Loretta Henderson – Page 27 – Solo Female Cycling Around The World

Hungry Hungry Hippo…Let The Eating Begin

As Pandemic The Magic Bicycle pedals out of the mountainous indigenous region of Tana Toronja I am reminded of the elevation and begin to descend 200km back into the Muslim villages of Sulawesi, Indonesia. A remarkably curvey 2 day downhill will certainly keep a woman on a bicycle with a windswept smile.

In these final days of Ramadan everyone is out on the road travelling to be with family. The traffic as I approach Parepare, the ocean side community, is gaining in madness, at last count an average of 47 VPH’s, or vehicles per hour. However, I am not alone in the slow lane, men on rickshaws and cow drawn carts join the highway of travelers. The motorists, motorcycles, trucks and buses are speeding along and swerve around the slower traffic with the professionalism of Mario Andretti. The noise is horrendous, the honking bellows in my ears as my stomach sings for the end of Ramadam.

Tomorrow marks the holiday of Eid ul-Fitr, the new moon and the end of the fasting period of Ramadan. Eid ul-Fitr literally means the Festival of Breaking the Fast. Food is donated to the poor, everyone puts on their best or new clothes and communal prayers are held in the early morning, followed by feasting and visiting relatives and friends. Praying is expected only twice on this day instead of the obligatory five daily prayers.

More info about Eid ul Fitr and Ramadam click here
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eid_ul-Fitr

Traditional foods prepared for the feast include sweet bright green gelatin “tortillas” warped around brown bananas served with sweetened condensed milk, ice cubes and pink gelatin floaties, a treat sweet enough to upset a dentist. Other yummy treats include sweat pink or yellow gelatin chunks floating in water, pineapple juice and pink sweat cream and cocunut rice serves in palm leaves bundles. Although the food in Indonesia is simple, farm fresh and natural they are not without their fair share of brightly colored food additives. And, although I am not Muslim, I am definitely hungry and the opening of restaurants, street food stalls and food shops will certainly be a welcome addition to my waistline after cycling for over 1000km on a near empty stomach.

Life Is a Parade

The beautiful red arch way is a burial site

Pandemic The Magic Bicycle, like an old Volkswagen beetle chugging away on fumes on a warm humid day, cycles up a 40 kilometer hill in the central mountain range. At a steady 10km an hour, for 4 hours we climb, climb, climb like a snake swirling though the dry arid sand. And with a long awaiting gust descend 9km light and fast with relief as if we had lost a layer of skin to climb again for an hour(11km) to finally arrive to the hill side village on Rantepoa in The Tana Toraja area of Sulawesi, Indonesia.

Pig on it’s way to his role in the ceremony

The contours of the mountains are as green as a tulip peddles. The hills are accented by colorful arching buildings that are beautiful decorated ritual burial sites. Arches that open upward with arms open to the beauty that surrounds the hill side. The folks in this region despite Christian missionizing have held strong to their traditional spiritual beliefs of animism; an ancient earth based shamanic religion that pre-dates Christianity. The center piece and focus of life here is the death ceremony, a 5 day festival of life, each day celebrating a new rite of passage into the afterlife.

The following morning after a long sleep I cycle out of town through the surrounding villages in the Tana Torajo region. As I stand at a cross roads straddling Pandemic The Magic Bicycle, bewildered, staring at a fading hand written map, a man stops on his motorcycle and stretches out his hand and says me chief, funeral ceremony and points down an intensely rocky dirt “road”. When the chief of an indigenous village in the middle of Indonesia invites you to his home to celebrate the focus of his life it is always best to smile, say thank-you and follow. So I did and bounced down the most unsuitable road for a bicycle, smiling so hard I thought my ears might break.

Ancestoral burial site of the very rich or magical

As I pedaled through the large brilliant multi-colored arch I am greeted by a bellowing of drums, chanting and music pumping through loudspeakers that appear to be mounted onto any piece of bamboo strong enough to bear the weight. A large crowd is gathered under several traditionally hand painted archways on a soft muddy grassy knoll that has seen its fair share of parades. Pigs are squealing as men carry them off lashed by their legs to sticks. They are being prepared for their role in the celebration.

