It's a pity Fred wasn't feeling well enough to enjoy the sublimity that was this morning's ride. We got an early enough start to see Javanese life at its liveliest and most serene. Mornings are the active part of the day here, and everyone seems to be in a good mood, smiling and enjoying the fleeting coolness in the air. Bikes were everywhere, many carrying huge loads of bamboo, rice, or rolling restaurants. We even saw goats riding in *becaks*. A blissfully shaded back road took us through Tuban's prosperous-looking suburbs and the nearby market town of Merakurak, where the road became rougher but quieter, leading straight through a giant cement factory in the middle of nowhere.
Fred and I wondered how they got the cement out, since no trucks or trains were in evidence. The small village of Kerek was thronged with people and animals in town for a huge market of cows and cow accessories. I practically had to push my way inside to get a photo and talk to some of the farmers. Most were standing around with one or two animals, asking about \$75 per head. Another 25 kilometers of bumpity quiet roads and rolling pastoral splendor brought us to the main coastal highway. It was sort of a shock to see buses and trucks again, but the road had an excellent surface and was unusually wide.
As the day wore on, the sun became more and more of an issue for both of us. The antibiotics I've been taking make my skin increasingly sun-sensitive, and Fred was all clammy and pale, looking like he might pass out. Together, we made a pretty good impression of the red-and-white flag of Indonesia. Rather than continue along the increasingly busy road (we tried finding an alternate route at one point, but everyone we asked assured us it didn't exist), we opted for what has lately become a BikeBrats tradition: we chartered a truck to take us the forty-four kilometers to Lasem.
Indonesians don't like being alone; as with every other vehicle we'd chartered here, this rusty bucket of bolts included a very talkative driver plus his silent underling. With Fred sleeping in back with the bikes, I rode in front, sandwiched between the truck dudes. As well as posing the usual questions (Are the cars this ugly in your country? How many slaves do you have?) the driver provided me with a number of interesting insights. I learned that gas costs only 700 rupiah per liter (less than 35 US cents per gallon, at today's exchange rate), yet transport dudes like him were lucky to net 5,000 per day.
I also learned that the next day was a national holiday. \"An Islamic holiday?\" I asked. \"Yeah,\" replied the loquacious driver, \"it's an important one, where everyone cuts up animals. You know, victims.\" When we passed through a scruffy-looking town called Kragan, he commented that there were lots of naughty children (*anak-anak nakal*) here. \"What do you mean?\" I asked. \"Well, a couple of months ago --with the monetary crisis and all--- they ran amok and trashed all the shops here. Some people got hurt.\" (It should be noted here that \"amok\", along with \"orangutan\", \"bamboo\" and \"ketchup\", is one of the few English words borrowed from Indo-Malay).
I wondered aloud whether people would be running amok today, with the weekend's announcement that seven banks had been dissolved and seven more had been put under government control. After a few moments of deep contemplation came the driver's blithe response: \"Maybe.\" We were deposited right in front of a bank in central Lasem. While there were certainly a lot of customers milling about (and you can bet none of them were making deposits), there was no sign of anyone running amok --much to our relief. We found refuge in the air-conditioned comfort of an American-style fried chicken restaurant where, as usual, we were the only customers.
A subsequent poke around town revealed Lasem to be much less charming than Tuban, and we made a hasty decision to head straight for Kudus, the next big town. Since the only road there was the busy highway, we'd be chartering, of course. Our usual luck at finding transport gave out here, however. We rode back and forth through the town until we felt conspicuously dorky. No vans were to be found at the bus terminal, where a sleazoid character said he could help us out. Preferring not to deal with greasy middlemen, Fred and I elected to try in the next town, only 13km away on a nasty nasty road.
Rembang looked and felt a lot more prosperous than Lasem, but we stuck to our plan to motor to Kudus anyway. The small yellow Daihatsu van that took us there had a crew of three this time, and the driver was less talkative than pressed for time, often passing imprudently. I held my breath most of the sixty kilometers to Kudus while Fred snored away in back. Off-loading our bikes in what our driver insisted was central Kudus (even though the landscape was still dotted with rice fields), a cyclist materialized out of nowhere. --Not your average Indonesian cyclist, either. He wasn't a wizened old dude in a haji hat and sarong, kretek hanging out of his mouth, feet barely pushing the pedals of his rusty old Dutch-style three-speed.
Rather, Santoso was decked out in lycra, riding an Italian racing bike with --incredibly---clipless pedals. Through a maze of smog-choked streets, he led us to our hotel and proposed we meet the following morning so he could ride along with us. We both wondered if this would be a good idea, given Santoso's peculiar riding style (i.e. very slow, in a very low gear) yet agreed anyway, if only for novelty's sake. Kudus didn't strike us as a particularly charming town. The air was unbreathable and the streets uncrossable. It is famous for being the center for *kretek* (clove cigarettes) production as well as one of the first enclaves of Islam in the region.
In the fading, diffuse light of late *sore*, we walked past streetside *sate* stands and a bustling commercial area full of gold shops to the old part of town, arriving at an ancient mosque during the call to prayer. The mosque had obviously been a Hindu temple many centuries ago and had some beautiful old carvings and a Balinese-looking belltower. We tried visiting the tomb of a saint behind the mosque but were shooed away, just as we had been in a similar place in Surabaya. Muslims apparently don't appreciate having their holy places being defiled by infidels. More Islamic fun was to be had back at our hotel, where we turned on the t.v.
to find every channel co-opted by a message from Indonesia's Minister of Religion, who advised not to cut up so many animals as usual due to the monetary crisis (I'm not kidding). Then we were treated to images of Suharto and his very wealthy family praying in a mosque, or rather in an air-conditioned, bullet-proof aquarium inside a mosque. Outside, loud wailing and chanting filled the air into the wee hours. I fell asleep wondering if we'd get to see any goat-cutting action the next day.