Chasing the Dragon

As predicted, it’s been a while since we’ve been able to update this blog, and even now I’m sitting writing this in the hope of internet access soon. There’s an internet shack up the road, but it takes a good hour or so to do an update even if I’ve done all the writing and reducing pic sizes, and internet shacks always seem to be like saunas for chainsmokers. Nice.

So. We’ve left Oz behind. Our last day in Darwin was busy and a lot of fun. We had a ride on an amphibious vehicle that after a sightseeing tour around town just drove down a slipway into the harbour. We were hoping to see a saltwater crocodile, but no luck. It was good fun though, and an interesting trip round the bay.

Later on we took a bus out to the museum and art gallery which had areas dedicated to the 1975 cyclone and the wartime bombings. It was all quite sobering. There was also a display about ‘Sweetheart’, a huge and well known local croc that had started to be a nuisance by chewing propellors so was captured, but unfortunately it didn’t survive being moved and has ended up as a stuffed display.


Crocs used to be a lot bigger in the past, as this fossilised skull shows. It doesn’t bear thinking about……



We headed to the Mindil Beach sunset market afterwards, and met these guys. They had such characterful faces that we had to ask them for a pic.





There was a lot going on, including this band, Emdee. They were quite something and made hell of a racket with just a didj player and a drummer.



We’d met up with a couple in Katherine who were from Darwin, and the guy (Russel) said that we should come along to his club. He’d described it as a Gentlemen’s Club. We headed down there and it turned out to be a strip club. It would have been rude to have just left so we stayed for an interesting evening, and got to see Miss Naked Australia runner-up on stage. Thanks Russel.





The Justice Tree, where offenders were hanged, often without a trial. Life was brutal in the north.

All too soon it was time to say goodbye to Darwin and Oz, and as we were to find out later, say goodbye to most semblances of civilization.



Goodbye Darwin



Hello Dili





Brown dogs are everywhere, but ainly on the menu...



In Dili we headed in a taxi to a hotel that I’d seen on the web. It was really basic but clean and ok, and having checked in we were on our own. I had a vague idea where the port was (and so maybe the bike?). We also had an address of a shipping agent that the shippers in Darwin had recommended. We gritted our teeth and set out. I’m aware that I keep using the word surreal , but the only other word that I can think of would be comical, and it doesn‘t quite fit.

Picture the scene if you can -

The traffic is very manic, (we were to find out later that it’s actually not too bad and quite predictable once you got used to it) and was mainly small motorbikes (a lot of which act as taxis).

The taxi cars in Timor-Leste are yellow and are everywhere. They bling up the clapped-out old bangers with lashings of chrome and spoilers but don’t worry about basic maintenance. Sitting in them, I could hear knackered wheel bearings and suspension bushes knocking and rumbling.



They tout for business by blowing their complex sounding air horns every time they see anyone walking. All vehicles pip…ALL the time day & night.

Anyway, we jumped in a taxi, and I sat in front. I found I could only see about 6 feet in front of the car because there was yellow fablon stuck across most of the windscreen. Luckily the driver was a shorty so hopefully could see further than me.

The taxi drivers also have a weird habit of labouring the engine by not changing down as they slow down. I was sitting there thinking ‘for god’s sake CHANGE GEAR you plonker!’ as the poor car struggled to accelerate from tickover in 3rd.

We went to pay the guy with a note from the stash of emergency dollars that we’d got in the UK (US Dollars are the currency in East Timor) and he just smiled lamely and shook his head. Thinking it strange that he’d got no change for a 10 with a 2 dollar fare, we got across with mime ‘come back in an hour and we’ll take a taxi back and have change’. Marcel Marceau would have ben proud. We never did see that taxi driver again though.

The guy we needed to see at the agency was at lunch so we headed across the road to a fairly dodgy looking café with a stinky stream running beside it. It was obvious what was in the stream by the smell.

All was fine. Nasi Goreng Ayam; all safe and no uncooked or unpeeled stuff. I went to pay the 13 dollar bill with 2 x 10’s and got the same unhappy shake of the head as from the taxi driver. Surely you’ve got change? Uncomprehending shake of the head. OK, another drink to let a few people pay and try again. Same response. A helpful american in the queue explained that for quite a while the banks had refused to accept certain dollar notes. The penny dropped. I laid out a bunch of notes on the counter and the lady picked a couple. After checking with her boss in the back room, all was well.

We did the business with the agent and agreed to go back tomorrow morning early when he‘d have sorted the Carnet and port release papers. We decided that the dollars that we had should be kept for another less fussy country, and headed off to a bank. It’s hard to get across just how basic everything was, considering that this was the capital city of Timor-Leste. I’d read that there were no dentist or optician services for the whole country. I suppose that should have given a fairly big clue.

