Our goodbyes to David had to be made through the fog that accompanies undersleeping. It was 5:00 am again, and the Rucksack Inn was still filled with the same six – eight zombie-like Internet users that had been there when I had retired for bed some four hours ago.

As David climbed into his cab to Changi airport, and we climbed into ours to the train station connecting Singapore with Malaysia (mysteriously not connected to the subway system…), we bid farewell to the strange and wondrous chapter of the trip that David had ushered in, with a phraseology that David and I had used in college: “Goodbye forever,” I told him, knowing full well that I would see him in the next year or two. “Yeah, goodbye forever,” David replied.

And then we were off. Our cab driver was extremely polite and efficient, sporting a cab full of flat screen monitors advertising Chinese New Year’s gifts to us. We lugged our shiny new bikes into the crumbling white colonial behemoth that was the entryway to Malaysia, and I sat on the steps playing Mama Rock Me, watching the sun rise on Singaporean Tamil men unloading goods from lorries, and  machines scrubbing the street with rotating brushes.  Inside the railway station, we took stock of our surroundings and confirmed the tickets.

Scott dozed in the giant waiting room, and in no time we were working our way through a system of inspections, detections, and checkpoints, making our way to the train.

The train itself was old, but comfortable, with plenty of space to store the bikes.  The lack of a window near our seats, played a supportive role in our sleeping through the majority of the 14-hour ride.

At one point, we were awakened by a loud, but unintelligible transmission coming from the overhead speakers. All transmissions on the train were ushered in and out by a rising and falling set of tones, which must have at one point or another been quite similar to those used on the metro systems of Hong Kong and London. However, due to some malfunction in the innards of this behemoth of a machine, the train’s announcements were subjected to a kind of radical Doppler shift, creating disconcerting parabolas of tone that were quite effective at rousing both one’s attention and the hair on the back of one’s neck.

From what we could tell, this transmission was commanding us to exit the train and go through customs, which we did, exiting Singapore, and receiving a number of stamps on our Malaysian entry cards. Eight hours later, when we next awoke from our slumbers, we were deep in Malaysia. It seems somehow, we had missed the official entry into Malaysia, and had made our way into the country without getting a stamp. We said a short prayer to the gods of immigration and customs, in hopes that this would not cause us trouble down the road, and fell back asleep, rocked by the rails, snaking our way through the Malaysian jungle toward Butterworth.

Butterworth was the end of the line, and the sun had already set when we packed up our things and climbed off the train. We followed our fellow passengers toward the ferry to Penang Island. So far, peninsular Malaysia felt very comfortable. The presence of moderate amounts of rubbish and less well maintained structures was comforting after the sterile polished exterior of Singapore. We were quite surprised to meet a school teacher from North Carolina, traveling with her two young children. It was one of our first clues that Malaysia would prove very safe and manageable. Most everyone we had yet encountered spoke very good English, and even public signage was almost always translated.

We were able to purchase tickets on the Penang ferry for about USD 0.35 and spent the ride over to the island gawking at the very developed, well lit island on which we were to spend the next three days and down at the brownish sea, which was quite visibly crowded with large white jellyfish, pushed aside by the hulking ferry. On the other side of the water, we mounted the cycles, and rode into the city. Penang was well lit, and festooned with red lanterns and banners in preparation for the upcoming Chinese New Year. As we had seen in Singapore, most everyone here appeared to be of either Han Chinese or Tamil descent. The sharp cheek-boned islander ethnicity  we had seen so much of in Indonesia, Borneo, and even on the train ride to Butterworth seemed absent here. Perhaps this is what our Malaysian Bureau Chief, Smita Sharma, had meant when she described these as Chinese straights towns?

Thanks to the ease of communication in Penang, we were easily able to find our way to the Hutton Lodge, an establishment that had been recommended to us by our most esteemed Malaysian Bureau. As would prove the rule, the recommendation was stellar, and the Hutton Lodge welcomed us with a clean room, a nice view of the courtyard, friendly staff, and promises of free breakfast with infinite coffee.

We dumped our belongings on the beds and quickly unfolded the speed TRs to head back out into the fray in search of food. Since we had slept all the way through the train ride, we were operating on just a few biscuits in the stomach, and even without having wheeled that day, we were starving. Luckily, as Smita had outlined for us, Penang was a food lover’s destination, sporting a new style of restaurant, which AsiaWheeling had not  yet experienced. It was a kind of emergent restaurant, where the many cooks establish small kitchen stalls around a central seating area. Patrons are then issued a table in the seating area by some central authority and invited to peruse the surrounding stalls, from which the many cooks quite vocally tout their wares. Diners select foods that look appealing, order, and the food is brought to the table.

We feasted that night on fried chicken wings, a local fried noodle dish by the name of Char Koay Teow, and some strange medicinal soups from a Chinese vendor. With the exception of the soups, which were just a little too medicinal for our liking, the meal was delightful, and we climbed back on the bikes, ready to get a little shuteye after our long day of sleeping on the train.

Our last morning in Borneo began at once again in darkness. It’s true our room was windowless, but at 4:45 am, it was also dark outside, so we had cheated ourselves out of nothing. We rolled around in the dark as the theme to SIM city 2000 sounded out through the depth and blackness of our room at the Sipadan Inn in Semporna, Sabah, Malaysia.  Over the course of our time in Borneo, David Miller had proven a truly capital member of the expedition, improving our experience immeasurably. He had, subsequently been promoted, and his responsibilities expanded to Chairman of the AsiaWheeling Risk-Management Desk within the Bureau of Health and Safety.

