Kupang homestay paid and packed, I found my way back to the docks, and sat with ticket in hand ready and waiting in good time to get on the ferry to Aimere. That was a good opportunity to start adding some photos to the previous few diary entries, although I didn’t get far as I’m still finding WordPress hard to navigate and frustratingly error-prone.
Getting on the ferry is a bit of a rigmarole with my heavy bike, heavy riding gear, and all the stuff to organise in and out of panniers. But it was all without incident, and the ferry was quite bearable. Bearable, that is, except for the music and smoking. The music was blasting so loud it was in itself oppressive, even through my custom-moulded ear plugs. The air was thick from every second person – including staff – smoking right through every corner of the ship. It just wasn’t possible to escape it anywhere. Either the music volume or the smoke is enough for a major headache, let alone both together.
On the plus side, I’ve discovered to my surprise that the lower vehicle deck was completely open to passengers. People simply park themselves in and around the vehicles, for a bit more space to stretch out. I ended up doing likewise, sleeping under my bike’s panniers! It was a little quieter, which is saying something since the thunder of the engine still pounded through my head. There were fewer people smoking, which was a mercy of considerable value. With earplugs in and camping mattress in good shape, it was a strange mix of feeling like luxury (compared to what it might have been upstairs or without mattress as on the previous ferry) and feeling like I was a stow-away running from the law!
I was woken by my watch dinging with a dozen notifications at 4:30am (d’oh!) when we got close enough to land for mobile data reception. That turned out to be ironic, because it was then 4 hours later that I next had data, which I needed to plot my course to the next destination.
Not for the first time I therefore simply pointed the bike in my best-guess direction and took off! I’m sure this practice will land me in hot water sooner rather than later, but so far I’ve got 2 from 2 at guessing my way through complex routes with perfect accuracy. My nose for direction seems to be doing well, so far at least. The risk profile was low. I had to be at my destination precisely when I arrived – not a moment sooner and not a second later. And if I didn’t make it by nightfall… well, I’d simply stay somewhere else. I have a tent and sleeping bag if I finish up in an adequately unpopulated spot (which seems increasingly unlikely!), and it doesn’t seem too hard to find a place to rent a room in populated areas.
The 5 hour (plus) ride that followed sliced through East Nusa Tenggara (to Timor’s north west) from Aimere in the south to Badjo in the far west. The roads were narrow but better than Timor’s, wending their way through steep mountain climbs with sharp turns and consequently slow speeds, requiring always-on high-alert riding with attention to road, traffic and conditions. But it was breathtakingly beautiful scenery. There weren’t a lot of places to stop and take photos that would do justice to nature’s spectacular canvas, but it was good for the soul to soak in the views and breathe in the fresh mountain air (especially after the ship’s suffocating smoking situation).
First stop in Badjo (not counting an hours-overdue loo break 
) was the ferry operator. There appears to be a choice between two options, both of which will get bike and boy to Bali for about AU$200. One seems to be the distinctly more reliable service, leaving tomorrow morning on the first of three ferry legs with a few hours’ ride between each – presumably three or four days total if ferry schedules align. The other service is scheduled to leave Badjo a few days later and sails directly to Bali, which probably means that on paper it’d get there first. But I’ll take the reliable one in the morning, and enjoy the ride through a few more Indonesian islands.
As I sat writing part of this diary entry on Friday afternoon in a cafe with the most spectacular view of Badj0’s docks, two ladies asked if they could join my table as there wasn’t anywhere else free. Of course I said yes. We chatted briefly – enough to know that one of the ladies, Catrina, was married to a man who died of cancer two and a half years ago. Another grief-stricken tragedy. Yet another demonstration that we all carry our scars. Catrina is still apparently a long way from closure, but volunteered the thought that a death is easier than a separation and divorce. It would have been cruel for me to say it out loud, but it was certainly my thought that she’d voiced! It really does seem harder than a death to process, as closure isn’t clean. But the real point is, again, that it’s simply part of life to walk wounded. I’m not on an island there – not metaphorically at any rate.
My couple of days in Banjo was the first time I’ve seen a tourist since I left Melbourne in November. It’s the second time I’ve seen white skin (other than my own) since I’ve left Dili. Consequently it is also the first time since entering Indonesia that I haven’t had half the people yell “MISTER! MISTER!” as we pass each other.
Not that it is particularly better (or worse); just different. But clearly this town is set up with infrastructure and culture to cater to the tourist overflow from Bali. And clearly no such tourists venture east of here!
The locals still all seem to think I am common property and want to know “Where you going?” and “How much your bike cost?”. Which I didn’t mind to begin with but now find it a little intrusive. When I’m in a less gracious mood I think to myself “none of your business!”, but try to smile warmly on the outside while waving graciously but keeping on walking. Prior to Badjo this question was from just fascination at a white guy, but from here (and probably onwards) it has been precursor for “buy my wares” – food, clothes, snorkelling/dive trips or a boat tours, etc.
Friday I’d been told by a staff member from the ferry operator that I could buy a ticket 8am today and be on my way Saturday. So I packed up, grabbed an early breakkie, and trundled down to do just that. It turns out Saturday’s ferry was cancelled, due to works on the docks. D’oh. So I’ve checked back in to the same hostel, and will try again tomorrow. I was hopeful I could squeeze in a church service – the only Protestant church in the area is 3 mins walk from where I’m staying, and another 4 mins to the ferry terminal.
The “system” (if it warrants the description) to get a ticket for the ferry… needs some process improvement. But I got it sorted without really enough time for the cafe breakkie I’d planned. I pushed through for a quick bite of pancakes (ages since I’ve done that), got to church a couple of minutes late, and joined in best I was able. It’s amazing how much you can pick up from Google Translate and from context.
The sermon was on Exodus 17, and I think the preacher was challenging the congregation not to be grumblers or complainers as the Israelites were when they ran out of water. But I got a bit absorbed in the contrast of the three similar episodes in the Torah, and why Moses was punished for striking the rock in one of them. It turns out there are half a dozen or so major interpretations of all of that, and a general confusion seems to be the summary. The key challenge that sat in my soul was the importance of obedience exactly. “Near enough” isn’t good enough when God commands. We live now under grace and not under law, but in our modern Protestant churches that so often devolves into a lackadaisical attitude towards faith and life. Perhaps we’ll be held to account against that approach.
Abraham serves as another example of “mostly” obedience with a wrinkle of “do it my way” that has had waves of impact down through the centuries. “He believed God and it was credited to him as righteousness”. This NT recap of the patriarch’s life is generously silent on the fact that in his “belief” he took matters first into his own hands on the promise of a son, with Sarah’s encouragement. The immediate result was Ishmael born to Hagar, and the impact down the ages is the entire Muslim religion. Centuries later, riding my motorbike through Indonesia, the blaring loudspeaker calls to prayer are a constant reminder to me of what “mostly” obeying God can look like. When He calls, we should do, completely and immediately.
On to other noteworthy issues of less eternal impact… I found a cafe that serves fresh rather than UHT milk! This time I was really holding my breath, as a flat white was prepared. The result? Well, I haven’t had a good coffee since November 10th, not that I’m keeping score. This one was the best since I left home, but that’s really not saying very much. Maybe it’ll be a sign of things to come, and I could dare hope the coffee will improve as I get closer to Bali? It’s not really that important I guess, but I do like a good flat white.