Right to the Edge: Sydney to Tokyo By Any Means (19 page)

The smell was getting to me: I had seen enough of the dead and their funerals. Down in the valley again, I grabbed the map and spread it on my knees. We were making for a place called Makale and it would be nice to arrive in the daylight if we could.

‘We should try,’ Claudio said. ‘We’re always getting to places after dark.’

‘I know we should. But how are we going to get there?’

As we started looking for a bus a truck drove up with a bunch of lads in the back - teenagers in jeans and baseball caps. I recognised them as guests from the funeral. They told us they would take us to Makale. Job done then. Things were looking up - this was the second quick lift we had found in as many days. A couple of the guys appeared to have been supping plenty of palm wine and it wasn’t long before the bamboo cups came out. Someone opened a package of palm leaves and, drink in hand, we tucked into some pig meat I’d seen cooking on the open fires.

 

 

We spent the night in a small boarding house close to the lake in the centre of town. Makale is a picturesque place, the buildings quite modern and none more than a couple of storeys high. The lake is dominated by an enormous statue of a hero from the days when the Dutch were trying to colonise Indonesia, a muscle-bound warrior with his fist in the air. We were told he was meant to symbolise the collective history of the country. It’s funny, there are so many islands and each is so different, they all seem to have separate identities. It was easy to forget they are all part of one country.

This morning we were heading south-west to the sea, after which we would make our way around the western coast. Actually I didn’t care where we went today, because wherever it was it would be on a motorbike. We were joining a group of Harley riders, who were big fans of the show. A guy called Onny had been in touch with us before we left London and suggested we meet up. Now here he was in a white T-shirt and open-face helmet, grinning from ear to ear. He was riding a 750 Harley built for the army in 1951. Painted khaki green, it came complete with a foot clutch and stick shift on the left side of the fuel tank. The rest of the group rode big cruisers. One even had fake police lights.

I checked out Onny’s bike. ‘It looks like it might be quite difficult to ride,’ I said, ‘what with the stick shift and everything.’

‘Not for Charley Boorman! You can ride anything.’

I appreciated Onny’s confidence in me, but I wasn’t so sure. I mean, I’m not bad, but I’m no Valentino Rossi. I wanted to have a go, however, so I swung a leg over, Onny showed me how to work the clutch and gears and I pulled away. It was lumpy, of course, a bit of a bone cruncher, but then the engine was mounted on the frame. I rode down to the crossroads, turned right, then did a little circuit to see what it felt like.

‘You went the wrong way,’ Onny said when I got back.

‘What?’

The other guys were laughing their heads off.

‘You went the wrong way,’ Onny repeated. He was pointing now. ‘It’s one way, Charley. You went the wrong way.’

 

 

There is something about me, motorbikes and relaxation. When I’m worried or wound up about anything, I’ll jump on a bike and whatever it is that’s bothering me just fades away. Today I was riding a 1994 Road King, one of the first of Harley’s evolution engines, and as soon as we left town any worries I might have had disappeared. It’s a physical thing, especially on a big comfortable bike like this. I had a full screen, an open-face helmet and a pair of sunglasses. The last couple of days had been hectic, noisy - so much to see and take in. To be on a bike again was just what I needed.

After an hour or two on the road we stopped at a spa overlooking a mountain shaped like a . . . actually, I’m not sure how to put it exactly. If I tell you the place was called the Erotic Mountain, it might give you a clue. It wasn’t phallic and it was a natural formation. I mean very natural, a sort of shallow cleft in the hills, perfectly formed and . . . Anyway, the place had become a beauty spot and tourist attraction. There was a spa, hotel and bar, all so you could gaze on the wonders of what looked like . . .

The valley below was covered with what Onny called rain trees, not unlike acacias to look at, only the canopy was much thicker. Onny explained that he was involved in forest conservation, a government plan to plant five million trees all across Sulawesi. I didn’t quite understand it, but he said he had access to the seeds and the army helped him to distribute them. Anyone wanting to plant a nursery could come to him.

He was a special guy; they all were. At a filling station I topped up the Road King and was about to pay when Onny told me my money wasn’t valid in Sulawesi. They reminded me of the guys we had met in Daly Waters - a great laugh and there for each other. It’s the same with bikers everywhere; we share a common bond, a brotherhood that is borne of people with the same passion.

 

 

We made it to the coast and Parepare in time to grab a late lunch, and as we pulled up I spotted an old Toyota Land Cruiser parked up the road. It was the 40 series, the jeep version I really love. They haven’t made them since 1984, but I remembered that Diane Cilento had owned one when I was helping her clear the land for her theatre. You don’t see them in England very often, and the ones you do see are really expensive. I love them because they are just so functional. A bit like a Willys jeep from the front, they’re hard top and have a short wheelbase. I suppose they’re more like a Land Rover. This one was silver and I wanted it. God, I thought, if we could find one of those on this trip I’d be in my element.

I was sad to see the guys leave. Harley riders in Indonesia, you touched my heart, boys, you really did. But they had to go and we were supposed to be making our way around the peninsula to Ujung Lero, a shanty town where we hoped to find a boat builder.

To get our bearings we walked to the docks where we found a group of kids loading blocks of ice onto a little white boat. The ice was for the residents of Ujung Lero, which we could just about make out on the far side of the natural harbour. Thinking that a short boat trip was a much better idea than a long road trip, I helped the lads with the ice while Sam asked the skipper if he would take us.

He was more than happy, though there were four of us plus the gear and the boat was tiny. The skipper sat in an open hatch steering with his feet, his upper body above deck and his legs below. It was mad, the engine clattering away so loudly it sounded bone dry and completely bereft of oil. The driver didn’t seem worried, however, and with him only half visible, we made our way across the water.