Men and women, the frail, the elderly and the young are dressed in traditional golden threaded garments that sparkle with a well sewn festive charm. They are holding a long red cloth banner in the air, with arms stretched high they march, dance, parade and sing. They are the family of the deceased women and they are taking her spirit through the village for her last time to all her favorite places. A paper mache replica of the women is seated in a chair; she is being carried in the air by her young male family members. The sacrificial buffalo that end the week long celebration are the caboose. Their horns are adorned in silky red and yellow golden cloth; they follow in sequence through the excited streets.

Upon the mourners return to the grassy knoll, the replica of the women is paraded up several wooden stairs to her final resting place, a wooden arched tomb that sits on stilts above the village. The family although in morning is celebrating, they continue to sing, laugh and cheer. As the music drifts from the air, I exit under the village gate, and continue to pedal south pondering if National Geographic may of seen such a thing.

Pussy Cat Paranoia

As the sun sets over Lake Poso in central Selawesi, Indonesia I begin to wonder how on earth I got here. The cracked road has slowed my pace to a crawl for most of the day. The zagged edges of the road surface cascades Pandemic the Magic bicycle as if she were a kayak in the rapids. This morning what started as a quick ride to The 12 level Saluopa waterfall then off to bottom of the lake has become a series of I think I may have finally lost my mind, there is no way this is really happening, sort of moments.

The map went missing days ago because at times I am a loser but from memory I don’t think the mountains really looked this big. I have been following the Lake Poso road for hours as it goes up and over hill after hill after hill like a triple scoop ice cream cone. And boy, oh boy the thought of eating a triple scoop ice cream cone has been keeping me entertained for hours.

This morning after a swim in the pool of the massive 12 level, double decker Saluopa waterfall, I carried on pedaling towards what was described as the village just over the hill. Hours of ice cream scoop hills later, the sun is setting and I am pushing Pandemic The Magic Bicycle through long muddy puddles the thickness of a babies first pooh. The lighting from the approaching rain storm continues to flash over head. The obese lightning stuffed cloud has been trapped over the eastern side of the sky since this afternoon, flashing away, banging its head on the padded cloudy wall again and again. The repetitive dusk atmosphere continues to illuminate the blackening sky and I am definitely pedaling into the loony bin.

Fire fly bugs flash bright enough to blur my night vision, sheet lighting echoes over the lake at a melting speed. Every 5 minutes or so in the impending darkness at dusk, I see eyes glittering on the side of the road. What on earth is that? Cat eyes? I strain my eyes to focus, yes, those are a cat’s yellow eyes. I may have driven myself crazy after all. Crazy? Yes, well, crazy only on a good day, I keep thinking to myself.

There are literally 100’s a cats, kittens and their kittens loitering in the darkness on the side of the road and they just stare at me as I fumble with my head lamp to attempt to brighten things up. I have become a tad concerned about the dogs lately. Some dogs are disastrous demons to anyone on a bicycle. The dogs on this lake road have on occasion mistaken my leg for a juicy BBQ chicken drumstick. However after an Emmy award winning, well delivered, don’t even think about it mister, the dogs have rapidly backed off.

Ok, back to the cats. I am now becoming more concerned about all the cats and my sanity. Am I hallucinating? Is it really possible for this many cats to be chilling out on the side of the road? After a few more hours I eventually pull into a small village and head towards The Victory Losmen (Hotel). The irony of the name did not go unnoticed. I roll Pandemic The Magic Bicycle into the room and under the bed is a cat. As I drift off to sleep, thinking there is no way that just happened, off in the distance, through the open window, I hear intense cat mating and a wild heavy meowing off in the distance.

The Thieving Lunatic and the LED Lights

This photo is not of my dell notebook laptop because my computer was too embarassed by it’s conditon to show up for the photo!

