Motorcycle Diaries

"Do you have the brakes on?" I yelled, trying to make myself heard over the torrential rain.
"It doesn’t make any difference!" Michael shouted back. "Look, brakes on, brakes off!"

It was no surprise that the motorcycle’s brakes were ineffective. I harbored no doubts about their mechanical efficiency, you understand. It’s just that the tropical storm had turned the road surface into river of mud and rocks and whether the brakes were engaged or not, we were being swept down the hillside with only gravity as our guide.

The day had started off so well too.

Michael of "Oh Rats!" fame) and I were enjoying a few days R&R on an island in the middle of Indonesia’s Lake Taupo. At the time, I was recovering from a bout with a rather nasty intestinal parasite and while I won’t gross you out with the details, let’s just say I felt very homesick for western plumbing. Over the course of a week, I’d lost around 15 pounds from my already scrawny frame so wasn’t at my usual Olympian peak. However, a couple of days of sleeping, playing chess, reading, and enjoying the afternoon thunderstorms from the sanctuary of the palm frond roofed restaurant had done wonders for my constitution and I was now ready to get back out and explore.

Car ownership isn’t too common in rural Indonesia and motorcycles are far more ubiquitous. The law requires helmets to be worn by the driver but not passengers and it’s common to see a whole family on one bike; Dad piloting the craft with mum sitting sidesaddle behind; one or two kids behind her with baby lying on the gas tank holding the handlebars and sporting a huge grin. Many people, particularly the younger guys will offset the monthly payments by renting out their steeds to tourists like us.

Being a couple of manly biker outlaws we naturally planned to hire one each, but a late start to the day coupled with a leisurely breakfast meant that by the time we were ready to hit the highway, there was only one bike to be found. No matter, it was a new-ish looking machine and appeared powerful enough to handle us both. So, after a few minutes haggling, currency was exchanged and we wobbled off down the road, a latter day Hopper and Fonda in search of adventure. That came some 10 miles out when the back tire went flat.

The next town was some three miles away, which is quite a distance when you’re pushing a motorcycle. We took turns, but it wasn’t long before the ever present humidity had us sweating buckets and it was with some relief that we saw two guys in pick-up truck stop to offer us a ride. Except they weren’t offering, they were selling. For a sum equivalent to about a month’s wages for the average Indonesian and about 10 times the amount we were carrying. A full and frank exchange of views took place and we agreed on a more realistic sum. The four of us hoisted the bike into the bed and while Michael rode along (to make sure we saw the bike again), I completed the journey on foot. Even though the town consisted of about six buildings, one belonged to a mechanic who had the flat repaired by the time I arrived and we were soon back on the trail.

The next bit of fun came a few miles further when we came to a bridge. "Bridge" as in "two parallel lengths of wood about the width of railroad ties but three times as long, stretched across a ravine". Another reason not to own a car but as this was the only road around the island, we were going to have to cross it somehow. Fortunately, a group of young entrepreneurs sitting by the road had just the solution.

"We take you across, no problem!" they advised us, while quoting their price.

This was extortionate and as with the pick-up driver, I began some aggressive re-negotiation. While this was taking place, Michael took a few tentative steps out on the plank, before returning to suggest I reconsider their offer. Noticing for the first time just how narrow the wood was, and after checking out the drop below, I conceded he was right and with a sigh, handed over the cash. From the expression on the faces of our young friends, it was obvious this was how the procedure usually played out. I have to say though, any resentment I felt was quickly assuaged as I watched the skill with which this kid steered our bike over the chasm. I felt nervous simply walking over and am sure if I’d been attempting to push a motorcycle, a dunk in the river would have been inevitable.

The day was getting on and we were some distance from home when we first noticed the ominous thunder clouds which had been gathering to our rear. A soaking looked on the cards so we checked the map to determine our options. No shelter was apparent on this side of the island but a narrow line indicated a short cut we could take over the center and hopefully back to what passed for civilization by the time the storm hit. Of course, you know there’s no such thing as a short cut. The road we’d taken turned out to be a narrow, winding pass which took us up, up and further up into the clouds. We were just about at the summit when the rain began.

Growing up in the Northwest of England, I’m no stranger to rain but nothing truly prepares one for the force on an equatorial thunderstorm. In no time visibility was reduced to a few feet while the force of the deluge pushed our heads down into our t-shirts. There was nowhere to go but down although it was soon obvious Michael had very little control over the bike. Before long the road itself began to move beneath us and like any other piece of flotsam, we slid and slithered down the hillside. There comes a point where you simply can’t get any wetter and it was about that time we both began to giggle. Chuckles turned to laughter and soon we were hooting and roaring hysterically as we tumbled, bounced and fell in the slop.

Some time later we found ourselves a café and sloshed inside in search of a hot drink. There we sat and dripped mud onto the floor while a party of Dutch tourists looked down their noses in disgust.

I turned to Michael and remarked “Yep, now we know how the Hell’s Angels must feel.”