Long Way Round to Rehab

By Lachlan Barker

I went to see the world and did, but what I also saw a lot of was the inside of a lot of pubs, and so came back with a lot of stories and an alcohol problem.
I'd like to think that this book is not just a travel work, but a help for those to see some of the warning signs of alcoholism.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lachlan Barker
• Release date: Jan 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310380389

Lachlan Barker

Lachlan Barker is an author who lives in Byron Bay, Australia.When not constantly complaining on the internet, he surfs, cycles or works as a gardener.He entered rehab for booze and pot in 2008 and hasn't looked back since.He has been on every continent except South America and Antarctica, and they're next.

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Long Way Round to Rehab

By Lachlan Barker

With thanks to all those who helped along the way.

Copyright 2014 by Lachlan Barker

Smashwords Edition

Cover design by Clinton.

Contents

Chapter 1 – Sunset in South Java.

Chapter 2 – Dawn over Palembang.

Chapter 3 - Sumatra Sideways.

Chapter 4 - Stepping into Europe.

Chapter 5 - London and Thereabouts.

Chapter 6 - Control?! I had none at first, and less as the term went on.

Chapter 7 - Rolling Hell.

Chapter 8 - Rolling Further.

Chapter 9 - Everything’s Bright, Then Everything’s Grey

Chapter 10 - Glasgow’s summer was on a Thursday.

About the Author

More Works by Lachlan Barker

Connect with Lachlan Barker

Read a preview of Lachlan’s first fiction work, The Destruction of Lasseter's Road

Chapter 1 – Sunset in South Java.

In the end it was the ultimate change from the sublime to the ridiculous that destroyed what even emotional keel I had.

Just a week before these events take place I was camping on a beach at the southern end of the island of Java in Indo, with my friend Neil, and two beautiful Dutch nurses.

These nurses, Hanika and Marayka, seemed to have an aversion to clothing and spent the daylight hours topless.

We had met these two in a backpackers in the south Javan town of Banyuwangi and they had told us they were heading down to the south-western coast to a turtle beach with the hope of seeing baby turtles running.

They asked us if we would like to come and we said an emphatic ‘Yes’.

Fully clothed they would have made a trappist monk start talking, so the idea of a couple of days with them in swim suits, or as events were to show, mostly out of them, was a no brainer.

Additionally, Neil and I were both biologists, he already worked with turtles in Australia, and so there was even a quasi-professional reason to go.

But make no mistake, it was the lure of the bikini that was all important.

We rented a truck, well, a motor vehicle that very loosely answered the term, and bounced our way down there.

There was no real accommodation in the area, but we were all fired up to sleep on the beach.

But as ever with travel in the third world, planning anything is at best a fifty per cent return on thought.

Firstly, none of us had tents.

Brilliant, eh?

But Neil and I in an attempt to be hairy-chested Australian macho men, who were fazed by nothing, said We’ll just sleep on the sand, we’re in the tropics, how bad can it be?

So we tied our boots to our packs, put the packs on and then, as Peter Mayle put it best, headed out like two-legged snails.

We had no real destination in mind, so we headed up the beach looking for a) turtles, b) a nice spot to sleep and c) Hanika and Marayka’s breasts to appear.

At one point we came across a small trickle of fresh water coming down the beach from the green undergrowth fringing the sand.

We stepped over and through it and continued on.

Eventually we found a spot we thought serviceable, threw down our packs and generally lazed about.

For the two women, lazing about meant divesting themselves of all but bikini bottoms and rolling around in the black sand.

For Neil and me, lazing about meant staring as if hypnotized at the breastual feast being paraded before us.

Then the sun began to set with its usual tropic speed and I just want to say this, a piece of philosophy I have developed over the years is: You haven’t lived till you’ve been slapped in the face, had a drink thrown over you and someone has said, ‘who the fuck are you?!’

All of which has happened to me, of course from my drinking days, but I would like to add this to it.

You haven’t lived till you have seen two beautiful, topless Dutch nurses, rolling in black sand, on a beach in south Java, while the tropic sun sets over the western headland and the shadows grow long.

The natural setting itself was enough to start rhapsodic descriptions, but the beauty of these two girls even put that in the shade.

Anyway, just so you know, no romance developed.

