Because while I’ve been waiting for Dot Cotton to arrive and then a parcel for my parents, I’ve sat on my hands and done bugger all. That means now I have the freedom to leave and head west to Indonesia I feel guilty for not seeing more of the place.

So then, what’s the plan? Well, tomorrow I’m going to holster up and ride the wrong way. East to be more precise. Which will take me along the coast and right to the very tip of a country that looks much better once you get out of the city and in to the sticks. The people there are friendlier too. So rather than rob you they’ll wave, and if last week’s experience is anything to go by – when four of us went for a joyride on scooters – even do hi-fives and cartwheels as I pass. And that’ll make me feel silly, but what can I do? March around like the UN ignoring everyone and waving my weapon in the air. I don’t think so, not when all I have for protection are the moves I learned at Boxercise.

Other than that there’s not much else to report. The malaria tablets are making me paranoid, the hostel owner’s stopped charging me for coffee and toast in a morning, and a GPS tracker from home has arrived that allows anyone with the password to pin me down to a pinpoint and follow me all the way home. Sounds pretty neat, but at the minute I’m not sure how to configure it so it still thinks I’m on an industrial estate near Stockport. I know Dili is pretty bad, but it’s not that bad.

But I’ll be glad to get some fresh air and clear my head. Meeting all these well-travelled backpackers in the hostel makes me realise what a fish out of water I am. First time to Asia and I’m riding through it on a moped that’s looked upon as pretty crap even by East Timorese standards. They all have new swanky bikes, bought we’re told by family members sending money back from England and other places in the EU. But I shouldn’t talk about Dot like that. The other day she climbed a mountain and passed roads even the Aussie military couldn’t conquer. For that she was given new tyres and oil and now she’s at her peak. And she needs to be. Eating curry for breakfast and dinner as well has added a bit of padding to my cladding and if you look at a picture that’s just been put up of me on facebook it looks quite clearly that I have tits. Boobs. Moobs. Whatever you want to call them I have them.

So that’s all that’s happened in East TImor. I’ve grown tits and become paranoid. Just wait til I get to Bangkok and have my tackle taken off.

Right, off I go around East Timor and then into Indonesia by the beginning of next week.

Ta ta
Nathan

Only with a 30 day visa I’m going to have to ride fast. It’s not the distance that’s the problem but all the ferries you have to take to get across the various islands. We should be right tho.

Now I’m off down to the waterfront for some fresh grilled fish and chicken. $1 a pop, it’s the cheapest eat in town.

More later…

So today, rather than sit and wait in the grotty hostel I now call home, me and an Aussie fella called Mal headed for the hills, me on Dot Cotton, him on some dodgy rented scooter that makes me sick because it’s still quicker than Dot. We didn’t know where we were going. Just took a tiny craggy old road that ran off like a cocked elbow from the main coastal road. Past these gorgeous clay and brick houses we went, with all the kids and adults smiling and waving at these two silly men sauntering up a mountain road that’s probably never seen a tourist before in its life. But on we went, the scenery getting more tropical with jungles growing off in the distance and a big thick watery cloud threatening to splosh us with water overhead.

The road, it’s fair to say, was knackered. Mud and pot-holes in many places with landslides chewing much of it away on one side and the overflowing jungle robbing it of room on the other. But we threaded through, past more surprised yet smiling faces an along the road that was getting rougher. Failing to bring food and water for our mountainous adventure we stopped at this remote wooden shack where a kid stood wide-mouthed as we sloshed around his tiny little joint picking up packs of biscuits until we were finally ready to power on to the peak.

Sadly though we never made it. Rounding a corner and stumbling across a tiny village, we were confronted by men with guns and combat gear. Thankfully they were ours, well Australian at least, who were out in the hills on patrol. Patrolling for what we weren’t too sure, but they were clearly more surprised than we were to have a Pom on a post bike and an Aussie on a moped pop and whiz out of the jungle in shorts, sandals and expressions of great excitement. We chatted briefly, them still not sure if we were real or mountain fairies, before they instructed us to go back because the road around the corner was such  a mess that the rest of their squadron or platoon or whatever else you call them had got stu in the mud. Clearly they’re using the wrong vehicles because our two mopeds laughed over the mud and said sod you to the potholes.

