On the 6th of April 2005, cousins Jamie Mackenzie and Ben Wylson set off on their bikes on a journey which will take them to over 50 countries and to every one of the worlds great continents, all without the use of an aeroplane.
Monday, February 27, 2006: Swinging jungle boy
There are several National Parks in relatively close proximity to Medan where seeing tame Orangutans and other exotic creatures of the jungle is quite possible; however, long ago it was decided that if they couldn't be viewed in the wild, in an untouched state and in their natural habitat, then we wouldn't see them at all.
Early on Thursday morning, shortly after sunrise, we jumped aboard a 1970's mini-van and clattered for six hours north through the Sumatran Highlands to the Acheh region and a remote mountain village called Ketambe.
It didn't take long after our arrival to track down two able & willing guides to accompany us on our intended expedition. Our enquires at local stores and houses produced the same names over and over again; Mowgli and 'Boss'. Apparently they'd been taking treks for anyone who ventured this far north for many years and would be happy to offer their services.
For the past three years a bloody civil conflict has savaged the region, resulting in a government ban on all tourism. Jungle warfare had raged in the area and many homes, villages and towns had been destroyed. The war was un-officially ended three months ago but the ban on tourism still stands. Several Guesthouses have recently re-opened in the hope that tourism might blossom but as yet not a single person has made the trip; FWE would be amongst the first to return.
Within the hour, Mowgli and Boss were located and hired at a reasonable cost for a duration of two days and a night. Our first evening in Ketambe, as the sun drifted low behind the jungle back-drop, was spent poring over maps with a beer, discussing what we wanted, how far we intended to venture and what we hoped to see and achieve. It must have come as no surprise to them that the prize we sought more than any other was, of course, the chance, slim as it might be, of glimpsing an orangutan. At this the guides looked somewhat uncomfortable and clearly thought we were asking a lot. Whether one is searching for them in Sumatra or Borneo, the endangered primates are painfully rare and thin on the ground and to compound the problem many had been destroyed by Government troops operating in the area during the conflict. Locals could apparently pass months at a time without seeing a single ape. Loose promises were made through forced smiles but Boss's eyes told another story, somehow suggesting we had more chance of seeing Granny swooping through the tree tops, nibbling at fleshy leaves and eating fruit, than an orangutan.
We started early the next morning, the sun was out and spirits were high. Our party numbered five in all: 'Boss', a 41 year-old man of slight proportions, lean & sinewy like a broad-bean who bore a heavy pack with all the cooking and eating materials; Mowgli with his tremendously adventurous teeth that jutted out of his mouth like petrified bungee jumpers' and who had scars from head to toe; Ben, myself and lastly, 'Supper', a four-month-old chicken.
Prior to departure 'Supper', as we ordained her, was yanked from the coop and stuffed in to a plastic bag where she remained, very noisily , for the remainder of the day. Her treatment was repeatedly protested against and it was even suggested that she should be left behind but all was to no avail. Jamie was chaperone for Supper for the first few hours' slog but couldn't find a comfortable way of holding her without clanking her head against his legs with every step or smashing her, beak first, into every tree we happened to get too close to. By the end of the day poor old 'Supper' would have a broken wing, a shattered left foot, have her head cut off, legs pulled apart, innards ripped out and be suspended over burning coals with a sharp stick wedged up her behind. Poor old Supper, and to be truthful she even tasted a bit bland.
The sun was out and we steamed up the mountainous jungle path at a fair lick. Most of the trails had become quite overgrown in their three year neglect and at times disappeared altogether. Boss was called upon to un-sheath his machete on more than one occasion and slice a way through. His blade hummed in a blur of action as decapitated greenery went flying through the air around our heads.
Rain had plundered the jungle through the course of the night and there was one particularly spiteful jungle creature that took especial delight in this: the leech. They were the scourge of the trek and it was our ankles that became playgrounds for these wriggling blighters. Dangling from twigs and leaves, sensing vibrations and waiting to ambush a passer-by, they would latch on then shift slighly up your leg like a 'slinky' in reverse, until they found a deliciously tender bit of flesh where they would latch on, put suckers on full throttle and start to expand like small, very bloody balloons. On numerous occasions did we find them on our arms, neck, legs and feet.
The morning wore on until by midday the expedition party were fairly exhausted and in dire need of a rest and sustenance. Just as our legs were beginning to bend and wobble as if we were a troop of rickets sufferers, the matted confusion of vine, tree and leaf parted and spat us sprawling into a sun-dappled clearing of jaw- dropping beauty. A river flowed serenely over rounded boulders and smooth rocks, tumbled over water falls and bubbled like a cauldron in deep pools. Clothes off and in we all piled. After lunch on the near bank 'Boss' suggested that we try a foray into the surrounding area to see if we could track down some beasts.
