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Unfortunately, four hours into an expected eight hour journey, the boat pulled up to a set of docks and there was a mass exodus of passengers and crew. By the time I had retrieved my bike from the roof of the ferry, the hundred or so other passengers had wedged themselves into two dilapidated twenty-four passenger buses. It was painfully clear that the boat went no further, and this was definitely not Pekanbaru. A half dozen tin roofed shacks circled a makeshift dirt parking lot. Where was I?
I still don't know!

The buses pulled away and I was surrounded by half dozen excited Indonesians. "Hello Mister!", "Hello Mister!", "Helloooooooooo Misterrrrrrrrrrr!"
It is important to note that wherever the British were, they left a bit of English behind. But Indonesia was a Dutch colony, as a result, English was never taught in the schools here.
Even with the aid of my Lonely Planet phrase book, all I could determine was that I was in fact on Sumatra, but where I had no idea. My South-East Asia map showed no roads in this part of Sumatra and I had hoped on finding a proper map in Pekanbaru. But where was Pekanbaru?
I bought a Coke and some water and naively followed the path taken by the buses. I stopped at an unsigned intersection wondering which way to head when a motorcycle pulled along side.
"Hello Mister!" the driver screamed.
"Hello" I replied. "Is this the road to Pekanbaru?"
"Yes"
"Very good. How far is it?"
"Yes."
"You cannot answer that question with yes!"
"Yes."
"Is that the only word you know?"
"Yes."
"Can turtles fly?"
"Yes."
"Thank-you very much."
"Yes."
When the next motorcycle pulled up along side, and that was never a long wait in Indonesia, I tried a new tact.
"Hello Mister" the driver screamed. (Why they scream it I never did figure out)
"Hello" then pointing north I asked "Pekanbaru?"
"Yes."
"Very good."
"Yes."
I now had a direction, however I thought it best to get confirmation. Next motorcycle ....
"Hello Mister"
"Hello" then pointing west this time, I asked "Pekanbaru?"
"Yes."
"You're certain."
"Yes."
"Thank-you very much."
"Yes."
A third conversation -- pointing south that time -- resulted in the same response.
Now either Pekanbaru is Indonesia's version of Rome -- ie. All roads lead to Pekanbaru -- or I was not getting through to them. I was lost. At least I knew I was lost. I continued my wanderings in the wilderness.
On my third day on Sumatra, I found the ever-elusive Pekanbaru, 210 km from the dock.
Pekanbaru was not worth the search, but at least I was now back on the map.
I crossed the Equator (third time -- going south in Ecuador, going north in Kenya, going south in Indonesia) and headed for Java.
Let me throw out a number -- 2.5 million motorcycles. That's not the number of motorcycles in Indonesia, that's the annual sales! And apparently one of the conditions for riding a motorcycle in Indonesia is that you must promise to swerve as close as you can to any cycling foreigner and scream "Hello Mister!"
I was "Hello Mister"-ed out.
I stopped in Yogyakarta to see the largest Buddhist monument on the planet, a nine-tiered stupa with a whopping 118 m square base. Very impressive. Definitely on a par with Angkor Wat in Cambodia.
I was racing to Bali when I met three French backpackers at a small seaside resort (the term resort is read, restaurant in a thatched roof hut). I shared a table with Benoit, Benoit and Benoit's wife. We ordered food and were swapping travel tales over a round of Cokes when twenty minutes later the cook interrupted us to announce "We no got that." We changed our orders and returned to our conversation. Twenty minutes later the cook returned
"We no got that."
"What you got?" I asked.
"We got nothing." he sheepishly admitted.
"You have no food?" I asked
"No food."
Well that was a waste of time, but just then a young boy jumped from a minibus with two chickens in a wicker cage.
"We gots chicken" the cook beamed.
We ordered the chicken.
Brok, brok, brokkkkkk!
