Right to the Edge: Sydney to Tokyo By Any Means (20 page)

I was less than enthusiastic at the prospect, my bum red raw from bus seats already. But at 5.30 a.m. and in total darkness, Claudio and I picked our way across a building site to get to the bus terminal. Of course it was deserted; in this part of the world, bus terminals always are.

One did come by eventually, but it was full and didn’t stop. A couple of locals told us there would be another at some point, so we found a place for breakfast and settled down to wait. Finally, at around seven-thirty, a second bus arrived. This one had sharks painted on the side and what looked like a rusty water tower strapped on the roof, not to mention the sheets of plywood tied on behind. Inside it was bulging with mothers and their children, old men, young men, every inch of floor space taken up with tyres and barrels and bags. The seats next to the driver were going spare, however, so Claudio and I squeezed on.

There were other things on my mind this morning, apart from the bus journey. Because the border had been closed, the ferry across the Celebes Sea was now only going as far as another island. From there all we’d been able to find was a privately owned boat that was just twenty-four feet long, and if the border
was
closed, we would have to see if even that was possible. I’d been at sea in a small boat before, and this crossing would be at least two days. We’ve already discussed the Boorman boat curse, so you can imagine how I was feeling. And I’ve not even mentioned the pirates . . .

This bus was interminably slow. I’ve grown used to transport that moves at all speeds - from very fast to barely walking pace - but this was unbelievable. It took eight minutes just to crawl out of this tiny town and no sooner had we hit tarmac than a traffic cop stopped us. He spoke to the driver then crossed the road to his motorbike and rode away. We just sat there. Nobody seemed to know what was going on, but clearly the driver wasn’t going anywhere. Five minutes later the policeman returned with a girl on the back of his bike. Nonchalantly he helped her aboard, gave her a peck on the cheek and we were finally on our way. It turned out that she was both his girlfriend and a fellow police officer. I asked her what sort of crimes she had to deal with.

‘Adultery mostly,’ she said, ‘that and domestic violence.’

‘Is there a lot of domestic violence?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘a lot.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Cell phones,’ she said, matter-of-factly.

‘Cell phones?’

‘More men have cell phones now, so it’s easier for them to talk to other women.’

 

 

Later that day we heard about another shocking crime, one that touched us personally this time.

Around midday we stopped for something to eat and Sam, who had been following in the support vehicle, laid his cell phone on the table.

‘Have you been talking to your girlfriend?’ I asked him.

‘What?’

‘Oh, just something someone said on the bus . . .’ He didn’t smile, and I asked him if something was wrong.

He took a moment before he answered. ‘Do you remember Bogia village back in Papua New Guinea, the place where we started the journey up the Sepik?’

‘You mean where that guy had the sixty-horsepower outboard?’

He nodded.

‘What about it?’

‘Just after we left a little girl was murdered. Three years old . . . she was abducted and decapitated.

‘Decapitated?’

He nodded. ‘A group of men carried her into the bush and cut her head off. It was something to do with a dispute over land rights.’

‘But she was only three?’ I was numb with shock. ‘My God.’

Apparently there had been tensions in the area since 2004, when a series of volcanic eruptions had forced fifteen thousand Manam islanders to the mainland at Bogia. Earlier this year four islanders had been killed. This time a young Manam mother had been attacked by seven men. She had two children with her and managed to get away with one of them. But the toddler had been carried off and her head was discovered later by the police.

This terrible news brought everyone down, and we all felt very subdued. The journey went on and on, and though people had suggested it was not advisable to travel after dark, it was pitch black when we finally got to our destination, the town of Palu.

 

 

The army truck didn’t show up. We had been assured that everything had been set up, but when we got to the rendezvous the following morning, the only thing we found was a man in uniform, waiting for us. Although he looked like a soldier, he was actually a member of the tourist board, and as the day wore on he was joined by eleven of his colleagues. It wasn’t our first encounter with officialdom. We didn’t realise it at the time, but Berthy’s friend Dedy worked for the government, and it turned out he was there to make sure we were not filming anything they weren’t happy with. Now here was the tourist board trying to dictate our day. They gave us no explanation as to why there was no truck, but they told us all would be well because they were sending a Toyota Hilux instead.

