Never thirsty, always dry, said Nath, a brash, long-haired Aussie out in the surf. And yeah. It feels fitting riding this empty, scorched 500km long road, through barren corn-fields and half-baked fishing villages.
I’m in a hurry to get across this island to its eastern port, but I’m worried that the rush might not be warranted. In the more populated parts of Indo, ferries run to some kind of regular schedule, at least by Indonesian standards. Maybe every hour, notwithstanding the lengthy delays. Here, they run every week. There is no online timetable, no one really knows when they’ll leave. The only way to find out is by riding to the port to ask.
I have two days to rest and recover some sensation in my arse, which feels like it’s been welded to The Black Camel’s saddle after the 13-hour ride. Onboard, five longhaired Peruvians are the only other Westerners. They inflate a flotilla of blow-up mattresses in the middle of the top deck, stripping to their underwear and making FaceTime video calls.
The Indonesian passengers around them aren’t really sure how to react; some
