It laid at the final leg of our Indonesian tour, the end destination to five days of hills and relentless sun rays joyfully beating us down; the goal of three weary cyclists after a bout with a violent, three day, sh*t or vomit (choose one) illness. It awaited our arrival. We named it The Black Hole because of the empty space, truely out of time, which possesses it's traveler hosts out of reason and into a dematerialized paradise of sustained docility.
And why should we leave? Between the accomidating and charming staff, the Western and very inexpensive food, and the private loft were Chris and I lived like two after-school boys playing fort in the backyard treehouse, there was very little force pulling me out from the comfort of cushioned chairs and proper plumbing infrostructure and back into the cacophony of scrappy jungle life and rabid wild dogs. Whats more, as we tend to not spend more than one night in the same place twice, to rest in a comfortable bed at night again and again builds the terrible propensity to bleed bike inertia. A second spent the Hole feels longer than the entire grand length of time took to unravel the Universe.
The morning view after my morning swim. The homestay staff even brought my coffee and eggs out to this point for me to enjoy with the clouds and wind.
We stayed an extra day, then another, never letting the seriousness of our looming visa expiration remind us the little time we could afford, or the consequences awaiting us if we chose to ignore our transnational welcome. We were in the land of the Lotus Eaters. Occupying Lake Toba and savoring banana chocolate pancakes for dinner obviously had impaired our better judgment, we knew we had to get out. We only lacked conviction. In the end, against reason, we let Fate decide. Back in the hostel lounge, a 500 rupee coin flipped in the air by Michey our German friend had just landed in his laft palm. If the coin faced down, we stay. If faced up, we pack our bags and leave in the morning. No questions, no do-overs, no complaints.
And just like that was our departure date locked into place. "Sh**, I guess we leave tomorrow."
Chris resisted getting up the next morning, letting the alarm wake him, then laying down once more only to repeat the routine again ten minutes later. I knew better than that; you never resist those paths set before you.
Don't resist. Things will always work out when traveling if you just go with the flow of events. They present themselves to you for one reason or another. Many times I have pondered on just how delicate indeed our chance meeting with Steve, an invaluable team member to say the least, has been. It's happened so many times thus far that these "coincidences" no longer surprise me. They still leave me in awe and with a large smile on my face, but they longer surprise me. That is, I admire them.
Figuratively and literally, cycle without resistance. In this instance, our faith was rewarded. We did not join only one new traveling cyclist, that morning we joined a whole team of traveling Malay cyclists! Of course, it had to work out that way; the coin had been tossed.
After riding to the ferry dock that morning, dragging our bikes out from the suction that is Black Hole, my eyes began playing tricks on me. Bike held firmly under my grip, I thought it had been stolen. Stolen and somehow placed on the boat approaching the dock where I stood. It surely was the case. How else could a bike with my same panniers be traveling Sumatra at exactly the same time as I, in the same direction no less?Do you know what the odds are against that? Very high. Logic skips a beat in these moments, the reasonable seems impossible and you confide in erroneous nonsense. Seeing my bike on the boat infront of me as I held it close at my side was, at once, natural and unnatural; probable and proposturous.
The bike was actually not mine but that of another man, one of many, who composed the Malay cycling group that Chris and I (Steve had left a few days ahead of us due to similar visa expiration demads) would ride with for the next day. Only one day as it turned out. After four months of cycling through the Indonesian mountains, we'd become well conditioned to cycling mightily. Our new friends, on the other hand, had just began their journey. In short, our teams were too mismatched to continue for long. Even Chris, whom makes habit of slow hill climbs, out rode our new friends. Yet all is well, we had planned two separate routes to the Indonesian/Malaysia port in any case.
Technically the last town we would visit, the port town of Tanjung Balai is remembered more prominently as the location were I proposed a new traveling tactic than for any special attraction or sight to view. The Tanjung Balai manuever, as it has come to be named, solves the very profitable scam of porters who by no request collect your bags for a fee, or those custom fees not written on any legislation yet enforced by all seemingly port officers. It went like this: "I just don't have any money," I would say. "Didn't you exchange any of your rupiahs to ringgets?" They ask, with my back against the wall. "No, I have, literally, no money."
When they hurriedly directed me to the ATM, I assured them that I am permitted to withdraw only so much money in one day, and that Ive already spent the money on breakfast and the fare. A lie? Perhaps. But I do not believe that lies are inherently immoral and wrong in every case, it is the motivation behind them which can be.