In one of his first announcements in that new official capacity, David classified that morning’s cab ride to the airport as by far the most dangerous thing we engaged in in Borneo, though we had been breathing like cyborg fish underwater, boating in dubious and leaky craft, and wandering the hardscrabble city at all hours of the night. For you see, dear reader, in our estimate, Borneo is not so dangerous a place, that is unless the man driving your cab is three-quarters asleep.

He was a small man, and drove an unmetered (and therefore, I believe, technically illegal) cab. He had been summoned for us by the front desk at the Sipadan Inn, and at 5:10 sharp, he made quite the arrival, pulling his small Proton hatchback around and backing into the spot right in front of the lobby door. The moment he engaged the reverse gear, some apparatus inside his car began to broadcast a custom sound effect perhaps best approximated by the noise made by X-wing and TIE fighters as they zip through that curious reverberate vacuum of Star Wars space.

After he had successfully docked, we managed to squeeze ourselves into the car, which has been modified significantly from its factory fresh state to include custom wheels, glitter-filled paint, a miniature steering wheel, and a thumping sound system.

The style of customization might be familiar to fans of films such as  The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift . This style was no stranger in Semporna. In fact, it seemed, quite popular among the local youth as a pastime, with many engaging in a sport I first encountered during my youth in the town of Grinnell, Iowa, known there by the self explanatory name, “Scoop the Loop.”

Meanwhile, loaded in this fellow’s street racing Proton hatchback, we were tearing down the empty roads of Sabah, as the sun began to rise over the endless fields of oil palms. The soundtrack was incredible. Song after thumping song, we enjoyed a tasteful survey of the early 2007 electro-rock and synth pop as featured on the music blog FluoKids and even a nod to the tunes pumped by our friends at LoveLife.

It reminded us of our recent favorite song “Century” by Tiesto and Calvin Harris, introduced to us by the prolific and brilliant Rex Pechler.

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

His good taste in music was almost enough for us to forgive the fact that every few minutes, the fellow would viciously shake his head from side to side, blink dramatically, and yoga breathe in an attempt to regain lucidity. I eyed him carefully, and planned what I would do were he to actually conk out at the wheel: First I would need to grab the wheel and stabilize the car. Once I had gained control, I would, while holding the wheel with my left arm, execute a kind of combo move with my right, elbowing the sleeping driver back to consciousness and grabbing the emergency break slowing the car to a stop on the side of the road.

Luckily, gradually raising the volume on the stereo,seemed to do have the same basic effect, as our man’s struggles for consciousness seemed to turn in his favor, and soon we were safely arrived at the sleepy gray Tawau airport, checking in for our flight. The place was just as ghostly as we remembered it with most of the shop fronts empty. We sat in the waiting room and I played Amy Winehouse tunes on my ukulele while we waited for them to open up security.

The coffee served scalded the mouth, but with enough practice, we were able to cool it by sipping vigorously.

Exiting Malaysia was a piece of cake, studded with big smiles, and very gentle security inspections. Three tiny chicken foccacia sandwiches later, we landed, quite hungry, in Singapore.

Unfortunately, the gods would not smile food upon us until we had exited the airport, which proved massively difficult. After many wrong turns, one attempt to exit through the wrong immigration desk, two wrong airport trains, and one long conversation about overpriced cakes, we arrived at the MRT station.

The man at the desk directed us toward the machines that promptly refused to regurgitate tickets. Though the man was skeptical, we finally convinced him to leave his post and come investigate the machine. One look at the thing and he muttered in a dark Singaporean accent, “Man vs. Machine? Machine will always win.” And with that he dove into the innards of the beast, removing trays, interacting with panels, and finally, producing for us the much needed tickets.

After a very long train ride, much lamenting over our having not simply taken a cab, and  a walk through a labyrinthine underground shopping center, we finally feasted at a local Chinese restaurant, digging into a few plates of dumplings, steaming bowls of spicy noodles with duck and crab, and stir-fried greens. Our waitress was quite a gem, and indulged in some schtick with us about AsiaWheeling and our shared affinity for a particular Chinese vegetable (包菜), before putting a rush on our order.

David and I had just enough time to stroll the city for about an hour, while Scott napped, showered, and drank a RedBull shot. We got the chance to try a very interesting Singaporean style of ice cream, from a street stall. The ice cream itself, was cut in vast chunks from a foil wrapped log and wrapped with a slice of cheap white bread. The combo was quite tasty, and David indulged me by sampling the Durian flavored ice cream which was tasty but maintained a certain flavor of old gym bag that I found endearing and David found at the very least interesting.

Back at the Rucksack Inn, we had only a few moments to freshen up before we had to climb back on the MRT for our much-anticipated meeting with our newest AsiaWheeling partners, Speed Matrix, at the My Bike Shop in a part of town called Clementi.

Speed Matrix was throwing an event to celebrate the launch of its new folding Kayak series in conjunction with announcing its new relationship with AsiaWheeling. Members of the local folding bicycle community were to be there, and your humble correspondents were to be interviewed by some chaps from a local cycling magazine by the name of To Go Parts. All that aside, we were going to get our Speed TRs back, returned to us, no doubt, nipping at the bit for the rest of our riding in Malaysia and on into India. Needless to say, we were thrilled.

We arrived at My Bike Shop where our Speed TRs were waiting for us, gleaming and looking better than ever before. The wheels had been trued, transmission re-tuned, and a quick spin around the block promised superior wheeling ahead.

Thrilled at our good fortune, we spent the next couple hours sipping ristrettos, and hobnobbing with Singapore’s finest folding bike heads, many of whom proved to also play prominent roles in the international business community.

The hunger was just beginning to hit when Tan began closing down shop, and we retired to a nearby cafe by the name of “Leaf” for a scrumptious meal of Indian-Chinese-Malay fusion food, served on large banana leaves.