Neil was ready to propose to Hanika, but they both had boyfriends and we had to content (?) ourselves with walking around bent double with sexual frustration and lying stomach down in the sand to keep the physical manifestations of our ardour hidden.

Night fell and thankfully Neil smoked so we used his lighter to start a fire.

From this point, though we didn’t realise it at the time, it was all going downhill.

Firstly it was night and so the girls put their tops on, so that pleasure was now denied us.

Then we began to learn something about the tropical night, viz: it’s cold, or it certainly was where we were.

Slowly as the evening moved on we pulled more and more clothing from our packs and put them on our increasingly chilly bodies.

Then we began to creep closer and closer to the fire.

THEN, we realised that we were running out of firewood, and this realisation was closely shadowed by the realisation that apart from having no tents, none of us had brought a flashlight.

Another stroke of brilliance.

We at first used Neil’s lighter to try to find more driftwood, but that proved ineffectual, and further that lighter was now integral.

We had to conserve its fuel in case the little fire we did have went out and we needed to relight it.

FURTHER, to our outdoor ineptitude was a lack of paper to use as a fire starter.

All of us had toilet paper, but in Indonesia toilet paper is even more crucial to one’s well-being than a working lighter.

What’s more, using it as fire paper is very ineffective as it turned to ash in the blink of an eye.

So the night wore on and eventually we decided to get some sleep.

We lay, as I recall, with the two girls next to either side of the fire, with Neil on the windward side of Hanika, and myself on the leeward side of Marayka.

We huddled up as close as possible against the cold, and so cold was it that thoughts of sex had long gone from my mind at least, I can’t speak for Neil, but am guessing he likewise was now only trying to stay warm.

But our efforts were to nought.

After an hour or so, Neil with his back to the wind realised it wasn’t going to happen.

He sighed and gave up and went to his pack to have a cigarette.

This created a knock on effect.

Without his shielding presence Hanika was now fully exposed to the stiffish night wind and a short time later she gave up, stood up and went to her pack and began ferreting around to see if there was any other clothing she had missed to put on.

Then, without Hanika and Neil to shield it, the fire went out.

Thus, Marayka was now taking the brunt of the wind and so she lay there fitfully for a small while then she gave up.

I think I had drifted into a lightish doze, because I recall waking with a start due to the wind now full into my face.

I sat up and felt, rather than saw, the other three moving about in the pitch black night, and so I got up and we began discussing our predicament.

We faced the choice of sitting there all night freezing, or going somewhere else.

We vaguely considered moving into the undergrowth behind the beach, but if it was dark on the beach, clearly it was blacker than hell’s midnight in there and so we scrubbed that idea.

Eventually we decided that the only sensible course of action was to walk back up the beach to the road where our truck had dropped us, then at least we would be out of the wind, and we might even be able to find a village on the road where we could spend the rest of the night.

So we put our packs on once more and then began a truly perilous walk back.

I say perilous for a few reasons.

The only passible light was a glimmer from the sliver thin moon, and the only area this lit was the ocean, and little enough of that.

The sand as I say was black, and so obviously no aid, and of course the undergrowth was even less help.

However, the oceans on the south western side of Indonesia have been famous through history for their ferocity, and this beach was no exception.

So we had to walk close enough to the water to be able to see, but not close enough to get caught up in it.

I might add, if you think that sounds like a small danger, later in this tale we will come to a beach resort in Sumatra that famously doesn’t allow swimming.

The reason: you can’t even walk into the ocean there.

So ferocious is the shore break that six-foot waves crash down from above head height while you stand watching.

And likewise this shore break was not to be trifled with.

Actually, now that I remember it, the sound of the ocean crash was more useful than the moon to find our way with.

So staggering slightly under the weight of our packs we picked our way through the Javan night toward the road and some semblance of safety.

Then we came to the little stream I mentioned on the outward journey.

Thankfully we saw its vague outline in the glimmer of the moon as we pitched up onto its shore.

We all stopped, more from fatigue than caution and tried to discern a crossing point.

It looked more or less the same as it had done in the day, though we all agreed it looked a little broader.

I decided to cross first, and with pack on I put my left leg into the middle of the stream and disappeared from view.

I have had some shocks in my life I can tell you, but that was one of the most severe.