We waited outside a little kiosk where they sold petrol in bottles to passing motorcyclists. Various people came and went, and I chatted to one fellow who had been a tour guide until he got married. The time ticked by.

There was no sign of the Toyota, but after a while a car containing more uniformed officials pulled up. Before we knew what was happening, we were being treated to some traditional music and dancing, which was a bit of a surprise.

The officials said they would accompany us to Palasa, the village where we had hoped to visit the Lauje tribe. They were going to take charge of that element of our trip, which hadn’t been part of the plan. We thought we would be able to spend the night in a traditional mountain hideaway, much as we had done at Siguntu. Now we discovered that the Lauje village was a day’s walk from Palasa, when we’d been told it was at Palasa itself. The officials said we could see the Lauje on Friday when they came down on their bamboo rafts to sell fruit at the market. That had some potential, I suppose, except that today was only Wednesday.

I’d had enough. The story about the little girl had disturbed me, I was sick of buses, and the last we’d heard of our man with the boat, he was still at sea. It was supposed to be thirty hours from his island to where he would meet us at the ferry port, but he had left two and a half days ago. He had not been that keen to take us anyway - the last time we spoke to him he was worried that, with us filming, every pirate in the area would be coming after his boat.

‘So what do we do?’ Sam asked me. ‘I can’t see the point in going to Palasa. Can you?’

‘No.’ I was eyeing the support van. ‘I’ve had it with this entourage, I hate this.’ Claudio had the map spread across the windscreen. ‘We’re here, right?’ I said, tapping the page at Palasa.

‘Almost, yes.’

‘And we’ve got to get to Guantanamo Bay?’

The others burst out laughing.

‘We’ve got to get to Gorontalo Bay,’ I corrected.

Sam was killing himself. ‘It’s just Gorontalo, Charley: there is no bay.’

‘Like I said, we’ve got to get to Gorontalo.’ I glanced over my shoulder towards the twelve government officials. ‘Let’s just get in the van and get out of here. We’ll forget this village thing, it was never going to happen anyway. Let’s get to “Guantanamo” and pick up some motorbikes.’

So far we’d managed to avoid using the support vehicle, but now it was the only option. There was no bus and the truck the officials had brought wasn’t going to take us any further. ‘The van,’ I said. ‘We’ll just take the van.’

Claudio clearly agreed. ‘If you’d asked me, I would have suggested that hours ago,’ he muttered.

Sam nodded. ‘It makes sense. It’ll give us time to work out what we’re going to do. If this boat guy doesn’t show up, we may have to fly. And that means getting hold of some tickets.’

‘Fly where exactly?’

‘Singapore,’ Claudio stated. ‘If the border’s closed, that’s the only way.’

 

 

You know the old saying about how things can only get better? Well, finally, they did. First, in the form of a Suzuki, which was loaned to me by some guys from the Thunder Community bike club. And second, by a night on a beach.

We had driven through the afternoon and much of the night, despite the threat of hijackers, and arrived - in one piece - in Gorontalo in the early hours. Maybe they had heard about the kind of mood we were in. I don’t know. Anyway, we made it and this morning we decided we had no choice but to reserve some flights via Singapore; with our man still somewhere at sea, and given the situation with the border, it was doubtful there would be enough time to try negotiating with immigration.

It was pissing me off. Given what had happened with West Papua and now this, we just couldn’t seem to cross any borders.

Oh well, we just had to suck it up. And at least these last two days would be on motorbikes. The bikers were all local guys and three of them were riding with us to Manadao, the capital of North Sulawesi, right on the northernmost tip of the island. Two days in the open air, and we would arrive tomorrow night.

The Suzuki was all right. Not the best - the steering was fucked and the front brake all but non-existent. But I didn’t care. I was on a bike, dossing about, standing on the seat and weaving between the vans and buses. Gorontalo was a humming, busy town, and the road was narrow and noisy, choked with becaks and tuk-tuks and hordes of people.

