Right to the Edge: Sydney to Tokyo By Any Means (21 page)

I patted Claudio on the back. ‘Ray Mears would be proud,’ I told him.

Claudio considered his handiwork for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think he probably would.’

It was actually pretty cosy there, eating rice and fish, with rain rattling on the nylon roof and half a dozen locals sitting with us. The rain didn’t last long and, checking to make sure my hammock had stayed dry, I thought about a fire. I wandered down the beach looking for driftwood to burn. One of the kids must’ve seen me because he scuttled off and came back with a fisherman who was carrying a bundle of wood and some dried palm leaves. He didn’t say anything; he just arranged the sticks, laid the kindling and got the fire going. It was all very mellow, and with Berthy interpreting we managed to chat to some of the villagers.

I was pretty tired though, and with the fire beginning to die I knocked the sand off my clothes and clambered into my hammock. ‘Sam,’ I said, ‘just so you understand . . . if you snore tonight, I’m going to batter you with coconuts.’

 

 

It took me an age to get to sleep. I’m not sure why exactly, but after a great day on the bike I lay in my hammock with all sorts of thoughts swirling around in my head. We only had one full day left in Indonesia and much as I had enjoyed the country, and the people in particular, I had been frustrated by its officials. Things are actually very tightly controlled here beneath the friendly surface. On top of that there seemed no way to sail to the Philippines now, which meant we had to fly.

At first light I took a walk along the beach and found our fisherman friend surrounded by bottles, curled up by the embers of the camp fire. He was sound asleep, wearing just a T-shirt and shorts; I’d been so cold in the night I’d had to put my clothes on. It had been great to camp though, being in the open air with the sound of waves crashing on the beach. Definitely the right call.

Minto, a policeman in his ‘real life’, had to ride back so he could go to work, but Dal and Ivan were coming with us all the way to Manadao. We saddled up and left early, while it was still cool. I was back on the Suzuki, dossing about as I always do and waving at villagers laying out half shells of coconuts to dry.

The roads were pretty rough for the first part of the day - lots of dirt and mud and very little tarmac. But at least it wasn’t raining, not yet anyway. It did look like it might, though. All morning the skies were plagued by an ever-thickening blanket of cloud. It was still beautiful, though - the sea was blue green and mottled with hundreds of the canoe-style fishing boats we had seen Guntur building back in Ujung Lero.

Manadao Province looked a bit wealthier than most places we had seen. Crossing a river on a temporary bridge, we left the last of the dirt and hit smooth, black tarmac. Just as well, because finally those clouds began to dribble. A few raindrops would patter on the visor of my helmet for a while and then stop. It would start again and then stop. The tarmac looked polished and quickly it became very slick. Any road racer will tell you that you want it either wet or dry. What you do not want is that undecided in-between, because then the surface is just greasy and you can be down without ever knowing why.

It didn’t stay undecided for very long. The last few hours into Manadao it absolutely bucketed down. The closer we got to town, the worse it got. It was torrential, the road almost flooded and I was wearing just jeans and a jacket and a pair of canvas shoes. I was soaked to the bone. I don’t think there was any part of me that wasn’t wet through and I was amazed when a couple of guys from the bike club came out to meet us. The Thunder Community has chapters all over Indonesia and these new guys were from the Manadao brigade. I couldn’t believe they had braved the weather. But they had and they rode with us through the waterlogged streets. The final half hour . . . I remember Dare telling me in Sydney that the last half hour of any bike ride is always a half hour too long.

We found somewhere to stay and I took a shower, though I hardly needed it. The rain was warm, the temperature still right up there and every time a truck went past I had been soaked in hot spray. Meeting Claudio and the others in the early evening, we went off to find something to eat. Not far from where we were staying, we came across a traditional Indonesian café that was serving paniki. Fruit bat.

We’ll have some of that then. I mean, here we were, and along with dog, paniki was a local delicacy. I’ve never eaten dog. I’ve never wanted to eat dog. Just the thought of it brings to mind my spaniel Ziggy, curled up at home. And as for fruit bat . . . when I was a kid my friend Jason used to keep one as a pet.

Armed with plenty of bottles of Coke, we sat down, and already I could feel my stomach beginning to tighten. First off, this was a buffet and any traveller worth his salt knows that you never eat from the buffet. Secondly, I was not only eating from a buffet, I was eating bat and dog.

The bat looked like bat. I mean, it was minced up with spices and everything, but the meat was black and the wings were in there - claws, the whole thing.

Claudio dived in first. Stoic as ever, he plucked a wing and gnawed on the leathery-looking thing like a veteran.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘Too many bones perhaps.’ Sitting back, he reached for a bottle of Coke. ‘It’s spicy,’ he said. ‘Very, very spicy.’

I had a little nibble. It tasted OK actually but I had the Coke handy just in case I gagged. The dog, though - could I eat a bit of dog?

The owner told me that people buy puppies, rear them in cages, then, when they’re ready to eat, they knock them on the back of the head. The dog meat was black, like the bat. I tried it, a nibble, not even a mouthful. Next to me Robin had a plate of rice and spooned on the bat and dog without batting an eyelid. I was still eyeing my tiny piece of dog meat.

‘Daddy.’ Robin’s voice lifted in a high-pitched mewl from beside me. ‘Daddy, why did you kill me?’

That was it. I dumped the dog, drank the Coke and headed for KFC.

BEFORE WE SAID GOODBYE to Indonesia, there was, inevitably, one final complication. The boat we’d hoped might take us across the Celebes Sea turned out to be an illegal fishing vessel. That was it. We had taken the precaution of booking flights and now it was decided. We flew via Manila, landing in the Filipino island of Mindanao on 28 June.