Full with Nasi Gorang - fried rice - we filed off at a saunter into the jungle. After an hour of hard marching, we were just beginning to long for a another chance to bask in the sun back in the clearing, when Boss stopped dead in the track and cocked his head to one side. We listened intently but...nothing...What had he heard? Still nothing.
But then, ever so faintly on the breeze, there came a distant crackling as if of snapping twigs. It was far, far away on top of a heavily vegetated bank but Boss was looking, to our concern, increasingly anxious. He motioned for us to keep very still, not to make a sound or movement. The 'faint cracking' ever so slowly grew louder, soon becoming a definite crunching, then an alarmingly audible and frighteningly close crashing...and then, silence...Not a breath could be heard. The jungle was plunged into a dark silence, only the thumping of hearts beating in mouths could be heard. Boss lowered his hand, signaling for us to get down low in the undergrowth.
Then, in a sudden flurry of movement and splitting wood, in front and high, not 15 metres from where we were, a colossal shape bounded into view. Huge, menacing and orange; it was a male orangutan, one of vast proportions, bigger perhaps than some American truck drivers ever get. A booming call rang out from its trumpet-like lips that tore the stillness apart and shook the earth. We parted some fan-like palms to get a better look. Its head was as a big as a medicine ball and the arms like hairy pythons. It surveyed the area for the intruders it had heard approaching, swivelling its head and scanning the jungle floor. We watched in full arrest for five minutes, stunned and amazed at what we were beholding.
Finally the magnificent creation of nature tired and with effortless ease lifted an arm and swung off into the heart of the darkness. We were speechless. The remainder of the male's family were soon spotted in a nearby tree, a tree with a diameter of perhaps 7 or 8 metres that stretched fully 50 metres upwards from the jungle floor, possessed a layered canopy that covered an area bigger than 4 tennis courts and was home to a mother, her baby and a juvenile male. We lay in the undergrowth, forgetful of leeches and ants and watched the priceless play unfold for fully thirty minutes, before starting back to camp.
The afternoon passed and the clouds gathered. Evening came early and with it rain, light at first but after an hour of drizzle it really started to hammer down. The paths became tighter, steeper, narrower and under foot the topsoil was becoming a trecherous mulch. Visibility was down and our packs were wet through. It was a truly desperate situation. A fine mist began pouring through the undergrowth as if someone had flicked on a dry-ice machine. Our ankles disappeared first, then our knees and finally our waists.
A smell of sulphur wafted along the path and again we found ourselves approaching a river. We entered a clearing that was large and shrouded in a wispy vapour and mist. From bank to bank it measured over 60 metres but because this was the 'dry season', water levels were somewhat low and the river covered less than half the expanse. On the near shore we found a wonderful treat; hot springs.
Boiling water bubbled to the surface amongst stained white rocks that flowed down-stream parallel to the main body of ice-cold water. It flowed from one hot pool to the next, fumbling a route amongst craggy outcrops of bulbous boulders, disappearing and re-appearing several metres further along. At one point the boiling flow was met by a renegade stream that had broken off from the main river and together they flowed into one rather special pool of delight. It was the hottest, most exotic bath you could imagine; it was just on the cooler side of boiling and just manageable to climb in to. The rain still belted down but we were so wet and cold that taking clothes and shoes off didn't even occur to us and in we all jumped. Heaven is to be found here!
Camp was made that night on the bank of the river a hundred metres up-stream, out of the path of the sulphurous stench. The rain and clouds cleared, revealing a night sky that looked like a black splash-sheet would after a day's painting. A fire was lit and our cloths hung to dry. 'Supper' met her woeful end under the cold steel of Boss's machete that gleamed in the moonlight as he held it aloft. Ben and Jamie folded their hands in prayer, gave thanks for her sacrifice then each tore off a wing and got eating.
Before leaving the jungle there was enough time for Jamie to have a leech suck the life out of his right buttock, leaving it like a deflated balloon, and for us to have a go at being Tarzan....