THE LUNATIC AND THE LED LIGHTS
As I glare through a spiders maze of flashing LED computer screen shrapnel I wonder how much longer this laptop screen will last. Pandemic The Clumsy Bicycle has a small habit of falling on top of laptops. The pot holes are also masterminding with the dirt road to fearlessly spread the spider’s maze of cracked LED lights on the screen at an alarming rate.

Fast Forward 2 days

I am arriving back at the family run guest house to get Pandemic The Magic Bicycle and head out for the day. I roll the pannier closed and realize there is way too much room in my tiny bike bag. The laptop is missing. My immediate thoughts are well this sucks, at least it was a pleasant robbery, there is always pen and paper, how quickly I am slimming down in Indonesia and the final thought because I have always enjoyed lemonade, wow, will I be fast now, that is a lot of weight to not pedal.

Fast Forward 20 Minutes

I am sitting in the hotel office, the laptop is on the desk, it will not open programs, the screen is blank. The staff has just “found” my laptop. I told them it had been stolen by someone with a key because the door had been dead bolted, I was very hesitant to tell them who I thought the thief was but my instincts were about to knock me over so I told them it was the man with the broom.

30 Minutes Later

I am reading a note they have brought me in English that says I am very sorry for my friend he cannot talk. There is a lot of talk about the polisis because originally I said out loud to myself that maybe I should I call the police. I am now saying in Bahasa Indonesian, Tidak Polisis, which is no police, and then embelish it with fix computer, make work, repair. I quickly realize that the polisis were not the people who were going to get my laptop working and get the hard drive back.

Also, from the look in their eye I don’t think I want to sick the notoriously strict indo police on these nice people who are trying to make it right and have “found” my laptop. No polisis, fix computer, make work, repair! I figured one of those English words might be understood. One great thing about cruising on a bicycle is all the reading time of all the store front posters. All in Indonesian mixed with a few known English words like repair. For instance the car garage sign says Motro Repair means, motor repair shop.

The laptop screen is completely wiped clean and I convinced that the software pirate thief has wiped out my hard drive is hacking into every password, has stole my software and every risqu’e photo that has ever been taken of me will be on Indonesia Facebook within 5 minutes. All they are saying is my friend, no talk! I am thinking of American rights to remain silence until an attorney is present etc. These folks might craftier then I had thought.

I say can we please ask him, the man who took it, what he did so we can fix it because it worked before he took it. There are now 6 people and myself and the laptop. The man who took it then gave it back after the staff went looking would not come into the office, the crowd said Tidak, no, he in Manado (700kn away), no talk. I laughed knowing that that was either a complete lie or a language barrier. Fix computer, make work, repair. The woman in the office says my baby inglis, which is the word for English, she gestures the round pregnancy sign and leaves. She is either having a baby or going to get her daughter.

She returns in 5 minutes with her English speaking university student daughter to translate. Turns out they really don’t want me to call the police because the man who stole the computer then gave it back can’t speak, is non-verbal, disabled and that he didn’t do anything to the computer because he doesn’t know anything about them and they are very sorry for their friend. So much for the hacker theories, I think to myself. Someone says he put it in a wet area, I start to laugh because most electronics no matter what language the manual is in will say in English do not put in wet area. I suddenly realized that their friend probably pushed on the interesting spider’s maze pattern on the screen and it was now completely defunct.

Fast forward until the end of the day at the Guest House

The disabled man is sorry, the women is sorry for her friend, the women’s daughter still thinks my laptop was put in a wet area, the indo police are corrupt and Pandemic The Magic Clumbsy Bicycle is grateful to not be responsible for finally doing the laptop in. And me, well, until I can get it repaired, I’ll be a pen and paper girl.

Organized Chaos

The exhaust smoke from diesel trucks carrying everything from cows to cabbages blackens my nostrils as I enter closer to the city of Poso in central Sulawesi, Indonesia. The deep muddy pot holes that freckle the road bounce Pandemic The Magic bicycle to new heights as I hold on tight in the congested street. Motorcycles zoom by on all sides as it is sundown and another long day of fasting for Ramadan has commenced. Eating this month (day 14 in the Muslim calendar) is allowed by non participating Muslims and Christians but not in public. Eating, drinking, smoking or physical displays of affection are not condoned outdoors during Ramadan. I was busted today hiding in a farmer’s field chugging water, the farmer laughed, flashed his toothless grin and carried on driving his two cow cart as I apologetically smiled and quickly put away the water.

