We'd given up the idea of voyaging to see the Mentawai and decided to go onward through Sumatra directly. At first, the idea of seeing a primitive people in their natural surrounding sounded intriguing. By delving into the details of what a trip there would entail we found complication after complication. In contrast, the ease with which we could load our bikes and pedal onward sounded attractive. The day before we left the sky declined to give up its moisture so the morning sky was carpeted with heavy gray clouds that looked heavy and black at the horizon. Luckily they held their rain another day and we rode in cool comfort under their protection.
It took longer than I'd expected to leave the city limits of Padang. Or at least it seemed longer as we dodged all types of vehicles leaving town. The most intriguing to Andrew were the three wheeled bicycle trucks that are the preferred pedal-powered form of transportation on Sumatra. Unlike their *becak* cousins they are not well adapted for hauling human cargo in their wood-bedded carrying space. We spotted them toting all types of other merchandise during our stay in Padang as well as Padanger passengers. One less than lively one was the fly-infested cow carcass we followed for a time before making it out of Padang.
It was surprising to me that we continued to pass the bike-trucks well out into the countryside along with the usual rude *bemos* and busses. Drawing a larger than normal number of strange looks as we rode the jungly coasts, we made fast work of our ride. At one stop in front of a school we were assaulted by a group of English students wanting to ask us the usual questions. Their teacher was a suspiciously young looking girl wearing the traditional Moslem fare that renders the female Sumatrites the appearance of a spirit. This ghost, though speaking few words, was without doubt the most competent English speaker we'd come across in some time.
Before departing we shared our peanut and banana snack with the kids, declining their invitation to tea. Before long we turned inland and began climbing to Maninjau. Even with the cloud cover the humidity began to reduce us to sweaty messes while the road became spottier and spottier. We dove into steep valleys and climbed out of them in the company of a good many Sumatrans who were out for Sunday rides on their motorbikes. Nearly everyone greeted us, most warmly. We didn't hear the stock and standard \"hello misterrrr\"s and the like. Instead the locals shouted \"how are you?\" Frequently they scrambled \"how are you\"
with other English phrases and questions. Sometimes it came out as, \"are you how\", \"who are you\" or \"where are you\" \--much to our amusement. Sumatra looked wilder and wilder as we wound our way up the mountain. Huge banyan trees and dense foliage crowded the road and big muddy potholes were commonplace, while the insect world hiding in the green entertained us with their whirs and chirps. After nearly one hundred kilometers I'd had enough for the day, especially if we were to have some fun at the lake. Chartering a *bemo* was as straightforward as ever. A three-dollar ride would take us and our bikes to the lakeside.
Ubay, our friend in Jakarta, had recommended a place to stay and made a reservation for us. There was some confusion when we arrived. First there appeared to be no one at the hotel, guest or staff. We shouted and walked around in search for intelligent life for some time before a rather old man appeared whom we apparently awoke from his afternoon nap. He ran the restaurant and provided us with cold drinks while he went in search of his colleague who was responsible for the hotel. Indra appeared, also rubbing sleep from his eyes, looking slightly confused. He'd expected us a few days before, but was happy to see us and set us up with a lakefront room.
We'd missed lunch and I was beginning to get rather hungry. We rinsed road-grime off of ourselves and walked through the village. I found the first restaurant we came to completely objectionable. Huge woven tapestries of Bob Marley and a surly staff more interested in their card games and coffee drinking than us scared me on to the \"next whiskey bar\". I find myself unable to patronize these places that cater to the lowest common denominator traveler. We did find a quiet little *warung* specializing in Padang food. Sitting in the doorway we watched the world pass by as three enthusiastic women prepared our afternoon meal.