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This is not a story of rainbows or wanderlust of the original solo female traveler Dorothy and her little dog Toto finding courage in the heart of the lion. Nor is it about having to be smarter then the scarecrow to navigate roads in foreign lands. But rather a down home tale of what happens when you have been cycling for hours with a bladder fuller then the size of Kansas. 

As the bicycle seat bounces into my bladder, I need to pee and begin to follow the yellow brick road. It is the tropics of southern Thailand and I have consumed enough water to melt the wicked witch of the west. 

I pass a petrol station, there is not a proper toilet, I carry on. I pedal by someone’s pet dog who is squatting over a pot hole, boy does that look tempting, I carry on. As the minutes persist and the urge strengthens with the force of a Oz like hurricane I am faced with the inevitable realization that good hiding spot or not if I don’t pee soon I will certainly pee my pants. Everything I pedal by has turned into a P. There are petrol stations, pet dogs, papayas for sale, people everywhere and no privacy in site.

I pull Pandemic The Magic Bicycle into a new construction area about 20 feet from the road. I run for the trees, drop my be the adventure panties and with the comforts of there is no place like home, I pee under the trees. I glance down taking care to not splash my magic slippers and I am startled by the site of red ants swimming up the yellow brick road and into my be the adventure panties.

One hot air balloon short of a better exit plan I run for the magic bicycle as I pull up my be the adventure panties. The locals look, then laugh as I head off to avoid other poppy fields in search of wishes come true.

As I pedal into the world heritage city of Melaka, Malaysia my eyes burn not with beauty or ocean salt but with thick smoke particles. Particles that have wafted north through the ocean breeze from Indonesia. The northern blowing tropical wind rustles my thin cotton shirt as I attempt to pedal with my mouth covered into my shirt sleeve. The street lights are blurred, the familiar red stop light appears over head in the opaque burgundy/gray distance as I percuss through a warm, sunny, smoky, thick breeze. I navigate through the quiet streets in search of a guest house of oxygenated standards. The monkeys overhead don’t seem to be too concerned about air quality as they walk across the electrical wires in search of the famous Melaka nutritional delicacies. The river squirms through the city amongst tourists and historic malay red roofed houses, lizards the size of dogs bath on the river banks waiting for sun down or the calling hour for some serious lizard activity. Colorful bridges span the river providing locals and tourists with a beautiful walk in and out of China Town. In China town, the weekend crowd of tourists from Singapore, India and the world gather for a weekend street fair. A cavalry of elaborately decorated Rickshaws wait in the distance for the crowd to have their fill of music, food and souvenir shopping. China town in Melaka is a familiar stop for many heading for the Island of Palau Besar. Paulu Besar translated literally as The Big Island is located a short distance from Melaka off of the Malaysia coast.

The island has profound spiritual significance for Indian Muslims who often travel for many miles to visit the numerous prayer alters scattered throughout the island. A place so relaxed that western tourists waft in and out of rested consciousness for weeks amongst friendly locals, coconut grooves and private white sand beaches. A peacefulness only rustled by the thousands of hermit crabs scurrying to and from the ocean tides.

relaxing on the island can take many forms

As I lay solemnly still amongst sandalwood and camphor trees bugs hiccup in the softness of dusk. Branches bend as monkeys jockey for a position to view the new edition to the forest. Fist size, brown moth tropical butterflies flap their wings as my tent poles jiggle themselves erect into their evening T pose. Giant ants clear a space as I shake my tiny tent into its familiar formation. My tent perches comfortably on a bed on sprinkled leaves and discarded palm hay. Freedom camping or camping in open wild spaces without a soul to see for another evening in the 14^th country on this world journey. Some may say why not stay in the $3 dollar hotel down the street or the ocean view tourist resort with swimming pool only 50 km away.

Being that I have become an international hoboist with bicycle perching my tent in a hidden gem of a Malaysian forest is an embraced opportunity. One of the many shear joys and benefits of pedaling down lonesome roads, rarely visited by tourists.

Last night here in Malaysia on the outskirts of Johor Bahru, I slept under a tree without a tent. Last week I caught some zzz’s on a boat in Indonesia. And at this time last year I put my tent with permission in front of a Thai temple. A new stalker turned future cycling partner enjoys sleeping on 3^rd base of the local baseball field (and stalking solo female cyclist but that’s another story). Perhaps he is afraid to go home but none the less he continues in his bicycle travels. The notion that a bed is a prerequisite for sleeping is truly not a reality for the majority of the people of the world.

Here is a brief list of countries in which freedom camping is a great option for the outdoor enthusiasts.

• Ireland-plenty of beaches and green spaces, many farmers are also open to pitching a tent on their land

• Thailand, Lao-most farms and rice plantations have a covered bamboo resting hut used by the public, these places are great for resting

• New Zealand-The government of NZ is so supportive of freedom camping that they even publish a free tourist brochure on locations and low impact tips. In addition to the pamphlet the farmers are very friendly and will walk you to the prettiest of places

• Nepal-The terrain in the trekking region is on a step slope, however there are places near streams and rivers that a tent can stay tucked out of the way, lots of fresh water and the sound of a trickling brook makes for a great sleep

• Indonesia-Over crowding is a big issue here but none the less, Sulawesi, Indonesia has lots of open space on the beach and in the woods. I heard the same is true of Flores, Lombak and Bali as well.

• Mongolia-My favorite place, the nomadic country where their locals dwellings are tents (gers). A tent fits in here almost anywhere. You could probability pitch a tent here in the capital city and no one would think much of it. Not sure that’s safe but you get the idea about how tent friendly Mongolia is.

• Malaysia-My present location and a great surprise. There are undeveloped forest great for tenting throughout the west coast route and last night I saw glow worms and monkeys from the tent door.

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.