After dinner, we bid farewell to our new friends and were just about to hail a taxi, when the owner of Leaf came over to us and invited us to sit down for a drink with him as well.

Such a warm welcome had endeared us to Singapore quite strongly and we were none too thrilled to wake up the next morning once again at quarter to five, bid farewell to not only this city but our dear Mr. David Miller, and catch a train to Butterworth. But, as you have no doubt already gathered, dear reader, AsiaWheeling is not a sport for the weak of heart, or those prone to lingering. New, untold wonders lay before us, and somewhere inside us was the rekindled awe of the road ahead.

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So once again we awoke at Scuba Junkie in a different room. Of course, there was no room for us again that night, but we were fed up with all this switching of rooms, all these false positives, and decided perhaps it would be better to just stay the night at another hotel. That would be a challenge for the evening, so we slumped our belongings underneath the stairs once again and headed out to meet with Hassan. We found his weathered face grinning and beckoning to us from the across the street, where we followed him to a local Chinese restaurant.

He had placed three orders of fried rice for us. According to the menu at the restaurant the cost of these rice dishes was about 9% of what we had paid him for the island lunch, and you, dear reader, had better believe that we were keeping track. We sat down with him and drank sweet creamy coffee while David attempted to engage him about his life’s story. It was here that we first me with one of Hassan’s communication issues. He answered most requests in very quick and bursts of murmur, with either “yes” or “no” and followed, if we were lucky, by a one-to-five-word qualifying phrase.

Do people live on this island we’re going to?

“Yes”

About how many people live there?

“Not Many”

David was able to glean that Hassan had entered the Borneo boat tour industry in the mid 1980s just as this place was becoming a tourist destination. He had learning English from his guests; it seemed he catered largely to Italians, though why we could not be sure, or how exactly he used the word “Italy”.  Maybe this was his word for Europe? He certainly did not speak any Italian.

He told the shop in Malay, to put his coffee on our tab. Asked us to pay the bill, and then asked us to pay him in advance for the day’s adventures, reportedly so that he could purchase fuel for his boat. This we did, and with some mounting worry about the value we would receive in exchange for them, handed over our hard-earned Ringgit.  At least we knew we had a sumptuous feast of barbecued fish waiting for us on the island.

We walked with Hassan to the dock, and he signaled to a man, who was puttering offshore in his wooden boat. Hassan’s driver rammed his way into the cluster of boats that all struggled to use the tiny strip of wooden dock, until he made it close enough that we could hop on. Then, with a grin, Hassan, carrying all the money we’d just given him, disappeared into the crowd. His man turned the engine back on and backed away from the dock out into the murky and trash-filled water.

We certainly outnumbered them, and had grown quite strong over the last few months of daily wheeling. So long as he did not carry a deadly weapon, there was every chance that team AsiaWheeling would prevail in a physical struggle. So with this, we released our fates into this stranger’s hands, and to the great chagrin of all passers by in this overcrowded fishing port, we began to apply sunscreen.

Eventually Hassan returned with what David estimated to be four to eight times the amount of fuel required for the day’s journey. And we helped to steady the boat, as Hassan loaded some 50 gallons of petrol on board and then we were off.

The water quickly turned from oily gray to deep blue, and the fresh sea air invigorated us. We soared over the water, the wooden hull of our boat slamming violently against the surf, stopping only to remove the occasional plastic bag from the rotors, but mostly just soaring.We all began to relax, and grin as we sped by communities sprung up on stilts over shallow sections of water, and glorious islands, sporting just a few palm trees and a single hut.

Soon we made our way into a protected area of very shallow water between two larger islands. Here it was so shallow that Hassan climbed forward to the bow of the boat, where he sat, peering into the sea, and directing his driver as to avoid large outcrops of coral and rock.

We crawled through this section, and with the engine only quietly chugging, we were able to easily hear the sounds of life coming from the islands. Large flocks of birds, and millions of chirping insects sang in the distance. Steep cliffs and thick jungle backed tangled mangrove swamps, which came down to meet the sea. We saw little sign of habitation inland, but off shore, we saw a small villages on stilts, connected by walkways made of wooden planking.

Then we were through the opening between the two islands, and flying over the chop again. Straight ahead was Mantabuan, and, dear reader, it was a paradise, a small white sand island sprinkled with coconut palms, surrounded by a large shallow reef. We powered our way through a section of churning current, where water from the protected interior of the shallows poured out into the sea, and then Hassan’s man ran the wooden boat aground, under the shade of a gnarled mangrove.

Hassan began to remove his pants, and shoes, then slipped into a pair of nylon track pants. “Town Pant,” he explained gesturing to the thick blue corduroy trousers he has just shed. “Island Pant,” he proudly referred to his black track pants.

“First we must visit the police,” Hassan explained. So we followed him up the beach. “No need for shoes on this island,” Hassan added. He was wearing a pair of dark blue wool socks, which were encrusted now with sand. He noticed me eying them and grinned. “No need for shoes!” he reiterated. Out of pure laziness, I left my shoes on, but Scott and David dutifully removed theirs, but instantly were forced to turn back by the razor-sharp grass that sliced into their bare feet. Hassan waited patiently while they tended to their wounds and re-applied footwear.

The police, it turned out, were not on the island today. Good news, Hassan explained, because the island was a marine park. And with the police gone, we would be able to fish. We were uncomfortable about fishing in the Marine Park, but Hassan assured us that he would be happy to do so himself, or to simply buy fish from the locals. We decided we would be happy with the fish lunch and looked forward to drinking from the abundance of coconuts that Hassan also had assured us would be available. “We must go talk to the army now,” Hassan reported, and we continued to follow him around the island. Soon, we were staring at a net of razor wire, behind which there was a Malaysian infantryman in full camo, crouched in a little concrete hut piled with sand bags and peering out over the water. A large mounted machine gun sat by his side.