Over a second round of Cokes, my new French friends shared with me their secret map. No really, it had "Secret Map" written across the top. It clearly showed the directions to an active volcano, where -- if the French were to be trusted -- I could safely climb down into the crater.
That night in my tent I had to ask myself the question "Was climbing down into the heart of a quasi-active volcano a wise thing to do? Of course it wasn't. Would I do? Of course I would!
Two days later, I was at 1800 m, well above the clouds, inside a volcanic crater. A few brave locals were down there too. They were hacking out huge chunks of sulphur from a large vent. Then the volcano burped and let out a thick noxious cloud of sulphur dioxide gas. The men dropped their tools and ran for their lives, I was in hot pursuit. The cloud overtook us! Aughhhhhhh! Everything burned -- eyes, nose, throat. Blinded, I pulled my T-shirt over my face and prayed for the wind to change. It changed .... eventually. I took the opportunity to hightail it out of there, the Indonesians went back to work.
Back on my bike, I raced to Denpasar on the island of Bali and headed straight for the Indonesian Immigration office. I begged for an extension to my visa. No. But there are no tourists in Indonesia. Yes. So I can have an extension? No. It made no sense -- the tsunamis, and the earthquakes, and the mudslides, and the volcanoes, and the bird flu outbreaks and the Bali bombing had scared most of the tourists away. Here they had one, and they wouldn't let him stay. Go figure.
I headed straight for the airport. I was in luck, the next morning at 3:20 am there was a flight to Darwin, Australia. I was on it.
The third world was over. Three cheers!
I stepped off the plane the next morning in the land of Oz. (By the way, it was my first flight since Argentina to South Africa in Feb, 2003)
In Indonesia a man can buy five bottle of Coke for a dollar and can get a hotel room with private bath and air-con for six dollars. In Australia, it costs three dollars for one Coke and sleeping in a cot in a dorm with a bunch of people costs twenty-six dollars. Shower and toilet down the hall.
My wallet was missing the third world.
Not far from Darwin in the Aussie Top End, I past a crocodile farm. I've seen crocs before. They don't do much, they just lay there with their mouths open. I decided to save the entry fee. However, ten kilometres down the road I had a change of heart.
Every one knows that Australia has kangaroos -- lots and lots of kangaroos.
Unfortunately, kangaroos are not bright creatures. When they see a car's headlights, they think "look at the pretty lights, lets go investigate."
Boing, boing, boing, splat!
So I picked up a fresh kill, lashed it to my bike and returned to the croc farm.
"Can I feed this to a Crocodile?" I asked.
"No!"
"Please."
"No!"
"Why not?"
"Because."
"Because why?"
"No!"
Well that was disappointing!
I dumped the joey and continued cycling south. I never did see the crocs.
However, I did see Charlie -- the water buffalo that shot to fame in the Crocodile Dundee movies. Unfortunately, Charlie is dead now too. He's stuffed above a bar in Adelaide River.
The outback is sparsely populated. Big surprise. I knew that prices out here might be expensive, but they border on the ridiculous. Ten dollars for a burger, five dollars for a Coke. Five dollars for a Coke is criminal.
I've been drinking a lot of tea .... Yuck!
However, on a high note, I just arrived in Alice Springs which is smack dab in the middle of Australia. And much to my surprise there is a McDonald's, a Pizza Hut, and a Hungry Jacks (that's what Aussies call Burger King). Civilization!
The one thing that isn't here is Ayer's Rock. I thought it was in Alice Springs. It seems its another 500 km out into the desert. So that's where I'm off to next.
Gotta go ..... Rob

ps. I crossed another one of those imaginary lines yesterday (this time the Tropic of Capricorn)
pss. They got some mighty big trucks down here. Eighteen wheelers are nothing. How about an eighty-six wheeler! Now that's a truck. Down under they call them "Road Trains" -- 55 m long, 170 ton and no speed limits in the Northern Territories! Yikes!!

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