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The majestic jungles of Borneo, a lush tropical paradise freckled with banana plants, the sounds of tropical birds enlighten my ear drums with each push of the pedal. Dancing monkeys dart from tree to tree through the surrounding rain forest as I coast through paradise. Orangutans cackle as Pandemic The Magic Bicycle effortlessly floats through a lush tropical cool breeze. A serendipitous exotic collage of flora and fauna for 900 beautiful kilometers up the Eastern coast of Borneo . Before I get too far into never never land I think it’s time to wake up and smell the skeevy pervert for today I was mistaken for a porn star.

Back in reality where little boys don’t fly, bike touring up the east coast of Borneo has become comically shitty. Today, while pushing Pandemic up a mountain, gradient a quazillion, in near death tropical sun on a heavily trafficked road that I am positive that some sadistic lunatic must of built, I decide to take a water break. I am sitting inside a barbeque in the middle of nowhere, staring at endless acres of annihilated sad rainforest some of which is on fire. As the smoke clears, I am pondering why there isn’t any information on the internet about bike touring these mountainous parts and realize right then and there, sitting and laughing on a broken wooden bench in Barbequeville, Borneo, that it is probably because it is a magnum size bad idea to bike tour here.

A man stops his grieving industrial dirt truck as I am pondering away, he goes for an Emmy away winning performance and pretends he is checking the undercarriage of the truck and comes over and sits too close to me. I say hello, he hears my music coming from my pocket so I show him my music player and flip through a few tunes. He then shows me his music and video player on his phone. He shows me a excerpt of a porn video. He is positive that I am a porn star and must make movies and wants to know if I would like to do the same things that are on the video with him. It certainly doesn’t happen everyday that I am mistaken for a porn star. And as much as I am flattered, I quickly decline and leave in a big hurry to continue pushing a loaded bicycle up a mountain like a retarded porn star cyclist with my 3rd degree sunburned arms baffled by the image of really bad porn.

I pause, pedal and push on for 96 km to catch a boat deep into The National park and away from skeevey perverts to see some orangutans. The information I have is incorrect, there are no boats not even for porn stars and the river only access into the park is only one ridiculous mountain away in the direction that I just came from somewhere near the squeevey pervert. My visa is running thin and the border between Indonesia, Borneo and Malaysia, Borneo is through slow boat access only so I am happy to soon be getting off the loudest, craziest, road I have cycled yet. Fortunately, orangutans don’t need visas or watch porn and there will be plenty of orangutans on the Malaysian side of Borneo to see later. And if all goes well in orangutan land on that special day there will be some orangutan porn for me to watch, after all, even porn stars need company once in a while.

After 96 km, Porn Star Hitch Hiking the Final kms

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Loads more Yacht race photos are available on facebook at

http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/pages/Darwin-to-Ambon-Yacht-Race/131310083572243?v=photos&ref=ts

As the dolphins jump over the bow of the boat, I stand watch with my crew member, Robert. Robert and I have been steering the boat every 4 hours for the past 6 days. The dolphins seem to realize that we are at the end of a long journey as we approach the final 2 miles of the 600 mile nautical ocean yacht race. We have seen good strong winds for the entire trip. On the second night the weather fouled for some time and Maralinga the yacht took on some crashing waves. Robert and I continued to steer into the rain storm for the next day until the weather and seas calmed to a pleasant roll. Robert is color blind and has poor night vision so tonight as we approach the finish I am the eyes and Robert is the voice reporting green and red lighted bouyies, fish traps and other mysteries that litter on the water’s surface to the rest of the crew steering our way up the harbor. The wind has silenced to a next to nothing breeze so we bob away for 12 hours as we approach the long awaited finish line and customs check in Ambon, Indonesia.

After a customs check we venture to shore and begin the second half of the Darwin to Ambon race, a week of festivities sponsored by the Indonesia government and Captain Bintang, Indonesia’s famous giant beers. Stage 2 of the race seems to require as much endurance as the ocean crossing and after another 6 long days I venture for the ferry with Pandemic The Magic Nautical Bicycle, who has been patiently waiting to get back on the road. 2 more days of recovering from stage 2 of the race while sleeping on a cardboard mat on the floor of the ferry next to Pandemic and I disembark in Manado, Sulawesi, Indonesia. Or I attempt to disembark. Indonesians do not make lines but rather crowd around and filter through any opening with sharpened elbows. Disembarking the ferry has an impending rock concert stadium stampede vibe. I place Pandemic The Magic Bicycle to my right and hold tight in the crowd as thousands of people push their way through the maze of turns and doors. At the first turn of the hallway it becomes very clear that Pandemic and I may not make it out alive in any vertical position. I can get Pandemic fully loaded on my shoulder but not with any degree of balance to stand my ground in the pushing crowd. Next thing you know Pandemic gets whisked up in the air and a man begins to should clear the way or magic bicycle coming through or something like that. I followed and all I could hear is a chorus of speda, speda, speda which the Bahasa, Indonesian word for bicycle.