The street is lavished in organized chaos; the traffic pattern is original in that every vehicle drives down the street together all giving way to the faster vehicle whether it be truck, motorcycle, cow or goat. There are no stop signs or traffic lights just a patient understanding that there is always room for more on the road. Pandemic The Magic Bicycle is about the speed of the motorcycles therefore Pandemic and about 50 motorcycles and a couple of cows all carry on.

I have cycled 140km(89miles) today into Poso City the largest city in central Sulawesi. Poso is known for hosting Sulawesi’s religious conflicts from 1998-2006. As in other locations throughout Indonesia Muslims and Christians rose up in violent protest. The most gruesome of the many incidents is the beheading of 3 Christian school girls in 2005. A radical Muslim man, in an twisted terrorist attempt of retribution of over 2000 Muslims being unfairly killed over the 1998-2006, 8 year period, beheaded three Christian schoolgirls with a machete, put the heads in a plastic bag and then left a note that said 100 heads needed. Many mosques and churches were destroyed during that time period. The story of the violent religious clashes is long and full of many such incidences. Poso has been stable and without conflict since 2006. And today, Poso is filled more with organized vehicular chaos then organized crime.

More information concerning the violent protests from 1998-2007 in Central Sulawesi can be found here

http://www.google.co.id/#hl=en&q=poso+sulawesi+conflict+beheading&aq=f&aqi=&aql=&oq=poso+sulawesi+conflict+beheading&gs_rfai=&fp=e816a05a0c47d6c3

Pandemic The Magic Bicycle Goes Bananas

As the smoke lifts from the burning corn cobs that line the fresh wet muddy ocean side road, the road begins to incline. The stiffness in my thighs is occasionally replaced by the lingering taste of rotten eggs and peanut butter burping in my mouth. My jar of Ramadam roasted peanut butter has been rationed conservatively in order to cycle through the central region of Sulawesi, Indonesia during the month long Muslim fasting holiday of Ramadam. The food options are scarce and my camping stove has replenished the moment with 2 minute instant noodles numerous times in the last couple of days.

Eggs are another food that appear along the road and are readily available; however, after hard boiling and eating the last two, then visiting them again shortly thereafter on the way out, I have been leaving the eggs for the chickens. There is limited refrigeration in the Tinombo region due to electrical shortages, most remote families receive only 4 hours a day of electricity, therefore, when the egg exits the chicken, is the real determining factor of palatable freshness. And since the Muslim majority is fasting for a month and only eating after sundown it can be assumed that there isn’t a big demand or turnover for the rotten eggs.

My local map isn’t to scale or topographical so I have been peddling along watching the mountain approach and feeling the road incline. As I begin to peddle up, up, up, the mountainous switch back road I look up through my muddy sunglasses, attempt to not to think about peanut butter and search for the big electrical tower that would indicate the mountain summit and the crest of the hill. I hear sounds unlike those of the usual macabre sounding psychotic roosters, foot long belching lizards or pencil thin snakes. The melted crayon green trees up above my head are swimming around as if stroked by a gusty tropical storm. The monkeys that perch over head seem to be jumping with their arms in the air, you are almost at the top, sort of celebration. I quickly remove my muddy sunglasses and allow my eyes to reason with my brain. Monkeys???

My legs immediately forget about peddling up the mountain, my stomach forgets about being hungry and my brain goes what the……??? I then realize I AM looking at monkeys that are dangling in the original melted crayon green trees. The you are not in Kansas anymore Toto moment kicks into full bloom as I immediately park Pandemic The Monkey Loving Magic Bicycle against the first rock I spot and mid hill I climb up 20 feet of loose rock, break free of a giant cobweb that has more elasticity then a sling shot, apologize to the 3 inch spider for crashing into her home and perch myself under the monkey tree. Two tiny baby monkeys and the mom are startled by my approach and change branches as I realize I have no idea what appropriate monkey etiquette is, although, thoughts such as stupid tourist do not hug the wildlife come to mind.