For instance, Chris had lost a seemingly valuable piece of paper along the four months since we arrived. A departure card with little useful information scribbled on one side and a replicable stamp on the other. I might have thrown it away too. Apperantly the paper is essential before leaving a country. And so, when the appropriate time came, Chris lied and told the officials that a porter had lost it for him, thereby transferring the blame back onto their side of the court. Now, maybe not the most ethical choice, to maneuver blame away from the fact that he tossed the paper in a trash bin only days before, but it was an honest mistake and not one Chris was ready to spend an extra fifteen dollars to correct. And you know what? They just waved him on through the checkpoint, no paper at all.
So we boarded (somehow with a dozen bananas, two liquid juices, and over a liter of petrol stove fuel among our belongings) the ferry and set off to Malaysia. Good bye Indo.
A true attainment of grit, that's the way I can describe my first day in Malaysia to you. It was, in retrospect much like my first night in Jakarta. From an early rise and cycle to the Indonesian port, to the port officers' harassment, to the ferry ride itself, to the disembarkment into a new country where Chris and I knew no one, had no place to stay (it was about five in the afternoon at this point), and nearly no idea what our location was or which direction to go, we mounted our Surley steeds and began pedaling East.
We quickly found that Melaysia would be much more expensive than we had thought. A hotel, a nice hotel on the expensive side, runs about ten to thirteen US dollars in Indonesia. As the Sun began to set on our backs, our desperation began to set in as we rode from one hotel to the next, never finding even a cheap, bed bug infested hotel for less than twenty two US dollars. Great.
And then, just after leaving yet another cheap hotel, Fate graced us with a new opportunity.
"...don't f**k with me. You f**k with me and I'll f**k you up!!" is the response we got, three or four times, from an Indian man willing to take Chris and I in for a night. I'm half sure he was half drunk. We didn't fuck with him, just in case.
Instead, we agreed to return in front of the bar where we met in five minutes after a quick run to the convenience store. However when we returned the man had left. His car was gone. Chris and I let out a deep sigh; our opportunity was gone and we had no place to stay, once again.
Riding through the darkly mist of the Malaysian night brought unexpected life to my legs. Maybe it was that we hadn't biked at all that day, maybe it was the cool breezy air that reminded us of home, maybe it was the absence of smoggy cars and the freedom of an open road; maybe it was a lot of things that made me feel like riding my bike until the Sun came up. I knew I could ride all night if it wasn't for those damn dogs.
Now I'm a dog lover. I love dogs of all kinds. I've never even met a dog that hasn't loved me back entirely. But the dogs on this side of the World are of a different breed, they are. Twice that night did Chris and I come too close to checking into the emergency room for dog bites on our ankles. Twice was I sure I was going to get bitten by the blured pack of barking rabies. They don't just bark to defend their broken lock territories, they chase. They chase hard.
That's ok. We ride hard. Adrenaline kicks in and we become blurs of speed too. Thankfully we are a few kph faster than they. All the different, riding at night with chasing a dogs along an open highway forced me to requestion the prospect of riding til the Sun came up. Chris agreed, it was better, and safer, to pull in for the night.
Now about two in the morning, still no place to stay (though eighty kilos further down the road from the port where we began). It had been the case, two weeks ago, that we were in this same situation. Back then, we pulled into a police station and asked for a corner of covered ground to curl up under. The police man sympathized with our travels and actually invited us into his new home and fed us. It had worked out pretty well back then, perhaps it would work again now?
So we pulled into a police station and in our best Malay phrasing, asked for a place to stay. Bust. There was no way we could stay at the station that night. Chris and I were scurried away on our bikes by a rifle-strapped, uniformed cop. Damn Malaysia is hard.
Our luck must have all been spent out-pacing those angry dogs. Looking ahead as we cycled away from our last option, a building across the way caught my eye. Not exactly a hotel with room service but it would have to do.
We slept that night in the emergency waiting room of the local hospital. Why not? Open all night, comfy chairs, a watchman. Actually, I felt Chris had reservations about "sleeping" here. I understand, the situation was not ideal. But I was tired, the post rush adrenaline drop had sapped a lot of my energy, it was time for bed. "I don't mean to tie you down here Chris....but goodnight."
And with that, I walked outside where the air was cooler and stretched out on the wooden bench next to the line of parked ambulances to finally, thankfully, end my first day in Malaysia.
Stay tuned for more,
-A
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