But we did indeed turn back, arriving in Dili an hour or so ago, where I once again wait for this package to arrive. It were tins of beans and socks from Marks and Spencers then I’d say forget it. Instead it’s a GPS tracker so those who worry can keep track of my movements and an international driving license, which I don’t thinks essential, but good to have nonetheless.

So that’s it, more waiting. Hopefully back on the road soon.

And while that’s been happening four of us from the hostel rode up the coast and over the tropical hills to the next town with the name I’ve now forgot. Oh yes, Bacau. Not much there but a great journey marred only by Mal, the hippie haired Australian, riding into a pothole and going over the top and hitting the floor. his nose and chin took the fall, but they were ok. It was his elbows and knees that were bloodied and battered. But he rode on and we all made it back safely just as it turned dark.

We shouldn’t be out at that time the travel advisories tell us. But last night we were out past midnight and it’s fine. All you see are stall holders still trying to flog coke and coffee and the occassional gang who certainly don’t go around beatng up grannies like they do back home.

At the hostel we’re now back down to two in the room after Singapore Sling and Faustoe the Great (in his own mind) both went home. Not much else to repost. Just hanging around for a parcel to arrive from my parents but having seent he state of the post office it might be here but certainly not sorted any time soon.

In the meantime I wait, but the minute it arrives that’s it. The flag is dropped, the throttle pinned and we’re off. The Indonesian visa is through, the roads are open and from here the money will start going further. Loafing here for a week has made me realise just how big a gauntlet I’m attempting to conquer but we’re going to get as far as we get and if it’s not all the way to england then it’ll be as close we managed before one of us dropped. But Dot’s in rude health and so I am, so soon the journey continues… to England

Yes, after much misdirection and bullshit from the locals who work the docks and the customs desk finally Dot Cotton was found in the back of some container, lodged neatly behind a pallet of Pringles in a dusty container grave yard on the outskirts of Dili.

First time she started and I was over joyed. Whu? Because finally I knew she was safe, and also because it means I can finally get back on the road and free myself from this weird East Timorese parallel universe I’ve found myself in. Tonight the Aid Gods I’ve met, as I’ve nick-named the self-congratulating people who come here to help, are out trying to find a chinese brothel so they can cheat on their wifes and continue to make the most of this secluded corner of the world they’ve come to save. Yes I’ll be honest it’s all bullshit and the more you see of these people the more you realise the country would be better of with their wages but not their presence. But anyway, that’s a rant for another occassion because as far as I’m concenred East Timors a pretty decent place. There are no assualts, no murders or violent robbery. Occassional theft maybe, but nothing you’d not get in Nottingham on a night out. If all the other countries I go through are as safe as this once I’ll be alright.

Tomorrow I’m off to the next town – about 3 hours away – with Faustoe the crazy Italian and Noname the Singaporean guy who’s name we can never remember. Them on their scooter, me on Dot. Appareantly it’s gorgeous up in the hills so that’s the plan.

But for now it’s back to the hostel to eat more mangos and wait for the heroic sunrise so me and Dot can finally get back on the road.

Yeeee ha!!!!!!!!

After that I had breakfast at an Indian restaurant. Yep, poppadom and mango chutney don’t sound the stuff of AM but the restaurant next to the hostel is awesome. Best curry ever. Last night I had a biryani and a real sweet delicious tea. This morning I had some big puffed up pastry thing with vegetable curry stuffed up it and washed the lot down with banana juice. Delish.

Then I went walking along the sea front, which is like any other except there’s all these vendors selling drinks and crisps and other people chopping up these big hard fruits that aren’t cocunuts or mangos either. Anwers on a postcard please. And while I kept my palm on my pen knife I never felt threatened or intimidated. People either smiled or ignored me. I suppose with all these whities flying around in their UN vehicles we’re no longer a novelty. And I was surprised. There were people playing football on a proper pitch, tennis players on a proper court and shops selling all the electrical gear you could ever want. It’s all quite surprising for a place that our government don’t deem it safe to visit.

