxurious experience.

It was a Euro-Indonesian Fusion restaurant. As far as we can tell, this means hyper rich versions of Indonesian dishes, pumped up with butter and garlic. Fantastic. Our meal covered all the bases, with an Indonesian fisherman’s stew, Indonesian Caesar salad, a curried buttery fish dish, and calamari served in the shell of a giant clam (we think the clam might have been part of the dish too, but perhaps in a ground up form).

Full and happy, we wheeled home through the steamy night, stopping at a local convenience store for drinking water, and to do some schtick with some local fellows who were drinking some strange local home-brewed liquor, and sitting on the ground outside the Circle K where we bought the water.

Despite the intensely touristy nature of this place, I believe both Scott and I were thinking Bali was not only great for wheeling but a heck of a comfortable place to visit.

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All very interesting.

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

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

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.

Loading image

Click anywhere to cancel

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.

We strolled through the Jakarta airport, with no idea of what to expect. The sloping red tile roofs and lush tropical vegetation looked cheerful enough, but our Indonesian Bureau Chief, Jackson, had alerted us to possible dangers. He was to meet us at the airport, but first we needed to get visas, collect our baggage and negotiate customs. As Jackson explained to us while we were documenting the inventory, this might pose some issues. Corruption was quite rampant in Indonesia we had been told, and it was not uncommon for officials to detain foreigners on trumped up pretenses in hopes of extracting a bribe.

The airport was plastered with signage advertising the administration of capital punishment for those caught trafficking narcotics. I immediately thought of the AsiaWheeling mobile pharmacy, and began to entertain fears that they might mistake it for a covert and illegal drug trafficking ring specializing in anti-malarial medication…

Luckily I was snapped back to reality when a fellow behind us in line (a giant line had formed for visas upon arrival due to some malfunction in the innards of the visa issuing machine) began to chat with me about my ukulele. He was a Taiwanese business man and somewhat of an amateur musician, here to trade garments in Indonesia. As a large team of officials struggled to repair the visa machine (many of them it seemed by staring intently at it), we discussed his business and ours. He offered his assistance when AsiaWheeling finally arrived in Taiwan, some 8 months in the future.

Indonesian Passport Control and Customs proved to be speedy and all smiles. I doffed my panama hat, and made my way to toward baggage claim. The smiling was a welcome trend we would find extended further into our time in here. As we traversed the airport, both employees and other passengers smiled and said things to me in languages I knew none of. We collected our bags and the cycles. Despite the fact that we had neglected to release the air from the tires before checking them, the tires has arrived in tact, and no major damage seemed to have occurred to the rest of the cycle components as well.

Jackson met us looking dapper in the sticky Indonesian heat, sporting a large grin and a relaxed attitude. His driver arrived shortly after, and we loaded our belongings into the  Toyota Kijang. The Kijang is the staple car in Jakarta; and the roads and parking garages are packed with them. It was strange, it occurred to Scott and I, to, in such a crowded and narrow land city, to drive only SUVs…. “Flooding,” Jackson explained.

We stared out the windows and I began to draw lines between Jakarta and places that we had traveled in India during the pilot study. Though Indonesia and India were soon to become very different entities, at this point it was the closest data point I had: littered with people, littered with road-side food stands, and littered with litter.

Jackson snapped us back into reality by presenting us with a packet of material that he had prepared: an introduction and itinerary to Jakarta which he had prepared himself (don’t worry, dear reader, copies of this for you are forthcoming); a collection of scans from the lonely planet; Indonesian SIM cards, and a bundle of Rupiah for each of us which he had changed in advance. We inserted our SIM cards and were asked to select our religion, as atheism and agnosticism are illegal in this country.  Jackson helped us navigate the menus and successfully initiate our first call.  Needless to say we remain helplessly indebted to this fine Indonesian gentleman.

Jackson’s house is gorgeous and in the city center not too far from the airport. We had heard traffic could become positively heinous in this city, so it was a blessing that we were able to make it back to Jackson’s pad in quick order. After dropping our stuff in his most luxurious room, and refreshing ourselves with some water and a glass of freshly juiced oranges and papayas, we embarked for a wheel.

The Indonesian traffic was dense, hot and raging all around us. We rode with Jackson in search of what he told us was sure to be a startling display of gridlock traffic. Having lived for some of the past year in Washington DC, I was eager to see how much worse it could possibly get.

AsiaWheeling was in full force. This wheel was already equal to or greater in intensity than any we had experienced during the pilot study. Jakarta traffic was a tumult of SUVs, motor-bikes, and city buses, which roiled through the streets with utter disregard for lanes, traffic lights, or turn signals. Yet, with focus, we found it to be manageable.