Highly dangerous and potentially fatal is the best way to describe the vine swing that was tried. Boss assured us that it had been growing since he was a small boy and was very safe. The tree was growing on the side of a steep bank that dropped several hundred metres into a gorge. On its highest bough, nearly 50 metres above, was a vine that hung out over the drop. The end was snagged by a long bit of bamboo and brought in. Gripped in the hands, with nothing to hold Ben in place but his clenched fingers, he launched into thin air. The length of vine caused him to sail out over the drop and dangle precariously over the apparently bottomless fall. The vine creaked and groaned under the strain but held fast. 'First in three years...well done,' Mowgli said; 'vine still strong,' and let out a surprised 'hummph' sound. It was the final act in a fantastically rewarding couple of days in the Northern Sumatra Jungle.
The return journey to Medan was as uncomfortable and hair-raising as the one out but to our delight and great surprise, once again we were delivered in one piece.
Sunday, February 26, 2006: eternal motion
Monday morning and a late change of plan; FWE were losing their heads when the rest of the world also seemed to be going bonkers. In a time when the headlines inform us that being a cartoonist is a hazardous occupation, that a duck died in France and there is a sick chicken in Turkey, Jamie and Ben discussed options at the breakfast table and by the end of the second coffee had decided, for no good reason, that FWE would later that evening head east to Borneo instead of west to Sumatra.
While Ben sought retribution with HSBC, Jamie attended a chest scan at a clinic on Orchard road as part of his on-going saga with the pitiful online visa application system for Australia. Operations in Singapore were brought to an unsatisfactory conclusion.
"Two singles to Borneo, please," said Ben. The high-speed craft with freezer-like air-conditioning and four V10 Yamaha engines thrumming in the stern, sped us over the water towards Batam Island, a transitional port for any on-going travel to Indonesian Borneo. Singapore sank into the fading remnants of day. An apocalyptic city-scape, sandwiched between blood-red clouds and midnight-black sea.
It was upon our deliverance to Batam Island that the first traces of doubt began trickling into our chilled thoughts. It was a distinctly bad sign that not one official we conversed with thought we could enter Borneo via this passage. It rapidly transpired that numerous ships would be needed, at great cost, to make the desired connection. It also appeared that the ships had no time-table, were highly unreliable and when they did decide to leave took an entire two days and nights to cross the water. The map was drawn from the canvas bag and splayed in the dust under a dim street light. The full horror of what we had intended to undertake in just under four weeks'travel smacked us square in the chops. Our distinct lack of planning was biting us hard. Evidently thirty minutes in Boarders Bookstore, scanning glossy pages with pretty beaches, was not going to be adequate.
The hour was growing late and we were starting to feel all at sea when a kind little chap with pygmy-like features, waddled up to us and offered us beds for the night in his modest shack on the outskirts of town. His family took us in, welcoming us warmly with beers and coffee. We received a sound, mind-clearing night's sleep and when we woke it was as if the fog had left and our brains were back to their normal capacity for reasoning.
The bullet was taken firmly between our teeth and chomped down hard on. We were going back to the original plan: we were going to Sumatra.
After a full morning's voyage,we were deposited at Dumai, a small town somewhere on the island-riddled stretch of the east coast. The air was thick and humid, our backs streaming with greasy sweat as we made our way past the gates and into a large courtyard which lead to a procession of mini-vans that waited to whisk people off to various destinations. The compound-like area closely resembled a maximum security prison. Hoards of men clung to the perimeter fencing, fingers like BBQ'd sausages squashed between the green wire as they yelled and hollered, imploring us to ride in their van, to pay them. A decision was taken and the day of relentless motion aboard public transport continued.
The day wore on, eventually being brought to a close on a luxury bus that bore us eleven hours north to Medan. With the lights out, chair reclined, blanket tucked under chin, head buried in a pillow and cool air-con blowing down from the vents, sleep was fast in coming. Tomorrow morning we will again travel north for a further six hours to Ketambe and commence an expedition into the heart of the jungle in the Acheh Region to see Tigers, Orangutans and all manner of other weird and wonderful never-before-seens.
Sunday, February 19, 2006: The last of the luxury
15 men on a dead man's chest
On an early morning at the port of Singapore, blue, red, green and yellow containers stood behind formidable looking razor-wire-topped fences, thousands of them stacked one on top of the other. Lorries arrived with containers, lorries departed with containers, the sounds of heavy machinery on the move echoed in the air, people milled around, armed guards stood at quay gates between me and the biggest ships I've seen outside of Felixtowe. Mission: by hook or by crook arrange a passage by sea to Australia. Do this or stay in Singapore for good.
"Do you know where I can get a ship to Australia?" I asked at a river taxi rank. "I'm sorry sir, we can only take you to the other side of the river, we have no service to Australia," replied a boatman. What a start to the day. The repetition of this question eventually turned up a lead, and then another, until, eventually we had ourselves a list of all the head offices of all the most important companies shipping freight in the world.
