May 4, 2015
But he is a terrorist: He terrorizes dogs!
There are many ways that cyclists choose to deal with the problems of aggressive and annoying dogs. Some, like me, will shout firmly. Others will get off and walk. Some just try to ignore the dog, whilst some cyclists even throw pebbles, splash water, or wave a stick as a deterrent. I thought I’d seen it all, but that was until I’d met Tom. His favoured tactic was to cycle directly towards any dog that he saw, regardless of whether the dog was actually being aggressive or annoying, and himself begin to bark and growl at the animal. Tom’s dog impression was very convincing, and he never looked more wild or more like a manic lunatic than when he went into this fevered state, dreadlocks waving, head shaking, mouth yapping. And it always, always succeeded in antagonising the dog further.
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And there was an increase in the number of dogs as we climbed up over more tough, steep, hills and then came down into a valley populated by Christians, the more dog-loving of the two primary religions of Sumatra. There were churches absolutely everywhere and the valley was so broad and green, with mountains around it and such a blue sky that it reminded me of Switzerland in the summertime.
Tom was particularly pleased to find himself back in a Christian part of the country, because, as he put it “it means you can find alcohol.” And on the way down into the valley I saw Tom had stopped to have a drink of a yellow liquid, another type of local alcohol that I think was called tua. I didn’t really want to stop with men that were drinking at two in the afternoon, so I carried on ahead, but a few minutes later Tom whizzed past me, going far too fast on the descent for a man with no helmet and a tyre that might explode at any moment. A few minutes after that I passed him again as he stopped to down another drink with more local alcoholics. And so the afternoon went on.
As the afternoon drew towards evening we climbed another small pass and I stopped to wait for Tom at the top, where there was a small shop with friendly people selling peanuts. I sat and ate peanuts until my by now quite tipsy companion arrived, very nearly getting himself run over as he veered across the road to where I was. Right on cue a man came along with a jerry can full of another homemade alcohol. Tom made enquiries and the old fellow poured some into a glass for Tom to sample. The liquid came out into the glass with several ants floating in it. Tom merely laughed, showed the man, and then downed the drink, ants and all. “Good protein” he chuckled.
After buying some of the booze, which he described as delicious, Tom and I cycled on a bit further and, with dark clouds once again looming, began to look for somewhere to camp. Unfortunately we were in quite a populated area now and so finding somewhere to hide was very difficult. With a thunderstorm looking imminent we made the best of it by taking a small side road that passed through a village. The village seemed to be entirely populated by women, and naturally we caught their attention, and so we thought it best to explain ourselves and ask if there was anywhere to camp. They said it would be fine for us to go on a bit further and camp in one of the fields beyond the village. This we did, setting up our tents at the back of a field, nestled in amongst some coffee plants.
If only that were the end of the story, but alas, not so. The menfolk of the village must have soon returned home from sitting around drinking tua all day, and the womenfolk must have explained what had happened. It started with just a couple of men, who came and found us to investigate. They were friendly enough, and said that we could stay and camp here, just so long as we went and got permits from the head of the village. This seemed like an awful lot of effort, likely to incite more problems, and so we promised to do it first thing in the morning. The men were happy with this and left us to it.
A half an hour later and the cavalry showed up. A stream of motorcycles came along the track below the field, parked up, and a group of about twenty men marched up the field towards us, flashlights waving in the darkness. Two of them could speak English, one of whom was an old and extremely drunk man who took it upon himself to act as the translator for the group, stating that he had come thirty kilometres just for the task, and enquiring as to what we were doing here, or as he put it, “What are your planned activities in this area?”
We did our best to explain that we were just cycling through and needed somewhere to sleep, but it seemed like the crowd of men remained unconvinced, standing around us in an intimidating circle of shadowy figures. The older drunk then began to speak directly to Tom, regaling a long story about Christianity and how it first came to Sumatra. Up until this point Tom had spoken back to anyone that had spouted religious rhetoric towards him, explaining that the earth was his mother, the sky was his father, and organised religion was more-or-less bullsh!t. But this time, thankfully, he kept his mouth shut. Not that the old drunk would let him get a word in edgeways. Tom was looking positively sober next to this guy.
Thankfully for me I got a break from this monologue, as the other English speaker came and sat with me. He was an intelligent, friendly, and sober man who explained the problem to me.
“These people are worried,” he said, “because they are scared of terrorists. They see all about ISIL on TV, and they are nervous, about what you are doing here and your activities in this area.”
I looked at Tom with his bushy beard and his head covered by a hood to protect him from the mozzies and realised I looked much the same. We probably did look a bit like terrorists in the dim light, and yet, on the other hand, seriously? Terrorists? Camping behind the coffee plants? Was this guy serious? He was. I pulled down my hood and explained to him who we were and exactly what we were doing.
The men were finally happy that we were not Islamic State terrorists and we were granted permission to stay. All of them trudged away back across the field, apart from three men, which, unfortunately consisted of the old drunk and a couple of his cronies. Still he droned on and on, swaying in the dark, spitting as he spoke. “I came thirty kilometres to translate,” he repeated, “If I said that you were bad, these men would have killed you, but I said that you were good. Now listen, I want to come to Europe. When I come to Europe can I stay with you?” He slurred his words, swayed some more. He was a horrible man, evidently the type of drunk so caught up in his own importance, and we both sensed that with one wrong word he could easily turn angry. “I’ve travelled thirty kilometres. If I said you were bad. They kill. They would kill you.”
The man wanted to take our phone numbers so that he could come and stay with us in Europe, but neither of us had phones, and so he decided to give us his. Unfortunately remembering his phone number proved a difficult task for him in his present state. He stood there, hand on his forehead, reciting numbers with such a deep level of concentration it was as if he were a psychic forecasting the lottery numbers. “Five…………. Three…….. No….. wait…… Five…….. Three…….. Four………No….. where was I?..... Five……. No……… Five………. Three……”
He remained with us for an age. I was so tired I could barely put up with him any longer, and in fact had to excuse myself and say that I had to pee and walked away to compose myself. Tom remained patient, and continued to listen, until eventually the man announced that he was leaving and I returned. He then went to hug Tom goodbye, and fell against him, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close for some time. Then he said “I came thirty kilometres to translate. If I said that you were bad these men would have killed you…” This was absurd, and somehow the funniest thing I had ever seen, and it was all I could do to stop myself from laughing as these two strange men cuddled in the dark coffee field. And then it was my turn, the man turning to me, giving me a big hug and saying “I have come thirty kilometres…” Then, at long, long last he went to leave, but first decided to give Tom one more hug.
“When I come to Europe, can I stay with you?” he asked Tom during their final embrace.
“Yes, of course” Tom replied.
“Thank you,” said the old man, before adding as an after-thought, “But Tom, I am poor, so you have to pay for my flight.”
Finally he left and it was just me and Tom, alone in the field. “So how far did that guy say he had come just to see us?” we joked, before debating whether it was safe to stay. After all, it would only take one of those guys to still believe we were terrorists and to come back with a pitchfork, but we decided that we really had nowhere else to go. So we said goodnight and I finally climbed into my tent, quite exhausted. I vowed that if anybody else came to investigate us I wasn’t going to get up. I wasn’t going to get up for anyone now. I was just too tired. Then I heard another motorcycle on the track, listened as it stopped, heard more footsteps approaching through the field, and a man’s voice shouting the word “Police!”
So I got up.
Today's ride: 72 km (45 miles)
Total: 40,486 km (25,142 miles)
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