As I squint my eyes through the setting sun peering at the acrobatic monkey show, my stomach begins to remind me of Ramadam and the thought that they might eat monkeys here. I immediately cheer for the safe keeping of my Selawesi Crested Mocaque monkey friends, for despite a government ban poaching is comon practice by local residence who claim they are a pesty nuissance. I continue to peddle and climb into the setting sun and the 40 kilometer (25miles) decent to the nearest village to find something strange, vegetarian and nutritious to eat. I hope it’s bananas. For if bananas are good enough for monkeys they are good enough for me.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

I have read many times in magazine articles and travel guides, in reference to solo female travel that it is best to tell a few white lies. Some female solo travelers garnish fake wedding rings others make up lavish tales of husbands. Up until now on my solo travel, cycling adventure, I have stood firm and honest about being single, solo and without children. I have never been very good at lying, in fact, the guilt sinks deeply into my soul if even the thought of a lie creeps into my brain. And long before said fictitious thought ever gets to my lips and God, Allah, Buddha, Goddess, Higher Power, Spirit or what have you, forbid, hears it, I squash all lies and opt for speaking the truth.

Today this all changed for even Pinocchio’s nose did look cute even when it was elongated with unreal fairy tale wishes and tall, tall tales. Indonesia is a Muslim country, and the island of Sulawesi has a Muslim majority at 83% and in the rural villages being single, solo and female is not an option or something most people have even heard of. The vast majority of women will marry by the time they are 18 and then make babies soon thereafter. Some women will become university educated and become teachers or nurses then marry and then make babies. I met a progressive woman not long ago traveling to her job as a “maid” in Singapore who told me with a child like devilish grin that she was on her second husband. She said she had bad luck. I couldn’t sort out if her first husband had died or not but her second husband was a good man. She had a son with her first husband. She clearly missed her son a lot because her son had to live with her mother. She said her second husband wouldn’t give her son any food when they lived together so her son went to live with her mother and she was sad that she didn’t get to see him.

In Indonesia and Asia, personnel questions on first meeting are standard practice. Everyone I meet asks my name, where I am from, if I am married, if I am Muslim and if I have children, etc. I usually answer all of the above with truthful responses. Even now, if an old women or little girl asks me such things I answer truthfully.

However, If a group of men on motorcycles who have been fasting all day for Ramadam, doing their best to obtain from all sexual thoughts and are bored and have nothing else to do with their time then to harmlessly follow a single women on a magic bicycle for hours asks me personnel questions, I have started to make a few things up. In my head prior to speaking such fun lies I say to myself, dear universe I’m a liar, liar pants on fire, I am sorry for lying. If the universe ever answers me, I would first lose my mind and then listen to the universe say YES you are a liar, liar pants on fire but you get a free pass on this one because it concerns your safety.

I have never wanted to be an actress but it sure is fun to try on new pants. I have told people that my husband is meeting me here, that there are 5 other cyclists coming and excuse me I have to go because my friend is up ahead. I never say that I have children or that I am Muslim although I am tempted to see what would happen and what nutritious Ramadam cultural sun down family dinner gathering I might get invited to, if I did.

And speaking of pants, I also do not dress in Muslim attire, a “blending in” solution that many solo female travelers have opted for. The other end of the cyclists fashion spectrum is the popular option of wearing spandex bicycle shorts and sporty tank tops. I receive plenty of attention being a solo, female on a magic bicycle in a foreign country and I really don’t need any more attention so I cover as much skin and curves as possible and would cycle in a long skirt if it didn’t keep getting caught in the bicycle chain. For in a skirt, saying liar, liar pants on fire, wouldn’t be so far from the truth.

