Indonesia: Motorbiking

Don't kill us Mom & Dad, but we rented a motorbike for $2 US per day (with helmets of course) and it's how we've been getting around Bali and Lombok for the past week. I never, ever thought that I would be up for this type of crazy adventure so you can blame it on Matt for giving us the gusto. Andy first practiced around town in Kuta gaining confidence while I rode with Matt and let me tell you, the Kuta environs have to be the most hectic. There is nothing like trial by fire! Cars, trucks, motorbikes, bikes and pedestrians zooming every which way, all participating in a delicate dance of organized chaos on the narrow two lane roads lacking shoulders or sidewalks. Admittedly, the feeling is simultaneously both exhilarating and frightening. When in Indo do as the Indonesians do, right?

With the warm wind blowing on our faces we are quite fortunate to witness daily Indonesian life. Hindu temples with intricate carvings are interspersed in the villages between shanty-like brick and plaster buildings. Ladies donning a cotton t-shirt and brightly printed sarong carry a tray of palm leaf boxes full of flowers and the occasional cracker as a daily offering to the gods and gently place it on a doorstep. Sadly, the garbage business doesn't seem to exist so instead rubbish is liberally strewn about. A small fire crackles along the roadside and the smell of burning plastic negatively greets our nose. Another small fire burns and just as suddenly the beautiful aroma of barbecue meat passes by. Then we pass a bus or a motorbike spitting out black fumes from the exhaust pipe as I quickly pull up a bandanna over my scrunched face while emaciated stray dogs sleep and trot along the dirt roadside. Shops and storefronts line the streets selling nasi goreng (a popular rice dish), bottled beverages, knicknacks and petrol out of an old Absolut vodka bottle. We stop to fill up since the petrol station was out of gas and the locals immediately engage with us. "Where are you going? Where are you coming from?" They want to know. It is important for them to know. We communicate with hand gestures and broken English before we graciously say terima kasih (thank you). Up and over the hill and occasional pothole or dirt road section we come upon an incredible panoramic vista of rice paddies dotted with workers wearing triangular straw hats. The mountainsides are covered in brilliant green palm trees and the sea shows off blues varied from aquamarine and turquoise to a deeply brilliant purple. The dark brown hard-lined faces of men and women of all ages glance up at us from rock quarries of a grueling day's work. Old ladies in printed dresses walk with a giant u-shape curved knife in one hand and and a bundle of sugarcane on the other shoulder. Children dressed in uniform walking home from school wave and give us the wonderful gift of a giant, white tooth smile and a boisterous "allo!" and the occasional high five. We are a bit of a wonder, these white-skinned Europeans passing through their small village - no doubt a story to tell their friends.

The items carried on motorbikes still leaves me in awe. It's quite common to see two adults on a bike with a baby, or sometimes even a baby and a small child - the local family wagon going where is necessary. Ladies riding side-saddle breast feeding a small child. Men carrying a giant stack of cardboard boxes, a stick of bamboo 4 meters long (where is the red flag!?), a giant birdcage balanced on the back, half of them not wearing a helmet and every man over the age of 18 with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

Today, as we were driving from Banko Banko in Lombok to the ferry to Gili Trawangan Island, we took a much needed break to rest our sore behinds and relish in a pug of water on the roadside. We happened to stop in a Muslim village across from a school classroom. As if the school children took a break to watch us kids covered the windows with waves and smiles to stare at us from across the narrow street. While I searched for a restroom (to no avail), a teacher's aid in the alleyway eyed Andy and Matt and gingerly blew kisses at them. We stopped to talk with a few children who were asking the ubiquitous "Where are you going? Where did you come from?" with more smiles and engaged in a broken conversation. It was a delight to experience. No, we are not in Kansas anymore and I like it.