After a week of listening to sailing terms being shouted at top volume such as reef the main, tacking, moron, useless etc. (ok, the last two aren’t really sailing terms but the skipper of my boat was expanding his vocabulary a wee bit), it sure feels good to be back in the peaceful school of bicycle or speda. After Pandemic The Magic Bicycle lands on the ground outside of the ferry I quickly peddle away from the chorus of speda, taxi, hotel, where you froms, and are you alones, and peddle for 44 kilometers to the city of Manado. The 44 kilometers pass quickly, probably because my sea legs have been missing peddling for over 2 weeks. I am presently in Manado, Sulawesi sweating in a 3 dollar hotel, hoping the bed doesn’t have bugs, fresh from a cold bucket bath crouched over a new map, plotting and scheming my cycling route for the K shaped island of Sulawesi, Indonesia.

A very heavy, 15 kilos (33 pounds) Queensland Coastal Python, his favorite meal is dead rabbits

Litchfield National Park is famous for its magnetic termite mounds measuring up to 4 metres

Road kill snake about 11/2 meters long, one of many on the road into the National Park

Endless litters of water are consumed as the park gate approaches in the distance. Swimming is the national park highlight. Some swimming holes are closed due to crocodiles, some our open. I ponder how accurately the crocodiles can possibly be monitored as I wet my big toe in the most refreshing water I have encountered since eating ice cubes last week.

This part of Australia is against all odds miraculously alive. Dried liked a crisp piece of wheat toast and cherry ripe with bountiful fruitful life as far as the senses will allow one to go. At the end of a long day of sun drenched peddling the spiders dangle on trees in hopeful suspense of a late evening meal.

The insects sing as I lie sticky still saturated in bug repellent with open ears in the thin protection of my little tent. My head pounds with a happy dehydrated buzz as I draw closer to a long awaited sleep. Moments before drifting off into a deep 9 hour snooze, I politely ask the universe to not give me any reason throughout the night to venture out into the darkness amongst the feral wild pigs, termites, acrobatic lizards, nocturnal snakes, huge frogs, red eyed crocodiles, flying bats, jumping kangaroos and strange dangling spiders. Oddly enough, the outback is incredibly tiresome but never sleeps.

Each evening hundreds of bats fly over head

Darwin, Australia is a town perched high in the northern territory of Australia and home to many sailors.Sail boats freckle the harbor, rise and retreat from marina docks, bop on moorings and float in the distance on anchors.A floating world of broken dreams, dreams realized and dreams waiting to happen.Pandemic the Magic nautical bicycle patiently stands watch on deck as Maralinga, a 55 foot yacht motor sails from one side of the Darwin Harbor to the other in search of the boat yard.

In the salty northern Australian waters, a collage of boats floats by. My favorite yacht resembles a pirate ship, the kind of boat I hope to not encounter on my sailing voyage to Indonesia. According to many, most of the pirates in the Indonesia waters have relocated to the east coast of Africa in search of other criminally acquired treasures.

Open crocodile traps litter the harbor’s rocky shores waiting to capture the latest cheeky salt water crocodile.Jelly fish glow beneath the surface with a tantalizing don’t touch me stare of their luminous poisonous eyes.Back in Alaska, while camping amongst bears, wolves and moose, thoughts of nature and the frailty of being human occupies an earned space in every wilderness women’s mind.However, here in the ocean, the predators are of a different breed, equally humbling, another beautiful example of natures balancing act between mankind and species.

The most inquisitive of the species I met a few days later in a toilet at the boat yard. A tree frog had taken up residence in the toilet. Splashing with a cool just found the best pond ever moon sized perma grin, he batted his eye lashes at me and sent me a clear croaky message to go find another place for my yellow splash. So I did and reasoned that even in the toilet we can all live in harmony and went outside to pee with the trees.

After having slept on anchor in the harbor on the way to the boat yard and prior to the meeting of the toilet frog we maneuvered the 55 foot yacht to the dry yard for a barnacle scraping and a good thick coat of paint. Maralinga the 55 foot concrete yacht has a dirty bottom and similar to a child in need of new pants, Maralinga slowly waddles through the salty harbor to the changing table for some TLC. Two days of scrapping and applying anti-foul paint later Maralinga returns refreshed in her clean pants to her floating home restrained to a dock in the marina where she anxiously awaits like the rest of us for the starting bell of the race/rally to Indonesia waters.