Now I’m off back to the hostel, which to get to I have to cross the main road that has all these doorless minibusses and motorbikes hurtling up and down. Chaos, but I’ve not seen anyone flattened so far. Fingers crossed.

First Stage Report – Sydney to Darwin

Sydney to London on a moped. I’m not sure it’s been done but the more I thought about it the more it sounded like a brilliant idea. I was already in Australia, my visa was coming to an end and I already had the bike. I’d bought her off eBay for $1500. It was an old postman’s bike named Dorris and it’s top speed was 75km/h.

Could I really ride it up to Darwin, through Indonesia, Malaysia, India, Pakistan, Iran, Turkey and home? How long would it take? How much would it cost? And how the hell was I going to make it the 4500 kilometres up to Darwin and catch the boat to East Timor in the two weeks before immigration demanded I be out?

I packed quick and and then rode hard, blazing out of Sydney three days before my birthday with the sky blue and the throttle wide open. For footwear I had Converse, for storage a milk crate, for accommodation no idea. By day one I’d made it to Taree, by day two a nail had made three holes in my inner tube. I’d stopped to buy talcum powder for my already tender bottom and picked up the punctures in the carpark. I had a repair kit but no tyre leavers and that’s like having a tin of beans but no opener. A man named Dave came to my rescue.

Now a pensioner, he’d backpacked from London to Sydney back in the sixties. “Afghanistan was amazing back then,” he grizzled. “Then the fucking Russians ruined the place.” I bought Dave a crate of beer to say thank you and felt bad when his car wouldn’t start and he had to give the beer to the guy who got him going.

I had no more punctures after that, although my engine did blow up on day three. I was north of Brisbane and by chance near a bike shop. Joe, the owner, thought Dorris might make Darwin. “What about England?” I inquired. He looked at me funny. “No chance mate.” I had three options. An engine rebuild, a new engine or a new (old) bike. I was cash-strapped but needing something reliable if I was to take on the Taliban. Joe had a bike the same make and model as Dorris – Honda CT110 if you’re curious – only with long range tank, comfy seat, panniers and brackets bolted everywhere. It was perfect. With time ticking away I bit the bullet, traded in Dorris and renamed the new bike Dot Cotton.

In the morning, somewhere around Fraser Island, me and Dot met George Harrod, a trucker who asked me to bounce up and down on his wrench in an attempt to get his tight wheel nut off. “Can I rent you?” is how he approached me at the petrol pump. I loosened his nut before carrying on up the coast to Rockhampton, a major town from where we’d stop going north and start going west. But there was a problem. It was wet season in the Northern Territories and was told the road up to Darwin had been washed away. The only way around was a 3000 km detour via Adelaide. I’d never make it. We just had to carry on and hope it was repaired in time.

To give us a fighting chance of making the boat I now needed to ride 600 kilometres a day, which at Dot’s pace meant 14 hours in the saddle. My bum ached and I quickly developed throttler’s-wrist. It’s like tennis elbow for bikers. But for the pain I had distraction. Forget Australia’s coastline, the country’s real heart lies inland. Vast empty highways, a huge dome of layered clouds and not another soul in sight. It’s fabulous and enchanting, especally with all the rain teasing out the plants and creating a stunning contrast between the red dirt, green shrub and blue sky. It entertained me all day. Which is just as well, as the only wildlife I saw had all been hit by trucks.

Eventually you reach isolated towns and villages, hundreds of kilometers apart but still aware of each others gossip. And here real Australians live. Not the show ponies from the coast, but the warts and all folk who you felt you could really trust. People like Brody and Sarah, two teachers in Mount Isa who offered me their sofa for the night. They cooked spaghetti bolognaise. It was the first meal I’d eaten with a knife and fork in ten days.

