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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, dear reader, we were decidely not disappointed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Traditional Javanese Gamelan Music

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

“Aneka Palaran”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All very interesting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Halal Hotel

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

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

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

Safety at Last

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

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

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

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

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

Outside the Mosque

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

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

The extremes of experience, indeed.

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

Finally a Feast

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leaving Tianjin, city of rust, was like a long goodbye kiss with China. And china had  abstaining from brushing and been smoking packs of cigarettes in preparation.

We had no “clean break” as one might in a plane launching from an airstrip, rather two hours stalled ferry, as our ship was continually delayed due to smog cover. We passed the time gawking at the Port of Tianjin. The acrid fog refused to thin, and when we finally departed, it was half an hour of snaking through the smokey labyrinth of docking canals, as our pilot ship escorted our own “Tian Ren” to the mouth of the Yellow Sea.

It seemed the port was home to a single ferry, ours, and was a place clearly developed for transporting cargo. This cargo was being loaded onto all manner of ships, painted in primary colors that oxidized through the fog into twisted pastels. Cranes poised idle, weather on the dock or mounted to the boats themselves. Names of ports beckoned from the ships’ helm, and mounds of red dust awaited loading adjacent to nondescript corrugated metal containers.

These are the kind of sights that really get me going. Countless blogs cater those hounding over the latest consumer electronics. Most tech guys like watches, mobile phones, mp3 players, and little gadgets. I like the gigantic steel things that enable global trade.

These gigantic unglamorous vessels oddly poetic names like “CNA CCM AFRICA” “Overseas Soverign,” and “Shining star” are owned by greek tycoons vacationing thousands of miles away in St. Moritz, shouting orders at teams of bankers who scramble in New York to value these rusting money machines.You see, the cargo ships are not trivial.Non-trivial to finance. New builds are expensive. The bigger the boat, the bigger the earning potential, the bigger the bet. You must spend a staggering amount of money and engineer a stream of payoffs from operating profits during the lifetime of the ship. If everyone wants ships, everyone will be building them and materials, labor, and dock space will be costly. By the time you’ve finished your ship, Hanjin, Samsung Heavy, Hyundai Heavy have just rolled out new builds too. Atop that, the (roughly) six year American economic cycle has hit an inflection point and supply outpaces demand for your services, dropping the price. Oops. At least now you have a gigantic boat with a nice shiny paint job.

Non-trivial to build. These gigantic things take time, space, a surprising degree of engineering expertise. Korea has a lockdown on this market, producing many ships in Incheon and Busan. Tianjin, too is trying to match the quality and undercut the price, but the Korean Chaebols have experience where the Chinese have a lot of mistakes yet to make. Additionally, these Chaebols are locked into stayed relationships with banks, governments, and may be cushioned by the other constituent firms that make up their holding conglomerate.

Non-trivial to own or operate. How long will the given economic boom last and will it overlap with the life cycle of your ship? Ever dealt with Philippine pirates armed with Russian made machine guns in the Sulu seas? They’re a real pain for your insurance premium (sea piracy and shipping accidents were the reasons Lloyds of London came about). It’s also a pain when Chinese people smugglers, known as “snakeheads,” were paid $60,000 per head to transport illegal immigrants in a shipping container, and you’ve been summoned to court to explain why they were discovered getting off your boat in Oakland, CA, rather than while getting on in Xiamen, Fujian. If the stress is too much for you, you can sell the freighter on the secondary market, like the Hua Run below: Manufactured in Vladivostok by the Russians then purchased and painted over by the Cambodians, ushered to a new home in Phnom Penh for a new life of dry goods transport.

Non-trivial to liquidate. What if the supertanker is leaking crude across the Arctic ? When repair costs exceed the expected future profitability of a vessel, its time for the graveyard. These graveyards are located in Gujarat, India, and Chittagong, Bangladesh. Why? Miles of shallow water near the mainland of these South Asian countries provide a place for the ships to sit lopsided in the sand while skinny, muscular, men are paid USD $1 per day to extract all the valuable scrap metal and disassemble the rusting beast. In industry jargon, this is referred to as “Shipbreaking.”

Assuming you’re not one of these misfortunate shipbreakers, and rather you’re a more fortunate shipbuilder its possible to get the timing right. You can borrow when money’s cheap, build where labor’s both cheap and skilled, and by the time you smash a bottle of champagne on the helm, the ever cycling economy is banging on your door to shuttle iron ore from Perth to Shanghai. That’s at least what Baosteel or Rio Tinto wants. Or it could be GE sending washing machines from Shenzhen, China to the Bahamas, where products sit in untaxed warehousing zones before going to market. A Nigerian oil magnate may send thousands of barrels of black gold from Lagos to Hong Kong. Or it could be shoes, motorcycles, steel pipe fittings, soccer jerseys, and diesel generators from Hong Kong to Lagos by Guinean traders in Guangzhou. There are ships for dry goods, ships to hold containers, and tankers to hold oil. There are even ships specially fitted to accommodate gigantic chemical tanks. Where do you think American food processing facilities off the New Jersey turnpike get their raw materials?