“Salaam aleikum,” Hassan announced, but the soldier did not stir. He cleared his throat and crunched his way off the grass and onto the gravel walk which lead to what we could now see was a very large military base snuggled into the island foliage. The soldier lazily turned around. Hassan and the man began to talk in Malay. Soon a number of other soldiers appeared, and we entered the base. Most had large smiles on their faces, and Hassan began to mime a signature at them, at which the smiles became larger, and the group of soldiers began to laugh and shake their heads.

Scott, David and I decided now would be as good a time as any to introduce ourselves, so we shook hands around the circle. The soldiers spoke reasonably good English and were happy to chat. It turns out they were posted on this island in direct response to the occurrence of a dive boat being been kidnapped in 2001 by Philippine pirates of the Sulu Seas. So, in essence, they were here to protect us. The base was substantial, with a few buildings, some trucks, a couple of machine guns, plenty of razor wire, satellite Internet, playstation and X-box gaming consoles, a badminton net, and plenty of bizarre hand crafts which spoke volumes about the boredom of the soldiers.  We commended a wind-driven pinwheel that had been fashioned to look like an airplane with a rotating propeller.  “Maybe if you spend three months here,” they chuckled, “you can make something better!”

We spent the rest of that afternoon snorkeling in the surrounding reef, which was rich with life, and sported some very strange currents and temperature changes. We swam into the current, though jets of bathwater, and dove down a meter or two into frigid water to investigate schools of brightly colored fish gathered around coral and sponge.

We were returning to the beach when a large military boat arrived, filled with the next crop of 20 soldiers that would be spending three months on the island protecting visiting tourists.

The men struggled to beach the boat on an outcrop of coral as we watched from the water, hoping that our presence would not cause too much embarrassment among the new soldiers. They, however, appeared just as chagrined about the affair as we were, and flashed bright white smiles once they had finally run aground enough to throw down an anchor made from a piece of corral slathered in concrete.

We came back to the beach quite hungry, and Hassan greeted us with the $1 dollar rice dishes that he had bought.

“What about the local fish lunch?” we asked eagerly.  Of course, we thought, this must also be at the top of his mind.  “Maybe 2:00 pm, when fishermen back. Right now no fish.”   Hassan hailed a fisherman in a dugout canoe by shouting “Come I give you money” across the water after we continued to inquire.

The man had caught two  beautiful fish that morning, but according to Hassan was asking outrageous prices citing the fact the fish were still alive.  And of course, Hassan noted that this would be something well above the threshold for the included lunch, and that his footing the bill was totally out of the question.

Defeated and suspicious, we dug into the rice, which was, to Hassan’s marginal credit, not bad. We then embarked on a tour of the island, which turned out to be easily circumnavigated, and only about twice as large as a baseball diamond. We then settled into the shade of the mangroves for a nap.

David awoke to Hassan’s voice, “I am feel very sick.” He then cracked open one of the bottles of water that we had brought with us, and drank deeply. “Do you want some clams?” A strange request, but “yes” David replied, we wanted some clams. Hassan then wandered away for a while, returning with a bowl of freshly harvested and opened raw clams.

He removed a rusty box cutter from somewhere in his island pant, and sliced open a nearby lemon. He rinsed the clams with some more of our water and then squeezed both halves of the lemon on top. We ate the clams with some ambiguous sweetbreads that Hassan had also produced from the island pants. They were quite good, but were also an indicator to begin worrying whether or not the island fish lunch would occur.

We asked Hassan if there was any fish, and he paused for a moment. “No.” he replied. “Coconuts, then perhaps?” He paused again in what was quickly becoming his signature delivery, “No.” “Why is this?” David asked. “The men have been fishing all day and they are too tired to gather any coconuts” Fair enough. “But what did they catch?” “No,” was the only reply.

Somewhat frustrated, we wandered over to the small village, where we found the locals to be cooking vast pots of fish.Hassan appeared after some time, and began haggling with a local woman over a number of small dried squid. All over the island, we had seen squid and octopus, drying in the sun, covered with flies.

Hassan finally tired of his bargaining and selected a single squid, for which we witnessed no payment change hands, and began to busy himself making a small fire with scraps and coconut husks. He than grabbed a large wok-like bowl, and placed the squid inside.

Tiring of waiting for the wok to heat up, he removed the thing and finally, just threw the squid into the fire. The squid was not quite dry enough to fully ignite, and in frustration the fire extinguished itself.

Hassan grabbed the squid, burning his fingers a bit, and then announced “We go back to the boat now to relax.” We nibbled some bits of the squid with Hassan as we wandered back to the boat, but still uncomfortable about the lack of fish lunch we soon made our way back into the village.

We spoke for a while with the military fellow, who explained to us that the town there was actually just one family – a single fisherman with many wives, and even more children. They attributed his great manliness to the consumption of a local brew made from some type of rigid sea life boiled in water.We refused the opportunity to try some, but did secretly speculate about whether or not some of the local military were not also to blame for the proliferation of children on Mantabuan. The military, it seemed, took pity on us, and though they were no more able than Hassan to produce a fish lunch (it would by this time have been more of a fish dinner),  a few of them wandered off into the jungle to find us a couple of oldish coconuts that had fallen from the trees.

After Hassan had chopped them with visible experience, we enjoyed them thoroughly, trying to squeeze every last bit of joy out of our 100 Ringgit lunch.