The Philippines - made up of 7100 islands - was under Spanish occupation for 360 years and the cuisine still has a Spanish influence. More recently it had been colonised by the Americans, who helped establish a nationwide education system, so many Filipinos speak English, but we had a translator with us just in case - a guy called Inkee.

After a night in Davao City we hit the road. We were on our way to a Benedictine monastery high up in the mountains in northern Mindanao that produces Monk’s Blend coffee. I was really looking forward to the trip - I love coffee, and after a hectic few days the idea of spending the night in a remote, tranquil monastery was particularly appealing.

But first we had to get there. I wanted to find a jeepney, the most traditional and recognised form of travel in this country. These are vehicles derived from the old Willys, jeeps that were left behind when the Americans went home. The basic jeep was given a longer body and painted all the colours of the rainbow. The inside was decorated and the canvas sides could be rolled up to let in the air. Fifty years later you still see customised versions all over the country.

Claudio and I walked to the market where a local translator offered to help. He knew a guy called Ray who delivered fruit and vegetables from the mountain villages in Bukidnon Province, which was where the monastery was. He generally made the return journey with an empty truck so it made sense for us to try to get a lift with him at least part of the way.

I love markets. In Ethiopia I visited one with Ewan where they had every kind of spice imaginable, along with camels and donkeys and great flocks of vultures watching from the trees. This was purely a food market though - a cluster of huts and stalls with brightly coloured parasols to keep off the sun. Everywhere you looked there were piles of mangoes, pineapples, bananas and the sweet peanuts we had eaten in Papua New Guinea.

We found the dusty red jeepney parked at the side of the road. Ray was unloading tomatoes stacked on the roof, so I clambered up and gave him a hand. I asked if Claudio and I could hitch a lift and, after thinking about it for a moment, he said it would be fine.

‘Can I drive some of the way?’ I went on. ‘I really like your truck, Ray. I’d love to have a go at driving it.’

It was the most bizarre vehicle. The front end was just like the old jeeps, with twin headlamps and a squared-off nose. But it was much taller and longer and the rear axle was fitted with two wheels on each side, which was very unusual. The side panels were pretty beaten up and there was no glass in the front doors. But there was a home-made air-conditioning fan built into the driver’s side.

‘Do you think it might be possible to let me drive then?’ I asked again. So far Ray hadn’t responded. To be honest, he looked less than enthusiastic. ‘What do you think, Ray? I’d really like to drive.’

Still he looked doubtful. He squinted at me, then at the jeepney, then at the amount of traffic on the road. I still had the last crate of tomatoes in my hands, and finally he shrugged, showing me three white teeth. ‘You work for me,’ he said. ‘OK, you can drive.’

He insisted on taking us out of town before he let me take the wheel. I didn’t mind that, the market was very busy and the roads choked with vans, mopeds and loads of little motorbike taxis. It was baking hot too. Glad to be out of the sun, Claudio and I settled in the back.

This place really was humming, all we could hear was the clatter of diesel engines and people banging their horns - the kind of bedlam we had not seen for a while. Indonesia had been nowhere near as busy. There was a buzz to Mindanao - a real feeling of industry.

I asked Ray how often he delivered the fruit and vegetables.

‘Every Monday and Friday.’

‘What do you do the rest of the week?’

‘I drive a habal-habal.’

‘Oh right, the motorbike taxi.’ As I spoke one passed us, the driver hunching under a grimy parasol.

Once we were out of town Ray finally let me drive, though he was still a little reluctant. Actually his eyes were bulging with anxiety.

He took my seat in the back and I took his. Claudio tried to tell him it would be all right because I was a good driver, but nothing seemed to placate him. Especially when I couldn’t find first gear. I tried and tried. I tried until the gear knob came off in my hand, but all I could hear was the horrible grinding sound of a gear not engaging. Finally I worked out that first was where second would normally be; second where third was, and so on. Even so, I still missed the odd change and the gearbox would howl in protest at my ineptitude.

Around noon I pulled over and Ray looked more than a little relieved. We were on the edge of a little town called Mintal, and this was where he turned off. He shook my hand, the sweat still beading on his face, and then jumped behind the wheel, heading for home where he could lie down in a dark room to recover.

 

 

We had heard about a restaurant in the next village famous for catfish, and as it was getting close to lunchtime I flagged down a habal-habal. The driver informed us that if I had been a girl he would not charge me, he’d try to chat me up instead. He was a young guy wearing a bandanna round his head and he drove a habal-habal for the sole purpose of meeting young women. Anyway, he took us down the road between flat fields and palm-fringed bungalows as far as the restaurant. It was a cool-looking place, built on stilts above a rice paddy, the roof part wood and part foliage from the rain forest. The owner, Wilfredo, greeted us with handshakes. In excellent English he told us he was very happy for us to be there and explained that he not only served but farmed the catfish himself, along with the rice and vegetables.

The place was totally organic. He only had two hectares but what he did with them was quite amazing. Wilfredo asked if I would like to cook my own catfish. I love cooking, so grabbing a fishing rod he took me out to the pond. He told me how he hatched his own fish in a pair of metal basins under the roof of a small lean-to.

‘People told me I couldn’t hatch fish like this,’ he said, indicating the basins. ‘But so long as the temperature of the water and the pH balance is right, it is fine.’

To get to the pond we had to cross a series of dykes built between the paddies where carp swam among the rice plants. ‘They eat the snails,’ Wilfredo explained. ‘So I don’t have to use pesticides. Their waste acts like a fertiliser so I don’t have to worry about that either. When I harvest the rice I put the carp into the pond with the catfish.’

We reached the pond, which was surrounded by palm trees. The surface was covered in a layer of water hyacinths that kept the fish free of fungal disease. When the hyacinths died and started to decompose they became a natural fertiliser too.