Every head office reception of every shipping company looks the same: wooden paneling covers every surface -even ceilings- company logos are to be found in stainless steel lettering above wooden reception desks and somewhere you will find a scale model of the company's star container ship 'The good ship Dandelion'.
"Hello, we need to take one of your ships to Australia," was my approaching line at each office on my sizeable list. Singapore and Rotterdam are the two biggest, busiest ports in the world. Ask a European seaman and he will swear blind that the largest is Rotterdam; ask anyone around here and he will say it is Singapore. Our task was daunting.
Gradually the list became smaller as more and more crosses were placed alongside addresses. Yet, at the end of a long day of talking and selling Free Wheels East, two container lines were willing to consider our case. It helps that they are two of the largest: Maersk, a Danish company and NOL (National Oriental Lines). We are waiting to hear back from them, hoping for confirmation of a possible departure from Singapore at the end of March. With fingers tightly crossed, all we can do now is play the waiting game.
Chinese Celebration
On the last and largest night of Chinese New Year celebrations we arrived in China Town in a limousine. Crowds were kept back as Dr. Lily, MP for China Town passed security barriers and, much to the delight of her public, waved a jolly wave at all the thousands of people eager to catch a glimpse of their political heroine. I waved with surprise from the back seat, finding that my legs had turned to jelly and my heart was beating at quite a rate. Security opened the doors for their star guest, the MP. My door was opened and I heard the noise of the exultant crowd. I felt a thousand eyes boring into be, wished I'd dressed better for the occasion, ignored T.V cameras and paparazzi flashes and walked on unsteady feet to our seats in the front row of the VIP area. Complementary Tiger beers helped ease nerves. The show began! Shaolin monks smashed metal bars over their heads, Chinese dragons danced before us. Afterwards I was given the mandatory Singapore Chinese gastronomic experience: hundred-year-old eggs soaked in horse urine and dusted with poo, Chicken's foot soup, and the delectable Durian fruit, the one that smells like rotting flesh. Our stomachs wanted to know what it was they'd done to deserve such punishment. Under my breath I made an apology to my vital organ of consumption. "You like?" asked Dr. Ben "Umm (gag), lovely (retch)" was the standard answer.
Porsche squash
The engine hummed below. "Are you sure it's o.k if I have a go?" asked Ben sitting in the driver's seat of the Porsche Boxer. It was a bit of a struggle getting in. In fact, he got stuck. The seat was far too close to the wheel and in trying to enter the car Ben shut the door on himself, tried to stretch out but couldn't, discovered he was unable to move, trapped in such a position that to move the seat back was an impossibility. With his body packed in in the most uncomfortable-looking way, like a shut accordion, his fingers the only movable body parts, he was stuck: "Help!" he called, knowing that attempts to free himself would only make him look more stupid. Elaine, daughter of the Neo's, laughed, got out of the passenger seat and went round to the driver's side to his aid. Finally, buckled up, in position and shaking with excitement Ben put his foot down and roared onto the open road like Mr Toad. He shouted over the sound of the engine, an over-excited squeal, "This is the first time I've driven a car in 10 months! Poop-Poop! Poop-Poop!" Dead leaves fluttered in the wake of the speeding, near-to-out-of-control sports car. Elaine held onto her seat, petrified.
In brief
If you get any problem with your debit card when abroad it is a nightmare to get a replacement. Ben waited for two weeks to get one from England only to have the blasted thing swallowed, 'retained' on its first visit to the bowels of an ATM.
The acquisition of an Australian 12-month working Holiday visa is a nightmare too. Application is electronic, an on-line process. It should be simple. Is it #@%*. Difficulties occur in the event of needing to ask a question, something you usually have to do when applying for a visa. Ben has his, but only after a chest x-ray - needed because we were in China for so long - and paying out about 100 quid. Jamie, on the other hand, has been left in cyber-visa-limbo land following problems with an internet cafe machine he was using at the time of his on-line application. This problem is on-going.
We have been interviewed by a freelance journalist and are to appear in the Singapore Straights Times in the 'Life' Magazine supplement soon. The journalist also wants to have our story printed in the in-flight magazines of Singapore Airlines.
Our plan is to leave for Sumatra, Indonesia tomorrow afternoon after resolving the above predicaments. At Dover Gardens, the grand gates will open for us one last time and then, readers, it's goodbye Luxury, hello cockroaches. We've missed those little blighters!