We gladly accepted these, and drank deeply. The meat, however, proved almost too brittle to eat, and we soon grew sore in the jaw, and ready to head home.

As we pounded our way back across the waves, a kind of strange satisfaction overcame us. It was no doubt one of the strangest days AsiaWheeling had yet experience, but fascinating in the extreme. Who was this man Hassan who had just charged us for an extravagant fish lunch, and pulled a bait and switch supplying some tiny portions of fried rice, and an old burned squid? What was this polygamous military base paradise on which we had spent the day? Was this really the doom of those tourists who dared to travel without bicycles? Regardless, it was an important data-point in our study of the extremes of experience, and as the sun set over the stilted shelters of the Sea Gypsies and we pounded our way through the surf, AsiaWheeling adjourned for the day content in our ability to get lost even without a bicycle.

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The day began with English breakfast at Scuba Junkie followed by a ride out to Pulau Mabul.  Lionfish, scorpionfish, frogfish, coronets, and all of the Finding Nemo crew call this island home.  Off the coast of the island lies a dive site fashioned from an old offshore oil rig.

David and Scott began gearing up for the dives, which would mark the last underwater skill building portions of the open water certification.

Running through the next maneuvers on land, they prepared to take a giant stride off the jetty into the water below.

And before too long, they were in the water giving the “OK” sign.

Having taken a break from SCUBA, I took up exploring the reef by snorkel, which also designated me as the morning’s cameraman, given that the maximum depth of the waterproof camera was less than what the SCUBA team would descend.

The coral reef was magical.

A diverse ecosystem lay below the sea’s surface, with a shallow reef that eased slowly into the sandy depths.

Mabul’s Reef, specifically “Froggie’s Lair,” proved to be a prime location for snorkeling and diving, as Scott and David can attest to.  Beware of those puffer fish though.  They look cute but you can’t get too close.

These photographs are, of course, mere approximations of the beauty, given the difficulty of achieving true color in undersea light amidst particulate.  We hope, dear reader, that you may venture to Borneo and witness it with your very own eyes.  The island itself was co-inhabited by a particularly interesting population of dive resort-goers and local villagers.  We searched for a coconut on shore, but neither of the communities were able to manifest one at any price.

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Our stroll around Semporna with David McKenna Miller was successful in a number of ways.  First, we were able to procure functional activated SIM cards with the help of two enterprising Chinese shopkeepers.

Among these successes, was the discovery of a delightful point-and-eat restaurant (which we were finding to be a common genre so far on the trip).

It brought us strolling past Semporna’s Mosque…

And the accompanying souq selling fried bananas…

Coffee…

Cassava…

Refreshing beverages…

and, of course, chilies and fish.

But no souq would be complete without a recharge station for lead-acid battery backups.

At the small port, construction raged above the ubiquitous piles of waste found in this city.

Also fascinating was an exploration of a sprawling neighborhood that consisted solely of houses and walkways on stilts (this too we were finding to be surprisingly common), and a fascinating conversation about anthropology, ecology, waste disposal, and AsiaWheeling’s mission.

Of particular interest, was a section of the stilted neighborhood that had recently suffered a fire. Underneath it, the mudflats that underlay the entire development sprawled forth. And as we peered down into the muck, we could see thousands and thousands of crabs, making a living for themselves in the black goo. Many parts of this neighborhood sported large landfills that mingled with the sea, underneath the houses. Even in the watery landfills, we could see critters making do in the rubbish. We also spotted giant monitor lizards, making homes for themselves in the more unsavory corners of the city.

In many ways, these sights brought the idea of a fundamental conflict between human expansion and the development and the health of other species. In such a lush and bio-diverse region, it seemed, at least some species were finding a way to coexist, perhaps even thrive off the presence of humans. Please don’t infer from this, dear reader, that AsiaWheeling is condoning the use of the ocean as a landfill, merely that we  have found it to be more complicated and interesting philosophically that expected.

A thirst in need of quenching brought us to the local supermarket.

There we found products to consume of curious origin and unfortunate destiny into the very waste stream  we scorned in discussion.

Another relevant occurrence on what we might call that day’s wheel (albeit a wheel completely devoid of rolling) was our encounter of a curious fellow by the name of Hassan. We were strolling near a large stilted complex, containing among other things a variety of restaurants, an aquarium, which was really just a bunch of fish in nets, visible below us, in the crystal clear water, and a hotel called The Dragon Inn. Put off by the previous day’s gerrymandering with our room, we had been interested in investigating other accommodation. It was no sooner that we had found the Dragon Inn to be full and without WiFi, that Hassan maneuvered into our life.

He was a thin and weathered man, driving a puttering wooden longboat, in a pair of blue and black velvet pants. Inside the longboat was another very tan man, who from the fact that Hassan referred to him as “Italy”, we would assume to be Italian. Hassan somewhat expertly slid his boat into a nook among the stilts and unloaded his passenger. When questioned, the Italian proved to be a man of few words, seemingly quite exhausted from his day in the sun, and remarked only that “for me, this island is the perfect paradise.” Somewhat haggardly, he  made his way back toward his room.

We then began to talk more with Hassan, discovered that he was a boatman (his card proudly proclaimed his 20 years of service), and that he had just taken Italy for a ride out to a place called Mantabuan, where he had spent the day snorkeling in the surrounding coral, and devouring a locally prepared fish lunch. We were intrigued, and decided to keep the man’s card.

Breaking for a quick refreshment, we debated the course of action for the following days.

That evening it was unanimously decided that for the remainder of AsiaWheeling, I would indulge in snorkeling as opposed to SCUBA diving. After the ghastly occurrences of the previous day, I was relieved, and once again excited to engage the underwater world, albeit with much more frequent re-visits to the surface.