The simple matter of getting money out of the bank took forever and queuing twice. It was made easier by the Mr Bean film that was playing for the people queuing. I can imagine it being popular the world over.

So, with a fistful of dollars we headed back to the hotel and had an uneventful meal out close by The next day we were heading off on the road again and couldn’t wait.

Back at the agent, and it was obvious that the customs had cocked up the carnet, wasting one of the valuable pages. I blew a fuse, teaching them a few anglo-saxon words in the process, and Zeca, a really helpful guy who spoke some English, took us off to the customs to try to sort it. The man with the stamp understood that I was not a happy bunny, and did just as I told him. So, off to pick up the bike. Another man with a stamp was not to be hurried. It was really comical watching him and the way that everyone deferred to him. He took his time over what he was doing then eventually moved 4 feet to another desk to scrutinise our papers. He was the only person that we’d come across that had no smile to give, but hey, his office (an old shipping container) had an air conditioner in it and we could wait as long as it took. It eventually dawned that the was taking his time because he didn’t have a clue what the hell he was looking at. I showed him as politely as I could using sign language what he should do, and he did it without losing face in front of his underlings.


The guys all scrabbeld round and dragged the bike out of the container, and we set about it with me re-assembling it, and Anita packing. There was a lot of discussion around us and mimed questions, and it was very good-natured. The East Timorese were as lovely as we’d heard, with ready smiles and full of fun.





We did it, and with lots of handshakes, photos and a few butterflies in our stomachs, headed off into the manic traffic and the unknown, with little idea where we’d be at the end of the day.

We followed the coast most of the way, and were going to try to get over the border and to Atambua in Indonesia before stopping for the night. The poverty was terrible. A lot of the accomodation was straw huts with people probably scraping a living from the sea and from whatever they could grow in the salty marshland. Despite this, everyone that saw us smiled and waved, and children jumped up and down with excitement. This was to be something that we found in Indonesia too - everyone was friendly and smiley.









At the border - bike and pig.

The border was predictably chaotic, and after a lot of trundling papers from shed to shed, and exchanging the few dollars that the bank didn’t turn up their nose at, we were into West Timor, and Indonesia. It was a more prosperous country, and had solid housing. If you look up the history of Timor, even recent history, it’s sobering reading, and makes it hard to understand how they manage to be such lovely happy people. This trip would have been very scary thirty years ago.



Keeping the customs men sweet.







We made it to Atambua - the first place big enough to have a hotel - and were instantly lost in hundreds of small motorbikes and streets with no signs. We did what mums teach their children, and asked a policeman.




The police were stopping bikes for some reason, and when we asked if there was a hotel nearby, they volunteered with much laughter one of the gang to take us to a hotel. We followed behind his bike and he took us to the town’s best hotel (which was ok). At £17 a night we couldn’t complain.

The next day we headed towards Kupang at the west end of the island, and made it after a long day’s riding. Lots of school kids and lads shouting and waving to us. It was difficult to be alone as every time we stopped we were surrounded by good-natured boisterous kids and adults. Such lovely people, with nothing but smiles.





Kupang was as expected; a big, noisy, scruffy town, and our next mission after finding a place to stay was to sort out our onward trip to Flores, the next island in the chain. After going to the two ports a few times, we had a consensus that we should go from Bolok (honestly) port to Larantuka, the most easterly point of Flores. To go to Ende, in the middle of Flores would mean waiting 5 more days, and we’d heard both that Flores deserved more time, and that Ende was a hole.



So, 2 days later, there we were ready to head off on the ferry to Larantuka. We knew that it was going sometime around 2 or 3pm but had different answers as to when it got there. From 2am to 5am maybe.





I booked ‘business class’ but when we got on it was all pretty much cattle class. Everyone was bedding down where they could, and the boat filled up slowly. The films and pictures that we’ve seen in the past about boats filled with men, women, chickens and goats weren’t far away from what we were to go through for the next 18 hours. We’d sat at the front of the boat, and you can see from the pic there was a hole or two in the wall. I was reading at about 1am lying next to the wall, and saw huge cockroaches running out of the hole in the wall down towards us. That was their mistake. A cockroach is no match for a size 10.





For some reasom\n this guy toted a gun. I didn't ask him why...



The next invader was a big rat running across right next to where my head had been. Luckily I’d sat up by then, and after that didn’t really feel like lying down again. The trip across ended up at 18hrs, getting there at 9am totally knackered, and needing to look for a hotel. Asking around, we’d been told to ‘go here, go here!’, so we headed out of town and came across a new-looking hotel. All good. ‘Sorry, all full, but we have a room out the back’ said a beautiful and well dressed young receptionist. She led me out the back towards the shore, and I couldn’t quite believe what she was pointing to. It was a boat, a converted fishing boat that was used as overspill and for special dining. What a setting, not only on the beach, but in the sea.