Friday, February 17, 2006: Spot the difference
New website:
You may have noticed that things are looking a bit different here on the FWE site. Our marvellous new image, the creation of the one and only Guy Campbell, has many wonderful new features. I will point them out so that none of them go un-appreciated:
Along with a general image overhaul, we have a new logo (a compass needle piercing the E of FWE); there is a bar at the bottom of every page making things look far more professional; there are a few new photos in the gallery section and loads to be added in the near future -for the time being you will see a taster of what's to come- and our favorite new feature, the guestbook. Looking forward to reading your comments.
We are overwhelmed with the all the important things to do here in Singapore. It's a shock to the system having agendas, appointments and commitments. For example, tomorrow we have an interview for the Singapore Times 'Life' magazine. Never fear, all the stories of the last week or so will be published very soon...when we have a moment to think.
We hope you enjoy the new website. If any of you are in Guy's vicinity could you buy him a drink for us? We'll pay you back in a couple of years.
Ben and Jamie
(FWE)
Thursday, February 09, 2006: Dover Gardens
"This ought to be it" said Jamie with a puzzled expression, peering at his map through its sun-yellowed map case, "Dover Gardens." We'd been passed on an address of an outpost of a friend of the family's family and had crossed the entire city to get there, but something had to be wrong; we couldn't be in the right place, could we? The road sign, the map and our eyes all told us that we were. This was silly, someone was having an unfair practical joke. There had to be a mistake. Before us was a house so enormous in its proportions that you could've parked a Boeing 747 in the attic. Between us and it were some ornate metal gates, the upper flourishes of which were painted in gold leaf. Ben said, "What the heck," leant out and pressed the door- bell with an oil-encrusted, filthy fingernail. There was an undramatic electronic 'ping pong' sound; within a moment or two the great big gates shuddered slightly and started to, very slowly, open up for us. We looked at each other, dunbfounded at what was going on before our eyes. As though we had cracked the code to a safe we rolled into a differnt world.
It was no mistake: this was the residence of the Neo family of Singapore. Our host is an eminent Doctor, president of the Ferrari Club and Porche Club. His wife, our hostess, is also a doctor and an M.P. We have two sweet maids to do our washing for us and make us meals, we have the use of the swimming pool and are in the perfect location from which to conduct a thorough exploration of the city. All in all we fully acknowlage that we are incredibly lucky fellows. Thank you, Rosita, for the contact and the Neo's for your kindness.
The bikes, those sleek black machines, those vehicles of glory, have a new, temporary home. They are parked in a garage alonside a spanking, sparkling, silver Mercedes Benz. Under an awning, just outside, they have a few more new friends: Another Merc, a Porche Boxer and, the piece de resistance, the latest, fastest, biggest, baddest Ferrari in Red. The poor bikes did have a forlorn look about them standing next to their grand, engined, neighbours. It was as though they were dogs that know they are going to leave the warmth of the house to go into the kennel for the night; our faithful steel companions seemed to understand that they would not be in use for some time, perhaps until we begin our South American adventure in the Autumn.
When we are not at 'Dover Gardens' we are nosing around the city, listening to C.Ds in HMV or thumbing through books at Borders, doing all we can to put off important jobs like acquiring a 12-month working holiday Visa from the Australian High Commission and securing a passage by sea to Sydney, planning a hike into the Sumatran jungle and tour of the Indonesian archipelago.
Saturday, February 04, 2006: ' Welcome to Singapore '
At 11:18 on a balmy Friday morning, Jamie Mackenzie and Ben Wylson crossed the 'Second Link' bridge from Malaysia to Singapore and so completed the first year's cycling of FWE.
After a fantastically relaxing stay that included crocodile farms, helicopters, golf and magic shows, we departed Malacca early Wednesday morning and struck south along the often scenic coastal Route 5, bound for Singapore. The roads were smooth and softly undulating, legs were strong and our desire immense. Small villages and towns came and went, names on the map looming on the horizon amidst flurries of rain and sunshine, then slipping by without even leaving a trace of a memory. We ate, drank, slept and cycled the days away. By the time we arrived at Galang Phalat, late Thursday evening, there were less than 40 miles of track remaining between us and the island.
Friday morning, alarms sounded, shattering the last of our dreams; we were saddled before sunrise. As the morning glow flooded across the land like an orange river, a gentle breeze blew down from the north. We floated along the tarmac of the E3 until, by midday we were on the thresh-hold of our final destination.
Stamped out of Malaysia, up and over the concrete bridge that divides the two lands, FWE finally, after ten months' pedalling, passed quietly under a sign that bore the words 'Welcome to Singapore'.
We are quite convinced that more people have gone to the moon than have achieved this feat.
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