Finishing the evening with some delicious soy sauce fried fish, we settled in for an evening of rest before heading to Pulau Mabul the next morning.

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Rucksack Inn Singapore Toast Graph

Toast Making at the Rucksack Inn

With stomachs full of rapidly digesting toast, we struck out toward Clementi station on the MRT, Singapore’s devilishly efficient metro-rail system. Scott and I made like locals and folded our Speed TRs, rolling them on one wheel through the crowded metro terminal.

On board we did our best to adhere to the posted signs and placards, demanding silence, respect, no transport of durians, no spitting, no eating and drinking, no panhandling, and stern reminders as to the proper way to escalate depending on one’s preference for standing or walking.

At Clementi station, we were instantly met with the problem of finding My Bike Shop. Strangely enough, the locals that we asked seemed somewhat baffled about the correct direction, though we thought we were using reasonably well known and large roads, such as the West Coast Highway.  Still baffled after a number of queries, we took a break to drown our sorrows in a kind of Shwarma that was being sold in the vicinity of the train station. The Shwarma ended up consisting mostly of iceberg lettuce and thousand island dressing, but hit the spot nonetheless.

With renewed energy we made our way, albeit somewhat circuitously, to My Bike Shop. Tan was once again thrilled to see us, and greeted David by name, having already familiarized himself with the AsiaWheeling advisory team using our website.

We were all set with a zippy little cycle for David and were invited to relax and cool off in the shop. We allowed ourselves to indulge in another delicious cup of coffee from the My Bike Shop Nespresso machine, and allowed the folding bicycle enthusiasm to wash over us.

Now positively bursting with energy, we laid into the day’s wheel. First order of business was teaching the esteemed Mr. David McKenna Miller the rules of wheeling and the field commands.

“The first rule of wheeling,” I explained as we meandered our way through sleepy Singaporean residential neighborhoods, “is to always signal your intent.” We practiced our Rausches and Lichts until David became reasonably comfortable following the bishop, and even taking the lead himself from time to time before striking out onto the streets.

Our first waypoint was a local park, where we meandered our way past the docks and over to a section called the “bicycle obstacle course.” This seemed a good place to cover some of the more advanced wheeling maneuvers.

Below, Scott demonstrates the “Rough Rider” position on a demanding section of bumps.  Such position requires the midsection of the rider to be placed behind and below the bicycle seat, as if to sit on the back bumper of the bike.

David follows, executing the command with a champion’s fervor.

The obstacle course certainly did not hold back. Most of the obstacles seemed to be variations on the theme of slaloms, huge bumps, and downhill segments that dumped the rider out into a sandy gravel pit where balance and steering were almost impossible.

Well, David, we’ve seen better and we’ve seen worse, but you’re not bad for a rookie .

We also had to call an extended waypoint and dismount when we discovered an interesting playground, filled with fantastic geometric structures, and Singaporean school children who appeared to be using the playground to learn some rudimentary physical principals. David, who is among other things a school teacher by trade, remarked quite positively on the use of experiential education in this strange and gleaming city.

In a rare occurrence, AsiaWheeling stopped at a McDonalds adjacent to the park for a much needed refueling.   The fare consisted of 20 McNuggets, two Milo McFlurries, and two glasses of ice water with ice.

Back on the cycles, we struck west, ducking in and out of residential neighborhoods, retirement centers, shopping malls, and the like. The more we rode, the more we became amazed at the sheer number of retirement communities that we passed. Each one was a large compound with towering housing complexes and sloping manicured lawns.

Next stop was a Chinese grocery store nestled into the side of one of these cookie-cutter concrete communities.

The grocery was chock-full of goodies that would have no doubt been thrown in our basket if the hunger demons had been rumbling.

We purchased copious amounts of water and cloudy apple juice, purported to be one of the great undiscovered natural wonders.

We continued on exploring the Clementi area, which brought us to overpasses and underpasses of the West Coast Highway.

Soon we found ourselves on a newly paved exercise path, which followed one of Singapore’s canals.  It was a surprise to find, and a joy to wheel.

The canal snaked onward as we passed the many healthy joggers of the city.

It was nice to be out of the traffic, and we followed this until the sun began to set, and the imminent closing of My Bike Shop called us to return.  We made our way back, through the many urban obstacles of Western Singapore.

After an unsuccessful attempt to cut through the United World College Singapore (the guard here was cold at first, but soon David was able to warm him up enough to chat with us, but not to let us onto the campus), we rolled back into My Bike Shop tired and sweaty, but happy as clams.

Allen, from SpeedMatrix, was waiting for us, and in an unexpected and humbling gesture, offered to fund the repairs to our cycles. He also provided Scott, David, and me with a set of fine biking jerseys sporting his company’s logo.  Looking at the forthcoming selection of folding kayaks really got the gears in AsiaWheeling’s heads turning.

We warmly bid Tan and Allen goodbye, and sadly parted with the Speed TRs, which would be repaired while we were diving in Borneo, and piled into a cab.

We were already quite late for a dinner engagement with some Indian colleagues of Scott’s from when he was living in Pondicherry. Rajesh and Pappu were in good spirits, and not put off by our tardy arrival.

We made our way toward a local fish head curry restaurant. It served a kind of Singaporean Indian food, which was delightful.

We feasted on fish head curry (of course), along with some fried chicken, a buttery curry, and some knock-your- socks-off biryani. By the time the jet lag began to hit David, we were all quite full and completely smitten by our wheel in Singapore.

