Travels with Mook and Boonlert

Bandung

We sit in Bandung, West Java, the fat rain beating on the plastic sheets, and dripping cold and heavy onto power-cut blackened streets. A chicken leg snaps violently against a burning fat and, though long dead, it spits as if alive, a posthumous revenge: onions' sting and chillies' heat, the poisoned gills of crabs. WE sit, all miserable and looking up at the black, wet sky, and down at the dirty, wet floor, and across the constant traffic whines, and coughs unhealthy noise. The chicken fat bursts, and snaps again; smoke rises, thick with the fumes of cars, an entwined, rich filth; billowing, unwet, and twisting through the rain.

Fingers and thumbs squash rice together, dip it in sambal, and lift the small handful, steaming hot and hot. Pedas. Panas. The chicken legs are being torn apart, one-handed. Right-handed. But it burns and sizzles at each touch, scorched fingers fly away. Back to rice. Sambal. The crunch of raw cabbage. Of cucumber. And now the chicken's skin is crisp, and its flesh is moist and hot. The rice is pushed together again and we drink tea sitting, less miserable now, looking up at the black, wet sky.

A smile breaks across Boonlert's face, as I glance across the table. Over the tea, rice, chicken - the bowls of water for the washing of hands. His eyes fix on mine, then look away. "Same, same Jakarta" he says, shaking his head through a puzzled, despairing laugh. He throws his hands away, "Same, same."

He is right. We have cycled for three days from Jakarta. The map assures us we have left; the neat yellow patches of cities clearly defined against the white, open promise of countryside between. But the days have been gridlocked, a lawless hot road: blocked all in front by trucks and a heavy rising dust, by motorbikes squeezing through impossible gaps, up pavements and under market stalls, and by the people, pushed from the pavement, walking past rickshaws, a stationary cart behind a stationary horse. At intervals Mook would appear, his head bobbing above a strange tempestuous sea - metal, crashing waves. His face was covered with a scarf, protection from the fumes - dark glasses covered his eyes. It was impossible to make out his expression. It must, I thought, it surely must be one of a deep and vengeful unhappiness. Like mine! Now, however, as we sit in Bandung, three days into our journey, I feel sure that he was smiling. A picture of contentment, curiosity and hopefulness. In spite of things. Tomorrow, says his face, the city will break.

Gunung Merapi


As we approach the summit, dark and hidden in night's sky still, the rock begins to feel hot under the hands. It is a strange sensation - the chill of 4am at 10,000 feet all around and this rising heat escaping through the volcano as an odourless gas.

A little before six the sun rises. Clouds, a perfect white, are thick below. It feels as if it is just this. Two rocky peaks and a sky growing blue. Eyes watering in a cold, crisp air, and the sense that something very simple and very beautiful and quite miraculous is taking place. It is hard to imagine that this happens everyday. Something this extraordinary. The sun going up. Going down. And everything below forgotten. And remembered, all at once.

Probolinggo

She is one of those girls who, by the time she has handed you your change, has made you forget that you have ducked under a wooden beam in order to get to where she is standing. With the 1000 rupiah notes scrunched in a too-nervous hand, and a "terima kasih" uttered, I turn as if I can't wait to get away from her. I walk fast enough for it to hurt when my head hits the beam.

Peals of laughter then. Mook and Boonlert are falling about in an exaggerated cartoon-like hysteria, committed to their cause - to make the situation as embarrassing as they can for me. Mook points to the girl and then mimes something with his hands. Something to do with clouds perhaps, and heads being stuck in them. He calls to her, "He wants an Indonesian wife!"

The girl looks confused. Or maybe scared. "Kamu bisa bahasa Ingriss?" I ask, and she shakes her head - no English. I motion towards Mook, "Dia -" and draw an index finger across my forehead: he is crazy.

It is like this every time we stop. Every time we stop near a pretty girl. Even if I fail to headbutt something, to drop money or to stumble over foreign words, the two grown men will giggle like school children as they plot how they are going to embarrass me. I am learning to cycle on ahead as soon as someone mentions food. I look for stalls ran by wretched old women: women with beards and multiple chins, grey hair, glass eyes and hairy hands. Even with this modified criteria, East Java is a beautiful place for cycling.

Today we were looking for es kelapa - coconut with ice. Who sold them to us was a lesser priority. I sit down, hoping the embarrassment is over, or at least that it was worth it.

Before they find themselves under fluorescent lights in Europe, all dried out and brown, coconuts are fat, green heavy things - bursting with milk and their meat is soft and sweet. It takes a great deal of effort to get in to them. Several precise and forceful blows, each splicing a little further. I find the process hard to watch - it puts in mind those condemned to death who could not pay for a sharp enough axe!

By the sea, on the northern coast, we drink through straws the light and ice-cold milk. The sun beats heavy - you can feel it in your bones. In two days we will make Bali and our journey together will end. When I say goodbye to them at the airport I will be saying goodbye to real friends, with whom it has been a pleasure (mostly!) to share this experience. I look forward to seeing Mook again, when he cycles from Thailand to London in 2012.