Claudio and I were accompanied by Minto, Dal and Ivan, together with about twenty of their mates. Their mates rode with us as far as a massive pagoda-style monument that straddled the road out of Gorontalo. The guys got off their bikes and said a little prayer before clasping hands in a circle. It was a ritual, a word to the god of the roads to keep us bikers safe. The prayers offered, we parted company and headed across country to the village of Minauna.

There was a lot of traffic on the road and plenty of villages along the way. We were on motorbikes though, not in some stuffy bus with someone else driving. We forged our own path, made it up as we went along - that’s the beauty of riding. We could avoid all the bumps and potholes; we could go where a bus or car couldn’t.

Even a puncture couldn’t bring me down. When Claudio’s back tyre started losing air, we just loaded his bike onto the van and Claudio hopped on the back of mine until we reached the next village.

One of the great things about Indonesia is how you can find what you need in the smallest of villages, like bottles of petrol, or a workshop in a tiny shack with a tyre hanging off a hook to identify its business. The mechanic had the wheel off and the puncture fixed in no time.

Once we hit the northern coast the landscape changed. It was truly awesome country here - stunning hills and forests with white beaches and crystal waters far off in the distance. I longed for those beaches. I thought we should forget about finding a homestay for the night and camp on the beach instead. We had the gear, waterproof hammocks, ropes, and nylon sheets that we could hook up as a makeshift tent.

I knew Claudio would be up for it, Robin and Sam too, probably. I wasn’t sure about our Indonesian friends, but by the time we got to Minauna, my mind was made up.

‘So what do you think, Claudio?’ I said as we inspected a sandy clearing. ‘This would be a good spot to hang the hammocks.’ The clearing was ringed by palms, the only downside being that they were laden with coconuts. If one of those dropped on your head in the night it would give you more than a headache.

We had to ask the village elders for permission to sleep on the beach, but they said it wasn’t a problem. Minto, Dal and Ivan weren’t so sure, however, and as darkness fell they slunk away to negotiate a floor in one of the houses.

A little further down the beach Claudio organised the rest of us. He asked me to tie a piece of rope between two trees so we could string up a tarp in case it rained. Right now the sky was clear and the wind light, but we knew it could rain at any time. It had been piddling down when we rode out this morning.

‘Claudio,’ I said, ‘I don’t think this is the right place.’ I indicated a big hole in the ground. ‘We should move it a little, that hole will only get in the way.’

‘It will be fine,’ he assured me.

He was stubborn. He was on a mission. Having travelled the world with the guy, I knew there was no point arguing.

With the shelter more or less set up I went back to the clearing to put up my hammock. Satisfied that it was secure, I blew air into my mattress before arranging my sleeping bag. I was having a great time. After the past couple of days I had no intention of being in a stuffy room anywhere. With my bedding ready, I tested the strength of the knots, and of course the hammock collapsed.

‘You didn’t tie it properly,’ said Claudio, stating the obvious. ‘I saw it right away.’

Retying the knot, I tested the hammock a second time and it was fine. We finished off the shelter by tying a large sheet of nylon to the rope and then stretching and pegging it to the ground. I could feel rain in the air now and I was still worried about coconuts.

Sam went up into the village to buy some food and it seemed like the entire population decided to follow him back to the beach to check out the new arrivals. I asked one taciturn bloke about the coconuts.

‘Has anybody ever been hit by one falling from a tree?’

He shook his head. ‘A kid broke his legs falling out of a tree once, but nobody ever got hit by a coconut. No.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘Good.’

He indicated the hammocks. ‘But then we don’t sleep under them, do we?’

‘It’ll be all right,’ Sam assured me. He had some wonderful-smelling rice and fish wrapped in paper and fastened with elastic bands. He also had some local kids with him and as the rain started we all took shelter under our makeshift tent. Claudio had been modifying it, of course - we had two sheets of nylon now, clipped together to give us more room and supported from the ground by a huge piece of driftwood and the camera tripod.