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The sun rose in Singapore but was unable to find its way into our room at the RuckSack Inn, namely due to the lack of windows. But what it lacked in windows, it easily made up for in silence, cleanliness, and sweet smells. In preparation for our arrival, the management had placed a bowl of fragrant water over a tea candle, which kept the room smelling faintly of sandalwood. We slept like the dead, and when I awoke, I was quite surprised to the find the day well underway and the other residents busily making piece after piece of toast in the common room. We followed suit. And with stomachs full of toast and precious muddy Indonesian coffee, which we had imported, we took to the streets.

Traffic was certainly different in this country, and we rode between large shiny cars and buses that hummed by. As a general rule, we found the traffic to be very polite, changing lanes when possible to give us space, and providing us with little toots of the horn alerting us to their position.

The city itself was large and vertical. Huge structures of glass and concrete loomed all around us as we wheeled through the financial district toward our first waypoint: CitiBank. We were very excited to use some much needed currency services there, and were sorely disappointed when we discovered that Citibank in the U.S. is an entirely different operation from Citibank in Singapore. The very friendly women at the front desk were unable to even pull the current balance on our account. With regret, they explained that for the whole of AsiaWheeling, deposits would be an impossibility. And with meek apologetic smiles, they showed us to an ATM, from which we would be able to withdraw cash and do nothing else. Of some consolation, however, was the presence of complimentary cookies and coffee in the lobby. “Don’t mind if I do…” I thought to myself.  It will have to be HSBC for AsiaWheeling III.

Back on the cycles and freshly laden with cash, we were beginning to get the hang of this city. It was a place for highway speed calls, to be sure. Traffic was quick, and mopeds were almost nonexistent. Cycles were a little bit more common, but those too were rare. So we wheeled on through canyons of metal and glass amidst a light traffic of trucks, vans, and cars.

We were careful to obey traffic laws to the best of our ability, knowing that fines would be steep for any infraction we were convicted of. For instance, a simple case of jaywalking would result, if caught, in a $5,000 fine. Not to be taken lightly, dear reader.

Scott had purchased a Singaporean SIM card, and called a radio waypoint outside an overpriced Italian steakhouse, to get in contact with the local Dahon distributor. This was an operation by the name of Speed Matrix. We had been put in touch with it thanks to Dahon’s California headquarters, where we had picked up the Speed TRs.

We were badly in need of a tune-up, and Speed Matrix responded enthusiastically. It turned out that the demand for folding bicycles in Singapore had grown so much that Speed Matrix had recently transitioned to the role of wholesale distributor, supplying folding cycles and parts to no less than eight retail shops. The owner, a fine chap by the name of Allen, gave us directions to one of his top shops, and we immediately set it as the next waypoint.

Bottles of water in this city, unfortunately, proved very expensive — 10-20 times what we had paid in Indonesia — perhaps because here, in a land where one can drink from the tap, bottled water is a luxury, a form of conspicuous consumption. Regardless, our regimen of strict hydration was hampered by its burden on the budget.

The journey to the shop, known by the unassuming name of “My Bike Shop” was somewhat longer than expected, in part due to circuitous routing reliant upon directions from pedestrians and the mistaken assumption that streets might continue in the same direction for any appreciable distance in this most logical but somewhat difficult to navigate city.

We found ourselves forced to call a number of waypoints on the wheel. The first was at a 7-11 kiosk outside a posh mall, where we purchased some barley lime drinks, swearing to refill the bottles with tap water. Outside the 7-11, we engaged in lengthy conversation with a Greek man. The Greek fellow regaled us for some 30 minutes with stories of Greece during the second world war, and his experience working in the merchant marine, visiting America during the 1950s, and other wild ports of call from his youth.

After we bade goodbye to the Greek fellow, we quelled the urge to spend the next hour reading about WWII on the Wikireader, and took to the streets. We had made some significant progress westward when the hunger hit. Luckily, directly on the other side of the highway we were on was a roadhouse type restaurant called the Union Farm Eating House. It looked reasonably down-home, so we parked the bikes and strolled in. The specialty, it seemed, was paper-wrapped chicken, and we simply asked our waitress to emulate the order of the adjacent table, which contained two Singaporean gentlemen, positively raging on their paper-wrapped chicken, oscillating between scarfing down large pieces, spitting bones, and slurping noodles from nearby plates.

Unfortunately, the food turned out to be lackluster. The chicken was flavored in a way startlingly similar to Jimmy Dean Sausages, and the greens and noodles proved to be cold and uninspiring. There was some slight redemption  in the fact that they provided us with a huge dented aluminum can to deposit our bones in, but then we were hit with the bill, which proved even more uninspiring. An important lesson about Singapore: things are not cheap here.

While we were finishing up the meal, Scott got a call from Allen at Speed Matrix. It turns out they were actively expecting us, so we quickly paid the piper and hit the road.

Here I must take a moment to disclose that SpeedMatrix and My Bike Shop are partners of AsiaWheeling and have underwritten the cost of bicycle maintenance for this leg of the journey. The views expressed below, however, are those of AsiaWheeling alone.

The remainder of the ride was straight forward, with frequent calls of “highway speeds.” We arrived at My Bike Shop sweaty and triumphant, and strolled through the door into a frigidly air conditioned wonderland. Surrounding us on all sides were folding cycles of every shape and size. From folding full suspension mountain bikes, to hyper-light custom-built folding racing bikes, they had it all. We introduced ourselves to the owner, Tan, a fine gentleman, Scuba instructor, and folding bicycle guru.

He gave us an indepth tour of the store, introducing us to the newest models and technologies, detailing his personal modifications of some of the bike’s gearing systems, and offering us coffee (he obviously knew the way into AsiaWheeling’s heart). Tan agreed to help us in realigning and tuning our cycles, and to provide us with a spare tri-tool, to replace one we had lost in Candidasa.