Beautiful Sunset, Fork Required

As the sun dips onto the tropical forest roof top the street wakes up and blossoms with life. There are people barbecuing chickens over smoky medal pits, giant elderly rice pots are being washed on the side of the street and the children are walking home. I peddle along hungry as usual taking in the scene. I have become accustomed to ignoring most of the hi misters, hello misses and the occasional I love you as I peddle and sing to my new favorite song “Crash Into Me” by the Dave Mathews Band. A twisted ironic anti-manifested choice of favorites I still don’t fully understand.

As I peddle along, ear phones beating away, feeling more like a mutant then a Madonna from all this attention, I make an exception for children and wave hello at the little people, all of whom love Facebook and have camera cell phones. Selawesi, Indonesia is full of contrast between old and new, with blackberry cell phones at every turn in the village, homemade petrol stations and unique toilets. Regardless of the wonderful medley of contrasts I have been making great time because when I stop I am surrounded by groups of curious folks, groups of up to 30 and if I hang out too long they multiply because they call each other on their cell phones to let their surrounding neighbors know there is a lady on a magic bicycle at their shop. I now stop only for water and on occasion I take a rest in the trees out of sight. I would stop to eat as well but those opportunities have become limited. Or so I thought.

Facebook mobile is offered free with a new cell phone

Unique Toilet

Homemade Petrol Station

Are you hungry? I hear called out from the street at dusk in the small town of Morissa, Sulawesi, Indonesia…I laugh and say YES! A big ole yes, the biggest yes I have said in some time. Other then my tiny ailing jar of expensive Skippy peanut butter, some crackers and hydration salts from my first aid kit, it has been a few days since I have eaten a meal. I quickly peddle towards the setting sun and into a small shop. I am offered everything that I smile and nod at as my stomach jumps with anticipatory jubilation. I am not in a restaurant but rather a family’s living room/small coffee shop. They are eating cucumber and fish salad, rice, donuts and green and brown jiggling jelly slices and therefore, so am I. I top off my wonderful feast with ridiculously sweet milk coffee and jelly slices to go. I profusely thank the kind family, offer them some money and peddle on.

As the night begins and the sun fades farther away the cooking festivities begin. Every other family I pass has set up a giant picnic of sorts out in front of their house. The food and laughter is plentiful for another day of fasting from sun up to sun down during Ramadahm has commenced. Ramadahm is also a time for doing good deeds, I am grateful to the family that just fed me, they will no doubt be scoring mega points with Allah for their kind gesture.

I don’t normally cycle at night but Pandemic The Magic Bicycle is now fashioned with some super bright front lights. A combination of a head lamp, small torch and two taped together cigarette lighters equipped with single led light bulbs, a collage of lights bright enough to lead the way for I will be peddling in the festive nutritious dark as much as possible from here on out.

Eating Auditory Casserole for Ramadhan

It is the middle of the night and I am hungry. The sounds of ocean waves crashing closer fill my right ear. A strange medley of bugs and lizards screaming away at the stars occupy my left ear. The bugs and lizards sound like chain saws with broken carburetors, an auditory casserole of sorts that is giving my ears indigestion. I am glad that something has indigestion because my belly has barely eaten all day. I had to push Pandemic The Magic bicycle up a switch back mountainous road today which is a rare occurrence. My belly was hungry and was all out of fuel to tackle the mountains. This morning in the hotel all they had ready was coffee or cobe which is sugar with coffee grounds floating in the bottom. I left early figuring I would stop for breakfast at the first place I saw. Food opportunities are usually plentiful and every other house seems to have fashioned their porch into a little shop. I peddled for 7 hours on empty in search of a greatly needed nutritious breakfast. All the usual food stalls and little shops were closed. The people in the villages were dressed in beautiful Muslim attire. All white robes decorated with hand embroidered trimmings and white head dresses. It took me 7 hours (110 km/75 miles) of starvation to realize that the month long Muslim holiday of Ramadham had began.

Ramadhan: It is the Islamic month of fasting, in which participating Muslims refrain from eating, drinking and sexual activities from dawn until sunset. Fasting is intended to teach Muslims about patience, humility and spirituality and is a time for Muslims to fast for the sake of God (Allah) and to offer more prayer than usual. During Ramadan, Muslims ask forgiveness for past sins, pray for guidance and help in refraining from everyday evils, and try to purify themselves through self-restraint and good deeds.

