59 - Mishap & Maninjau (Sumatra, Indonesia)
A little oopsie. A little ouchie. A teensy bit grouchy. A seven-hour drive to feel alive and then a pleasant lake retreat. Twisty turns, a fraught monkey yearns, the fish bags are complete.
by Mr. Nos T. O’maniac
I LEFT KERSIK TUO FOR THE LAST TIME, A BITTERSWEET FOND FAREWELL. It wasn’t so much the village itself, but all it represented in my mental scrapbook. A veritable launchpad to a deep well of treasured memories. And there’s a special place in my heart for the architect of those memories, Een Endatno (a.k.a Ugarte). More than a guide. More than a business transaction. He was and will always remain my friend.
Back to Bukittinggi. Just a hop, skip, and a seven-hour drive north. My plan was to leave early (by 6:00 a.m.), but a pelting rain foiled my objective thereby pushing liftoff to 8:00 a.m. The cold, biting shower let up but remained constant most of the way. Perfect setup for my first major Phantom mishap. As I rounded a corner, the front tire slipped. The bike slid from under me. Oopsie. A freak accident in my humble opinion. Yes, the roads were slick, but I was traveling at a reasonable speed, ever cognizant of conditions. I happened to hit a slippery patch just so on an uphill corner. A mix of rain and remnant oil greased the wheels of misfortune. No time to react. No time to recover. One minute I’m riding, the next I’m straddling a prone motorcycle. And how’s this for kooky? I remained standing throughout. Nice, but there was a price. I had to drag my right foot on the pavement. Ouchie.
I stood on the empty road, dazed and confused. (Not in a good way.) My bleeding foot throbbed with pain (moderate), but I was otherwise unscathed. The Phantom, likewise, was untouched. I considered other outcomes. Broken leg. Broken bike. No people. No hospital nearby. Shit could’ve been so much worse. Simultaneously grateful and freaked out was I. Freaked because there was nothing I could’ve done to avoid the incident other than not be there. (If I only drove with the sun, I’d still be in Indonesia.) I might even blame lack of sleep and exhaustion from the trip, but I don’t believe it mattered. The Phantom’s fall was instantaneous and there were no obvious signs of trouble. (Other than a wet road, that is.) Zero chance of reaction or course correction. Poopy.
I got back on my horse with a sigh of relief. Could always be worse, right arsehole? I paused in a town a while later to reinspect the damage to man and machine. The scrape was still painful but tolerable. Some Betadine and a bandage to the rescue. Did I mention I was wearing sandals? Dumbass… Doofy Dumbass at your service. Then again, had I been wearing shoes I’d have no scar to remind me, and I can’t help be a little grateful for my cognitive indiscretion. Every time I notice the scar, I remember Indonesia.
The Phantom persevered, mostly. I still had a sputtering carburetor issue. Water accumulation required release from time to time and left me stalled roadside more often than I would’ve liked. Each time I wondered, Is this end, my dear, dear Phantom? Must I leave thee? Looking back, I theorize the petrol quality was subpar. Watered down and then watered down again? Likely. Not saying my bike was the ultimate driving machine, but shitty fuel couldn’t have helped.
Through rain, misfortune, a faulty flux capacitor, and a motorcycle marathon, I made it back to Bukittinggi. I spent the next few days in rest and repose mode. Little guy was all tuckered out. My foot was on the mend but not before swelling considerably and hurting like a mofo the day after. I thought I might be in for a rough ride but some hydrogen peroxide and two Celebrex did the trick. Or did it? I used hydrogen peroxide. (More info? Go here.) Dumb. I used Celebrex. (More info? Go here and here.) Dumb. In short, both these approaches are more apt to delay healing, not hasten it. Celebrex (an NSAID/Cox-2 inhibitor) has the added benefit of possibly killing you. (Long-term use.) Better off flushing the wound with water and washing with mild soap. Anti-septic gel containing silver would’ve been nice as well. Ignorance is bliss… and sore.