I had things on my mind now. No sooner had I got off the bike than we took a call from London. Apparently the border between Indonesia and the Philippines had been closed. We were due to take a ferry across the Celebes Sea but as far as we could gather that was no longer an option. No one seemed certain about what was going on, but it was something to do with drugs and people traffickers. It was a real problem, in any case.

When the ice boat docked we made our way along a rickety old wharf to Ujung Lero. This really was a shanty town: shacks made from poles and planks of wood, doors cut from curtains and roofs of rusting tin.

We were here to find Guntur, the boat builder, and we knew his house was somewhere around . . . we just didn’t know where. So we spent the next hour or so wandering the streets. It was a labyrinth, a mass of ramshackle buildings permeated by the smell of cooking, and a maze of alleys and little roads.

It was also filthy, a real slum. But there wasn’t the air of menace I’d felt in other places. On the contrary, it was very friendly. People smiled and nodded greetings, kids followed us wherever we went and we found the kind of hospitality I’m not sure we would get in Western Europe.

Finally we found Guntur, his place only a stone’s throw from where we had originally landed. His boatshed backed on to a beach covered with rubbish - paper and bottles, rotting vegetables, rice and God knows what else. A herd of goats was scavenging on it. If this had been in Brazil we wouldn’t have come, because there would be little chance of ever getting out. Here, though, it was chilled. For the most part I’d found the Indonesian people we’d met very welcoming and hospitable, and for all the poverty and filth, I never felt even slightly threatened.

I watched Guntur making a fishing boat. It looked like a shallow-bottomed canoe, only it was thirty feet in length. He used no pattern, no plan or blueprint - he had been making them for fourteen years and the plans were in his head. He didn’t use screws or rivets, everything was held together by wooden pegs that he dipped in paint before hammering them into place. He told me he made five or six boats a year and each one took thirty-five days to complete.

That night his wife cooked us a lovely meal and then she showed me to a bedroom beyond a sliding door off the kitchen. There were no windows and, given the heat, I thought it might be a little stuffy. So with Guntur’s permission I unrolled my sleeping bag on the balcony. Claudio strung his hammock.

I half slept, I suppose. It was cool enough on the balcony but the sounds of the little town never really subsided. I heard music from radios and people talking, ships on the water and one skinny cockerel that had no idea when dawn would break so he crowed every fifteen minutes just to make sure he didn’t miss it.

 

 

The following day - the thirty-sixth since we left Sydney - we were taking a bus up the coast to Mamuju. I still had things on my mind, not just the border problems, but the idea of being on a bus for seven or eight hours. The day after that we were picking up an army truck and I imagined it would be yet another flatbed, which would be nice. I’d briefly thought about trying to find some more cushions. I say briefly, because I kept seeing this image of some Indonesian soldier telling me not to be such a wuss and to give him twenty press-ups.

Sitting on Guntur’s balcony in the hot sun, I could feel my face burning from being on the bike yesterday. I could also see the bloody cockerel who had kept me awake all night. He was across the street, tethered by one foot, and if he’d been any closer he would have crowed his last, believe me.

‘Hey, Charley!’ Sam calling from below caught my attention. ‘Guess what?’

I looked down at him. ‘What?’

‘You can forget about the bus today.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean the bloke we stayed with last night knows someone with a Toyota Land Cruiser. A jeep, Charley! He reckons we can borrow it.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘No. I mean it. We were talking to him last night and I mentioned you’d seen one and he said he knows someone who’ll lend us his. We’re driving it to Mamuju.’

I couldn’t believe it. The best car in the world and we were going to borrow it.

 

 

An hour later it arrived. A 40 series, it was dark green with a white roof and all-terrain tyres. With the gear stowed, Sam and Robin in the back and Claudio alongside, I got behind the wheel. It was diesel of course and there was no power steering. The gears were something else - first was where second should be, and third . . . well, there were only three. The steering was a bit unpredictable - when you hit the brakes it pulled to the right and there was plenty of play in the wheel. Being so short at the back there was plenty of under-steer as well, but hey, I’d wanted one of these for ever and we could have been spending the next seven hours on a bus. This ought to be quicker and it was a hell of a lot more fun.

We could only drive in daylight, however. Sam had been told that further up the road some people had been hijacked - gunmen were stopping cars and robbing people. Some tourists had been pulled off a bus and now the buses weren’t driving the road at night. No one was, and that included us. So, we would get as far as we could and find somewhere to spend the night.

Today Regina, Claudio’s long-suffering wife, was celebrating her birthday. He phoned home, got the answer-machine and we all sang ‘Happy Birthday’. After seven hours on the road we reached Mamuju just before dark. We’d taken every twist and turn, been through forests of rain trees and driven high in the mountains before descending to the beach then climbing all over again. I loved the jeep and more than ever I was determined to find one for myself.

Designed in 1951, it had been called the BJ originally. To test its durability, the designer took it up Mount Fuji, where it surpassed the height any vehicle had climbed before. As soon as word got out, everyone wanted one. I suppose someone must’ve realised the implications of its name mind you, because the BJ suddenly became the Land Cruiser. Anyway, whatever the name, it’s the preferred choice of off-road users from the forest service in Indonesia to UNICEF. And, of course, the Taliban.

THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS were a bit of a disaster. We already knew that planning anything in this country was far from easy, but now things took a turn for the worse. The drive up to Mamuju in the Toyota had been an unexpected bonus, but somehow I’d got confused about when we would be in the army truck - it turned out it wasn’t today, but tomorrow. I don’t know why I’d thought otherwise, but we still had to get further up the coast and that meant twelve hours on a bus.