As we rode people called out to us, smiled, and waved. No doubt half the communications were insults in one light or another, but they were delivered with smiles and in a most un-threatening way. To be honest, it felt great to be wheeling again. The stresses of planning and leaving, and the myriad of logistical hassles which stood in our path melted away as we pedaled our speed TRs through the boiling hot city.

As we rode the sky began to open and a light but steady rain began to fall.   Traffic was becoming denser, but so was the rainfall, so we decided to turn around for home. A fine first wheel.

That evening we dined at an imperial restaurant called Bungarampai. it was absolutely delicious. Jackson spent some time debating the menu with the waiter and calling in for support from friends and family on his iPhone. In the end we settled on a hot pent salad, a roast duck, a large tower of fried egg and tofu, a plate of stewed vegetables and a hearty fried rice dish.

Full and happy, we retired to a “gothic” restaurant for a drink. The interior felt like a cozy and mysterious brothel, with many layers of red cloth hanging from the ceiling, and a little river running in a geometrically snaking pattern throughout the place.

The walls and corners were filled with artifacts: stone statues of Buddhist and Hindu gods, old imperialist paintings, and row upon row of Javanese puppets.  The roof was constructed from found timber, and we speculated as to how old it was. The humidity and the rain in this city, no doubt, age wood quite quickly… in the end we settled on something between 80 and 20 years.

Satisfied and flabbergasted at our good fortune, we collapsed into bed to sleep the sleep of men contented with the world.

As I sit, writing this to you, dear reader, your humble correspondents are tearing our way across the pacific ocean on China Airlines 00:05 flight from San Francisco to Taipei.

The past days are whirling through our heads with a kind of fury only rivaled by the anticipation which we excitedly harbor for the road ahead. Jolly memories of raging New Year’s parties with dear friends mingle with bittersweet longing for the loved ones that we are about leave behind.

Scott’s mother was driving like a bat out of hell, as Scott and I rifled through our bags, confirming the presence of items as they suggested themselves as a flurry of little question marks in our minds. I felt like my mind was a dripping faucet, ideas would form and cling to my attention, then fall away only to be replaced by another. We would truly have been in trouble had we not been planning this for the last six months. Thanks to our planning, all seemed to be there. But to be honest it didn’t matter. Unless one of us had forgotten a passport, Diane was not going to turn around.  AsiaWheeling was engaged, and could not be deactivated. It was time to reach for the old tools we forged on the first trip, to relax, to allow experience to wash over us, and to content ourselves with working within the realm of that which is under our control. And that which is under our control was about to diminish sharply.
I sent a flurry of text messages, milking all I could from the last few moments on my American SIM card. At times, I felt on the verge of tears, as I exchanged bits of ASCII with my loved ones. And then, quite abruptly we were at the airport.

We were met there by a long queue of people stretching in a snaking line from the China Airlines counter. Though the line was long, the staff performed commendably, ushering us through the line. We shuffled slowly, moving our folding bicycles foot by foot, closer the the counter. Scott and I were startled to run into multiple friends –from Brown and even Scott’s high school  Sacred Heart Prep– in this mother of all lines.

Not only were these fellows (a Mr. Jason Rhine and Mr. Jesse Maddox) in the vast queue, but the two proved to be on our flight as well. However, we noted that Jesse was nowhere to be found in row 44, as advertised on his ticket. We puzzled over this as we dug into the 1:30 am dinner of ambiguous fish and red sauce which was offered to us by China Airlines.

So far China Airlines has achieved high marks all around, provided us with Uma Thurman to watch, a fine selection of beverages, and a friendly staff sporting skull and cross bones pirate watches… but has completely failed in one notable zone: no ventilation. Well you can’t win them all can you?

AsiaWheeling is pleased to announce pre-orders for AsiaWheeling t-shirts! Swaddle your torso in adventure with our luxuriously sweatshop free 100% cotton American Apparel V-neck. Take a closer look at the design below (click to enlarge).

These are discharge printed, which (if you don’t have time to view the explanatory video) is a method of printing which actually dyes design onto the fabric of the shirt, leaving the garment soft and a print which does not erode with washing.

We wouldn’t lie to you, these are really nice. Very high quality. Very attractive.

Our most esteemed custom branded goods partner, Row Apparel, has teamed up with AsiaWheeling to bring you these shirts for $19 bucks a pop (which is the same price they sell for at American Apparel retail stores without design).

So, ready to do your part?