Shipping connects some of the worlds poorest with the worlds mass market middle class, and is overseen and orchestrated by some of the world’s richest. Catching a glimpse behind the scenes of the international logistics market on the Tianjin to Incheon ferry was stimulating and eye opening, driving my curiosity to new levels. As AsiaWheeling’s resident adventure capitalist, I will research further and determine what kind of inefficiencies or injustices exist in this market. Ones that we may address and continue to investigate on AsiaWheeling 2.0.

Back to our storyAs the Tian Ren neared the sunny Korean peninsula, shore birds began to ride the airstream created by the ferry. schoolchildren and ship engineers alike held out snacks which the birds snatched mid-flight with their beaks.

As the birds circled, darted, and arced, an engineering feat riving the natural one of the birds progressed around us.

A bridge connecting the island two bodies of land across many miles of water seemed to erect itself, as large machines filled pylons with cement mix and crane barges lifted road crew trucks up onto the causeway.

Korea was flexing its muscles. Samsung had branded this bridge, and the work itself has changed the way I consider civil engineering and its disciples.

The people on the boat began to buzz with the energy that accompanies a return trip home, and the clean sea breeze of Incheon welcomed us in a way that no burgeoning city in China could. Seoul lay before us, and with it, wheeling, drinkable tap water, post-modern metropolitan nightlife, and a new level of gonzo attitude.

Armed with a makeshift Korean phrase sheet, we dismounted the ship onto a packed bus which spilled into the customs hall.

Riding with a team of gentlemen (or ladies) on bicycles in a new city can prove hectic. On AsiaWheeling, the obstacles in these cities multiply: unpaved roads, conflicting street signs, vehicles ranging from fellow bicyclists to gigantic fuming buses, livestock, rickshaws, and open sewers. Often, we are without map or compass to sharpen our innate sense of direction and stimulate interactions with the local population.

So what keeps us unified and organized so that we may surmount the intricacies of the many metropolitan villages? The Wheeling Field Commands.

As you may be aware, the rider frontmost in the pack and closest to the flow of traffic is christened the bishop, or symply the bish. The bishop issues the field commands to the rest of the formation, including both formational and directional commands. The rider bringing up the tail is known as the anti-bishop. All field commands must be both verbally acknowledged and signaled with the hands. These field commands are as follows.

Directional Commands

Command: Rauschenberg
Abbreviation: “Rausch”
Illustration:

Required Execution: (1) Turn right at the next possible intersection. (2) May also be used as a signifier for right side.
Example Use Case: “A rauchenberg here will get us to the animal market” or “Peep this industrial wasteland on your rausch”

Command: Liechtenstein
Abbreviation: “Liecht”
Illustration:

Required Execution: (1) Turn left at the next possible intersection (2) Directionally, as used like rauschenberg above
Use Case Example: “Let’s take a liechtenstein to navigate this construction zone” or ” Lets pass this guy on his leicht”

Command: Gerade Aus
Abbreviation: “Gerade”
Illustration:

Required Execution: Continue wheeling in the forward direction. No turns should be made at the approaching intersection. Synonymous to “straight.”
Use Case Example: “The light’s still green, we’d better gerade aus”

Command: Waypoint

Illustration:

Required Execution: To stop your bicycle at a point of interest in order to gawk at a specific object or otherwise dismount for pedestrian activity. Most commonly used here at AsiaWheeling Global to purchase bottles of water from street vendors.
Example Use Case: “There’s a market selling eels and crustaceans to our liecht. Waypoint! Waypoint!”

Command: Highway Speeds

Illustration:

Required Execution: To pedal at maximum velocity for a sustained period of time.
Example Use Case: “We’re entering a raging tunnel bridge. Highway Speeds!”

Posture: Rough Rider

Illustration:

Required Execution: To grip the handlebars and remove one’s behind from the bicycle seat to hover above the back tire. In the case that the back tire has a fender, one rough riding may sit on the fender and pedal.

Example Use Case: “Low hanging trees. Better get down. Rough Rider!”

Posture: Forward Position

Illustration:

Required Execution: To grip the handlebars and place feet firmly on the pedals. Stand up and arch chest forward with chin up. Thighs should touch handlebars or be as near as possible. Field of vision should exclude any parts of one’s bicycle.
Example Use Case: “I can’t believe we’re wheeling so hard in Tienanmen Square. Forward Position!”

We hope you find this post helpful and that you may utilize it in your daily lives. Remember: Signal your intent and wheel safe.

“Resistance is ornamental” – Rem Koolhaas, on China

China has become a bit of a dirty word in the American lexicon. While I’m detached from what any given American may think about this country, attention to media headlines would suggest the following: Killer toys and deadly toothpaste. Dictatorship by committee that displaces families in the name of power generation projects. Censorship of Wikipedia, our latest oracle of knowledge. Unbridled economic growth threatening our own sovereignty, underpinned by a currency lauded by our own economists as an unfair weapon in the war of international trade. And with equity markets unilaterally considered less governed than casinos, China tempts money managers and financial alchemists the world round.

Of course, as AsiaWheeling’s resident adventure capitalist and resident ???????, this leads me to look deeper and asses the foundation of these claims. Do these above assumptions still leave China undervalued? Or are the implied future growth rates driving overvaluation? I hope to provide data that I have collected to you, our dear reader, so that you may be better informed to approach these questions.

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