Having biked it twice before, I knew the road would be tough this morning. The first time was five or six years ago, when Fred, my brother Marty and I embarked on what we thought would be a leisurely pedal up the coast. While we all enjoyed the delicious, palm-shaded stretches along the beach, none of us were prepared for the sharp ascents over every headland. After three or four of these, I noticed that Fred had turned alarmingly pale. He said that the heat was too much for him and turned back. Mars and I didn't last much longer, partly because of the lousy quality of our rented mountain bikes, but mostly due to the knowledge we'd have to return the same, hilly way.
Two years later, I made my second attempt, this time with a better bike and a better plan. I found a way to make a loop out of it, heading along the brutal coast road for about 25 kilometers before heading inland and upwards through the forest road, doubling back to Mataram. I left in the heat of the day at 2:30, in order to make it back by sunset. When I finally made it to the turnoff in Pemenang --quite a few more headlands beyond where Mars and I had given up---I guzzled down a couple of liters of cold water, incredulous over not having passed out along the way.
Today was a little different. We were on still better bikes and are definitely feeling more fit. And knowing exactly what lay ahead, we were psychologically prepared for it. Yesterday Paul (the Danish cyclist) told us that it flattened out once the road reached the north coast. He was right too. Just when we thought we were ready to expire from the ludicrously steep hills, we saw a *cidomo* coming towards us --a very good sign considering the bony ponies which pull these two-wheeled carts are incapable of managing even the slightest incline. Coconut groves and beaches gave way to rice fields and orchards.
Drenched in sweat, we stopped in a bustling market town called Tanjung for a cold drink. We talked with the friendly owner at length about the monetary crisis, Indonesia's political situation (formerly a very taboo subject indeed), and --most importantly---our eating opportunities further down the road. Stroking the head of his infant the whole time, he told us of a place called \"Coffee Shop\" seven kilometers further. I had visions in my mind of a happening little café with espresso, Italian pastries, and focaccia sandwiches, but of course the place was just another hole in the wall. We waited endlessly for a couple of plates of substandard noodles, watching the slow-motion parade pass by in the road.
The whole scene had a slow-motion, dreamlike quality: creaky bicycles laden with grass; uniformed schoolchildren shuffling home; a *tukang kaki lima* peddling food from his rolling cart; old women carrying huge baskets on their heads, moving as though walking through water. Not long after lunch, it began to rain, an event we had been looking forward to, thinking it would cool things off. In reality it just made things stickier, especially when the rain stopped. The sun came out and transformed the narrow ribbon of black asphalt into an outdoor hammam. By the time we made it to the turnoff to Segentar, a traditional village, we were both awash in perspiration and grime.
A tough pump up a sandy two-kilometer track made us all the more unpresentable. Just outside the vegetative wall that surrounds the village compound, we paused at a *beruga* (or \"hangout pad\" --a raised, shaded platform upon which Indonesian country-folk spend the hot part of the day) in a hopeless attempt to catch our breath and dry off. A passerby sauntered up to us and offered to show us around the village, which was neat as a pin. Orderly rows of identical houses alternated with rows of *berugas*, and the place was cleaner than Disneyland. Prompted by our guide, we entered a house at random.
An untended fire was smoldering in one corner, while some chickens pecked around on the dirt floor. A wooden cubicle floated in the center of the dark room, and our guide explained that this room was used for storing rice and other valuables, and was occasionally transformed into a bedroom for honeymooners. Smarter than us in dealing with the midday heat, Segentar's inhabitants lolled in the berugas set between the houses, gazing at us laconically as we strode sweatily by. There wasn't a single \"hello mister\" to be heard. Unlike all the schoolchildren screaming at us from the roadside, the denizens of Segentar are accustomed to foreign tourists, or so we learned when we signed the visitors book.
While only a handful of *orang buleh* had made it up the dirt path in the past few months, it was apparently enough to keep us from being a curiosity, even in our bizzare cycling outfits. It wasn't far from here to Anyar, where the road turns sharply up the slopes of Mt. Rinjani. We had already learned this from our Danish compadre, who claimed the road up to Senaru was one of the toughest he'd ever cycled. Our shopkeeper friend back in Tanjung had told us it would be easy to load our bikes onto a bemo (a small pickup-like vehicle used as a bus) and he was right.
When the bemo driver hesitatingly asked the princely sum of 10.000 rupiah (about a dollar) we didn't even bother to bargain him down. Fred said it was the smartest dollar he'd ever spent, even though our ride wasn't the height of comfort. Fred had to ride atop a big bag of rice, while I was squished between elderly peasants the whole way. The younger passengers had been displaced by our bikes and were relegated to hanging off the back as the bemo strained and bumped up the steep incline. At over 500 meters above sea level, Senaru felt wonderfully cool. We celebrated our arrival with a beer and a snack at the first lodging we found.
As we waited for our food to come, we watched the resident family pick lice out of each other's hair like a band of monkeys, and decided to explore our other accommodation options. When we announced our intention to our hopeful host, he came down in price to 8,000 rupes for a room and breakfast (about 80 cents). While some claim that the monetary crisis hasn't affected people living in rural areas, to us it feels like locals are pretty desperate for cash. We rationalized our spending the night elsewhere as spreading our dollars around, thus benefiting more people in the village.
Pondok Senaru, at two dollars a night, was far more glamorous. Most impressive was the view of a waterfall across a deep verdant gorge. The bathroom was a traditional Indonesian *mandi* --a basin of cold water and a plastic scoop. Invigorating! We had dinner with the other guests, a friendly young Indocouple from Bandung and an adventurous Brit on a yearlong trip who explained for us the intricacies of the \"paintball industry.\" All three of them were climbing the mountain the next day. The Indonesians retired early, and when we had exhausted the conversational abilities of our paintball-obsessed Britannic friend, it was time for us to go back to our electricity-free room, where there wasn't much to do beyond sleep.