The next morning I woke to good news; the road west was open and if I rode like the wind I might just make the freight ship sailing out of Darwin the day before my visa expired. Miss it and I have to wait a week for the next one. That wasn’t an option. Rain was the main hurdle, with my combat shorts and Converse high-tops offering little protection in ‘the Wet’ as they call it up here. By the time I reached the Barkly Homestead I was drenched, and also surprised, because the most stunning English girl works there, in the middle of nowhere, taking lunch orders from tourists and truckers. Apparently she’d fallen for the homestead owner when she backpacked through and decided to stay. That warmed my heart, if not my hands and feet.

Turning right on to the Stuart Highway for the final leg in to Darwin, I now had two days to cover the last 1000 kays. I rode hour after hour, grateful for the slice of fruit cake a stranger at the roadside gave me and energised by the free cups of coffee the government provide at rest stops. Finally, late Sunday evening, me and Dot Cotton sauntered into Darwin; her with a bald tyre and flickering headlight, me in a frazzled-eyed state with buttocks I could barely sit on. There was no champagne or party girls, just quiet, somber relief. We’d made it. Dot Cotton was on the boat and I was on the plane. Next stop, East Timor.

I landed in Dili, the capital, this morning at about 7am and duly shit myself as every taxi driver in town tried to take me to a destination I didn’t yet have. I’d planned as far the wheel’s of the plane landing. They’d just done that. Now I was clueless.

I sat for a while, keeping my head down while a group of Aussies chatted near by. Finally I got a grip, gathered my stuff and went over. ‘Excuse me, do you know if there’s a youth hostel in town? ‘Sure is said Jill,’ an aid worker in her 50s who said she’d drop me off.

We had a good chat, she warned me about the dangers – not to go anywhere alone at night etc – and cursed endlessly about the UN presence who it did seem, as we passed through town, to be a bit much. White UN 4x4s everywhere, just driving around the streets that were otherwise clogged with mopeds and minibus crammed full with bursting bodies everywhere. Chickens were in cages on the roadside, the air was humid and I’ll be honest, I had a distinct feeling of fear as I sat in the passenger seat listening to the horror stories, which thankfully, don’t yet include murder. Just theft and attacks on women. So I’m alright then.

At the hostel I was just grateful to hear an English accent. There was Ian on a visa hop from Inonesia, an American fella here doing reseach and an older Irish and Australian guy who wrapped me in their own little blanket of fatherhood. But the hostel was okay, not cheap at $10US but a safe haven in a sea of chaos.

You see East Timor’s a bit like Ireland; all messed up thanks to other peoples meddling; in this case Indonesia and, indirectly, Australia’s. Now they’re indepedent things are getting better, but you can still sense the nervous tension. People told me not to trust anyone but as I ventured out, first to the Indonesian embassy to sort out a visa for when Dot arrives next week and then in to the city to get passport photo, I realised that’s crap advice.

The only white people the East Timorians see are members of the UN, which they see as invaders, so keeping my head down and ignoring basic greetings and smiles was stupid, so I started smiling back and realised the world’s not such a bad place when you do. There are some shady characters, remnants of the country’s grisly past, but in the whole people are pleasant and polite. Happy even.

Things aren’t cheap tho, about as much in England, which is strange given the poor wages. A kebab for example is 6 quid. A can of coke 70p. Petrol 50p a litre, which is good. And what the locals mostly ride are scooters, mainly new Hondas which they cut each other up on and create carnage on the roads where taxi drivers continually drive past you beeping. A pound fifty will get you in to the town centre which is about a mile away.

Back at the hostel I’ve met a couple of Germans who’ve ridden their bikes all the way from home and are now off to Australia, and in the street, waiting for a taxi, a guy called Richard who’s trying to set up a fair trade coffee plant here, offered me a lift in his taxi into town. Nice chap and once of the many nice folk I’ve already met in my first day in East Timor.

So still a little nervous but also intrigued. A genuinely fascinating place which hopefully I’ll explore and photograph in the next few days. More importanty, I’ve just been shown how to eat a mango. Now that’s progress.

Ta ra
Nathan