We spent 2 happy days there, with one evening with the manager at his club at the other end of town. He’s a lovely bubbly character and sang karaoke, and even got Anita and I up to do a couple of songs.











A smoking vlcano

Larantuka’s a great place and very beautiful compared to Timor, and we were lucky enough to be there 2 days before a huge (as in 30,000 people) religious celebration. This meant that the streets were decked with flags. Not being religious, and thinking that crowds of religious zealots were best avoided, we didn’t hang around for the festival but headed west to Ende, near the middle of the island. We’d heard that Ende was a hole, and it sure was. It was busy, filthy, run down and the only half decent hotel was a tip. The toilet, shower and sink didn’t work, and everything was filthy and after a long days ride you really DO need all the bathroom facilities to work!. Breakfast was ‘included’ but was a small jam sandwich, ready made. Yum yum. (We were not impressed - can you tell?).



Ende market. Nice.







We got the hell out of there the next day and when we stopped to take a pic of a mountain, a guy stopped to practice his English, and said that we should stop at some traditional bungalows on the coast near Aimere, the other side of Bajawa.

When we eventually found them down a very awkward pebble track with the help of a friendly lad on a motorbike, the place was wonderful. Fransisco, a laid-back guy with a head of hair that Michael Jackson would have been proud of in his youth, had built up a tourist centre from nothing using local materials and help. The huts are open to the elements and built in traditional style using grass, bamboo, coconut trees and so on. Very comfortable, and with the sussuration (oooh) of the waves to lull us to sleep.



I had to head to the next town in the afternoon to get some cash, and got caught in a monsoon-style shower. I didn’t have my waterproofs with me , so this meant staying another day to let clothes dry. This turned out to be a good thing, as Fransisco had said that he was having a celebration the next day, and that we were invited to the sacrifice. That’s to the sacrifice, not to be the sacrifice.

To celebrate having built a new building, and to see what the future held, a pig and a chicken were to be sacrficed and their entrails ‘read’ for signs about the family and the business‘ success or failure. There’s a name this practice but I can’t remember it for the life of me. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, but the sound of the machete hitting the pig’s head lingers. It’s like the thwack sound when you split wood with an axe. Not nice.



The signs were goodin the entrails, except a distant family member was going to die. Strangely, Fransisco had a call near the end or the ceremony to say that a family member in a nearby village had just died. Queue the X-Files music.


The evening with Fransisco and his friends and family became a sing-song with a lot of lovely harmonised Indonesian ballads and this guy took centre stage. He was slightly simple and introduced as ‘a retard’. I even managed to remember some words to a couple of songs.



The next day’s journey to LabuanBajo was maybe the most spectacular and challenging riding that I’ve ever done. There were 2 straight bits of road, but the rest of the 6 hours was tortuous switchbacks with gravel, mud, unmade road and lorries to add to the fun. If you don’t believe me, check out Bajawa to Ruteng on Google Maps and get an aerial view of it, or better still, come on out here and see for yourself….



We couldn't believe how these guys were mining gravel here. If you click on the picture you might be able to see them standing near the top.



The front view from the LBajo hotel.



And the rear view.

LabuanBajo is a fairly ordinary scruffy tip of a place, but there are quite a few Europeans (white people) here. It feels strange, and stranger still that they seem not to want to talk to anyone. This seems to be a waypoint for backpackers maybe as it‘s near Bali. We’ll be happier back out in the wilds with just locals, but Bali’s not far away, and I’ve got a feeling that it’s going to be like an Australian Butlins.

We’decided to take a trip if possible out to Rinca or Komodo, the islands where the Komodo dragon lives. These dragons live up to about 50 years and can measure 3 metres in length. They usually weigh about 130 kg, can kill a buffalo or goat and out-run any man! We found a boat to take us and enjoyed a fascinating 2-hour (hot) guided walk around part of Rinca island. Anita even got to touch (carefully) the tail of a Komodo. Their diet consists of wild horses, water buffalo, wild pigs and goats, so you can imagine that they need treating with respect. It was a magical day, and as well as watching a gang of macaque monkeys fighting in the tress, we saw dolphins rounding up fish and feeding on them, with seabirds diving down to help themselves.







We met up again with a sweet young dutch couple who had stayed in the eco-huts in Aimere while we were there, and spent time chatting in a restaurant.

Right now, we’re on the ferry waiting for it to go to Sape on Sumbawa, our next island. As well as several lorries full of bananas, our bike’s sharing the hold with this feller.