Tan provided best practices for checking the Speed TR in cargo when flying with it.  This included some low-cost foam surrounding the rear transmission, bound with cable ties.  Removing the black Sram component, which clicks onto the planetary gear shaft was also a brilliant innovation we had not yet considered.

We also arranged to rent a cycle from him to to be used by the illustrious Mr. David Miller, Dive Master for AsiaWheeling on the following day’s wheel. Feeling quite delightful after our warm welcome and nicely caffeinated after the espressos that Tan had quite graciously offered us, we took back to the street for a very high voltage return to downtown.

We covered the distance in about half the time aided by our renewed energy and Tan’s superior directions.

Back in the city, we slowed our pace, and gaped in awe at the immensity of the structures around us, while we patiently waited at stoplight after stoplight.

The sky was beginning to light up orange and purple and by the time the hunger hit, we were back in Chinatown. We settled on a return to the same market that we had explored the previous night. We indulged in a meal of street food, sampling items from the hundreds of food stalls that clogged the streets.

Our dinner consisted of fried squid on a stick, freshly steamed pork buns, sausages with pickle and mustard, and a few plastic bags of dried coconut and mango. Truly delightful.

Scott then left to meet some friends from his workplace in Japan, while I prepared for the arrival of Mr. David Miller. It was not until well after midnight, clogged with exhaustion from the day’s wheel and strolling back from the corner store where I had purchased some modest provisions, that I heard a familiar voice call forth from a nearby cab. I was quite surprised to find none other than Mr. Miller himself, waving me over. I was quite overjoyed at our reunion and for a brief time forgot completely about my exhaustion, filled with a renewed excitement for all that lay before us.

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Aboard AirAsia flight QZ 8496 to Singapore, we were starving. The morning’s wheel in Legian coupled with the savage ride to the Denpasar Airport had set our metabolisms into over-drive. Furthermore, through some error in the booking system, it seemed that had we ordered only one meal for the two of us. We were able to purchase more food at exorbitant prices from the beautiful but somewhat cold stewardesses, and landed in Singapore quite hungry and badly in need of a drink.

Singapore was clean as a whistle, easy to deal with, well organized, and completely in English. We waited in a long but swiftly moving line for passport control, and chatted with a charming, but quite obviously exhausted woman behind us who was moving to Singapore to work with International Bridges to Justice, an organization that aids in South East Asian legal and humanitarian strife. A noble mission… we tip our hats to you.

We had read horror stories about Singaporean customs, mostly having to do with the gargantuan size of fines in this country, but we made our way through with no issues and in record time. We collected our baggage from the strangely shaped baggage counter, where the fellow sternly reprimanded Scott for improperly packing the cycles. We could hear some pieces jangling around in the bags, and small stones appeared in each of our stomachs. We decided we should make our way to the hotel, and deal with it from there. If there was damage, we were at least in a place where repairs to folding bicycles are as simple as a swipe of the MasterCard.

The luggage scanners did ask me to play the ukulele pitch pipe (perhaps to prove its function was benign), so it might have been that same intoxicating note that lubricated our traversal. We also may be particularly non-threatening, in our Panama hats and with folding cycles and the ukulele. Whatever the reason, we quickly found our way into a gargantuan, but frighteningly fast moving taxi-cab line. Before we could even get through even 50% of the Wikipedia article on Singapore, we were at the front of the line, stowing the WikiReader, and loading the cycles into a truly crackerjack cab, piloted by a crackerjack fellow, ready and willing to attach bungee cables to a trunk that would not close, all our luggage loaded therein.

He gave us a tour of the city as he drove, and we marveled at the quality of the roads and the lack of rubbish in this place. Outside the Rucksack Inn, Scott leaned over to the cab driver and quietly articulated, “I hate to ask this, but… should I tip you?”

“Not required!” the cabby flashed back, and promptly unloaded our stuff, and, with a slight bow and a grin, was on his way.

The Rucksack proved to be a pleasant and comfortable place. Our room, though windowless, was sweet smelling, startlingly clean, and very comfortable. 24 hours of free coffee, tea, and toast were a pleasant find as well. And the Internet was… luxuriously fast. We set hundreds of megabytes uploading, and grabbed the cycles to go find some grub.

Wheeling in Singapore was certainly different. The speed of the traffic was three or four times what we had experienced in Indonesia, and the signaling of one’s intent was vital to survival.  Conscious of corporal punishment that might have ensued in case we violated any of the traffic laws, we kept vigilant of signs and posted directives.  We wheeled toward Chinatown, and as we got closer, the smell of food and concentration of cyclists on the gleaming night streets increased.  For you see, dear reader, we were approaching one of the many sacraments of  AsiaWheeling held close to our hearts:  The Eating of Chinese Food.

Eventually, we parked the bikes and struck out into Singapore’s sprawling Chinatown. It was all refreshingly new and refreshingly Chinese. Scott was able read the characters, and I was able to pick out familiar words like the telltale shriek of “Fuwuyuan!” (waiter).

We settled on a seafood noodle joint, which proved delightful. Soon two bowls of noodles, accompanied by boiling broth filled with various types of seafood arrived. We feasted hungrily, amidst Chinese businessmen just leaving work and cooling off with a beer.

Rather than return to the hotel, we decided to delve deeper into the neighborhood, finding our way into a gigantic night market, already heavily festooned with decorations for the upcoming Chinese New Year.

By this point, we were both becoming quite exhausted, but the spectacle was such that we could not stop walking.

You, dear reader, might best understand by simply looking at the photos.

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.

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