More about Ramadhan is available here
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ramadan

I now lie here in my tent hungry wide awake smiling at my timing of when to cycle here listening to the chain saw chorus of tropical forest critters and approaching ocean waves. My body feels like I have been bathing in orange juice, Tropicana brand, the pulp from the juice well that would be all the mosquito and spider bites that litter my orange juice sticky body. The ocean bath I just took seems to just increase my stickiness. The humidity in the air is at about 110% and I do believe the chainsaw chorus is calling for rain.

Despite heavy night rains I am dedicated and motivated to sleep in my tent because a few nights ago in a hotel I watched The Rat Rockets show. A half dozen rats of various sizes performing a dance show up and down the walls. The largest rat dancer I swear was my childhood cat Morris reincarnated, big and furry with a little bit of charm, charming for a rat that is. My sweaty head is tucked under a blue camp sheet inside my warm green tent as I type this in an attempt to not attract any attention. Regardless of my efforts my tent now looks like a blue green light bulb speckling the tropical ocean side. My arm is a bit sore for today I waved at hundreds of people most of which were yelling hi mister as I peddled by too preoccupied by hunger to do much more then toss a lame wave.

Tomorrow 55 km from here I will arrive a little bit thinner in Gorontolo, the provincial capital. Christians form a substantial minority at 17% of the population of Selawesi,Indonesia. Here’s to hoping that at least one of them owns a grocery store so I can stock up, peddling for a month while fasting sounds like a great way to emerge at the bottom of this Island an Indonesian skeleton that converted to the Muslim religion and barely survived the first right of passage the month long fast called Ramadham. Unfortunately fasting and cycling don’t go very well together because normally I am very open to experiencing new cultures. But this time I will have to take a pass. And in the end, a pass is a whole lot better then a pass out which is what will happen if I don’t find some food soon. Said with the up most of respect, so far Ramadham is making me very hungry.

It Ain’t Easy Being Green

As I peddle through rain drops the size of toy poodles I begin to grin. A giggly grin I haven’t felt since leaving Asia late last year. This region of Indonesia has a mini rain season in the midst of the dry season just to keep things as green as possible, a green so bright that it could make Kermit The Frog blush from racial paranoia. I left Manado, Sulawesi, Indonesia this morning, Manado is known for being the city of smiles but I do believe that that smile is big enough to encompass the surrounding region as well. A smile so big it could knock the ball out of bounds on an Olympic size soccer/football field. Every pedestrian is smiling at me, every person on a motorcycle is giving me the thumps up and the guy driving a two cow cart full of things for the market chuckles as he motions that he wants to pull me up the hill. The spirit of which these folks are shining can only be described as beautiful Indonesian hospitality. I have laughed several times today while peddling and thinking of how many people have looked at me as if I have two heads and pretty much questioned my judgment concerning my safety. If only they could come peddle with me someday they would get to experience why I love this, I keep thinking to myself as I peddle on. 50 kilometers (about 34 miles) later I stop at a store in search of lunch. I meet the shop owner who used to work for an American oil company in Papua and is trilingual. The shop owner says there is a Bahasa word, Indonesians widely spoken language, pronounced breyana, the spelling I am not sure, the word is said in response to how it is going, in reference to working, driving, eating etc. It means whether it is raining or any other hard time, no worries, I will carry on. The man sits with me as I eat odd fluffy bread stuff and drink a coke and he says that because I am smiling about the rain, legs and face freckled with dirt next to a wet bicycle that I am trying to peddle to the end of the K shaped island that that is my word. I spend the rest of the day peddling in the rain while practicing the pronunciation of my new word and hoping that someone will stop and ask how I am, so that I can say breyana. Breyana! The greatest word I have learned in some time and one I will be using as much as possible from now on. Breyana! At the end of the day, 90 kilometers (about 60 Miles) I roll in from the rain and the women who owns the hotel says hello how are you and I smiled so hard a giggle popped out and I got to say Breyana!