Part of my recovery strategy included a leisurely drive west to Lake Maninjau. The hour-long ride from Bukittinggi is half the fun. The road (Kelok 44) leading d-d-down to the lake is of the hairpin variety and has forty-four switchbacks. I counted. Also, they’re numbered. Negotiating them with the hog was a real hootenanny. I went on to circumnavigate the lake’s outline, soaking up the view and the cool, sun-drenched air on my face. Beautiful and scenic. Another experience brought to me by the Honda Phantom. Gracias, kind sir.
*Drone footage courtesy of Weekend News
*Drone footage courtesy of Amsaifu
I took my time. I lingered. No rush. No agenda. A photo here. A vacant look across the lake there. Got lost in my head. (It’s a jungle up there.) Such a worthy pursuit, no? An anomaly garnered my attention, one I had to verify with close inspection. I passed a man on a motorbike with two large baskets filled with coconuts attached saddlebag-style. And on the back seat betwixt the baskets was his partner: a monkey. It wasn’t just the fact he appeared to be delivering coconuts with a primate shackled to his motorbike. It was the juxtaposition of their task and the stoic, borderline angry expressions held by each. Not sure if man mimicked the monkey or vice versa. These two were dead fucking serious.
This was too much. I needed a snapshot for posterity. Who knew when or where they’d be stopping, so I took the initiative by photographing from behind… while driving. Considering my recent mishap, this was none too wise, but I couldn’t resist. I really wish I had a picture of me stalking the duo mid-photo like a moron. Lemme guess, you’re not from here?
To my delight, he stopped for a delivery. This was my chance. I pulled up alongside with my camera at the ready. Being the polite fellow I am, I opted for permission. Apparently, I was invisible, as I suspect all jackass photo-seeking tourists were to him. I offered a soft “Permisi” (Excuse me) as he dug coconuts from a basket. Nothing. Not so much as a glance. I repeated “Permisi” at least five more times as he completed the transaction with a woman in front of her home. Nada. Zilch. He never acknowledged my existence, nor did the monkey for that matter. Ignored by a monkey? Now, that really chapped my ass. Without flinching, Coconut Guy put his bike in gear and continued on without an altered micro expression. Very impressive. Touché, Mr. Coconut Man. Touché. This sequenced entertained the hell out of onlookers. I’m guessing he’d had his fill of Johnny Jackass Tourists snapping pics and giggling like school girls.
There might be other reasons, perhaps. I surmise a supremely pissed off looking indentured primate with a chain around its neck invokes pathos and scorn from western hemispherians on holiday. I mean, who’s doing all the heavy lifting, anyway? All the guts. None of the glory. I get it, and I can’t say it didn’t strike a chord, but what can you do? Monkey equals livelihood, right? Free Curious George ! Sure, and then what?
My mission was clear. I put my foot on the gas and sped past the haughty twosome. When I was confident of my lead time, I stopped and waited patiently. Sure, I really wanted a photo, but I didn’t feel great about getting one as a perverted version of tourist paparazzo. (Of course, perversion is baked into paparazzi, is it not?) Imagine if that was your life—chasing down celebrities and persons of interest. What had I become?
As he approached, my shame evaporated. The situation was too damn bizarre to let slide. Click, click, and click. Gotcha! Wow. This time both made eye contact. I’m lucky I didn’t spontaneously combust from the glare. A joyless pair, if I ever saw one. On a scale of one to ten, how pissed does the monkey look? You’d think that chain was around his balls. I suppose if I had to divide my day between gathering coconuts from treetops and being fettered to a moped, I’d probably be an ornery fucker myself. Sorry, George, but don’t hate the player.
Fish farming is common on Maninjau. Sadly, the enclosures are a blight on the overall lake aesthetic, but they gotta make a living. I encountered numerous large trucks loading up the catch for delivery. Fish. Water. Bag. Oxygen. Load ‘em up and go. Doesn’t get fresher than that.