The tide had changed while we were up the beach and the ankle deep trickle had changed too.

The retreating tide had combined with the little stream to scour out a two metre deep trench in the sand and with the weight of my pack, combined with the shocking, savage, unexpected cold of the water; put me a) underwater and b) into a catatonic shock.

Thankfully for me the currents and the morphology of the beach came to my aid.

Close by the point I took my plunge the stream curved sharply and I was flung up against the sand forming the outer wall of the bend.

Never, I mean, NEVER, have I been so thankful for my feet to register contact with something solid.

If the stream had been a little deeper, or if it ran in a straight line out to sea, you may not be reading this today.

But with desperate energy I scrabbled in the sand of the stream bank, found some traction and went up the wall of the stream, wresting collapsing sand out in big handfuls, until like a goanna going up a palm tree I shot over the lip of the stream and re-entered the view of my friends staring horrified into the dark.

The water glimmering on my shivering hide gave them a small glimpse of me.

Neil said, Are you all right, man?

I then replied with the stupidest overstatement since Stanley met Livingstone, Yeah, I’m Ok, but the stream is really deep now.

We conferred across the metre wide stream and then in parallel headed back up beach till we got to the sand dunes at the head of the beach, here we could tell that the stream was once again shallow, and the other three crossed over and we went on.

At this remove of 21 years I can’t recall the exact sequence of events, in retrospect I was still in mild shock.

What I do remember next is being on the back of an open backed truck, riding through the jungle in daylight.

Neil, Hanika, Marayka and I perched on our backpacks among the locals carrying chickens, rice, vegetables and various goods, who were headed for the local markets.

I was still damp and coated with sand and salt, but the day was as warm as the night had been frigid, and as we are about to see, that was as pleasant a ride as I had for some time.

But before we move on, I want to report something that was to change my life.

Whilst I was hung up on reporting Hanika and Marayka going about topless, I forgot to mention that as evening fell and we sat around the dieing camp fire, Marayka asked Neil and me some psychological questions.

They may not be found in any text book, but as events will show, I found them valuable beyond belief.

These were the questions:

What is your favourite animal?

What is your second favourite animal?

What is your favourite drink? (Alcoholic or non-, anything goes.)

Picture a box, made of anything with anything or nothing in it.

Describe the ocean in three words.

Disregarding the last answer, how would you travel across the ocean from one atoll to another? Fantasy rules here, you can go on a truffle bike, or fly in a gravity box, it doesn’t matter.

Later on I will say what these questions and answers represent, it is a tool for finding out about yourself, and Boy, did I learn something.

So back to our open topped truck.

We headed from the isolated coast, back onto the central spine of Java, and reconnected with the main north-south tourist trail of Indonesia.

We than travelled north to Jakarta, the capital of Indonesia, and man, that place is a maelstrom.

Smog like LA, traffic like you cannot believe and 24-7 freneticism that would have been hard to take if you had just come from another capital city, so for us, basically straight off the beach, it was like being thrown into a blender.

Among the things I remember of Jakarta was the bicak.

A bicak is a three-wheeled motorcycle taxi and I’ve always felt the Jamar Islamia never needed bombs; it only had to get all the hated western tourists in the country into one of these devices and send it out into Jakarta’s perpetual peak hour traffic and job done.

Neil and I got in one of these death bringers for the journey to our backpackers.

They were/are built for Indonesians and so Neil and I, and our backpacks, filled the rear and left us with little or no room to manoeuvre.

The drive chain to the back wheels was exposed beneath us and ran perilously close to our socks and we spent the journey in perpetual dread of a) our socks getting caught in the chain and our legs ripped off, and b) the other vehicles on the road ripping our head and shoulders off.

I have a picture, still burned in my brain twenty years later of a truck tyre moving menacingly toward my face as I sat trapped, unable to move.

In the end it was so close that if I could have moved my arms I could have undone the wheel nuts with ease from where I sat.

The exhaust fumes of our vehicle and the traffic in general made our heads light and when we eventually pitched up at the backpackers, we got out and fell to the ground and kissed it like the pope arriving in a new country, so thankful were we to be alive.

With nerves jangling we checked in.

That backpackers was an interior analogue of the city itself.

Overpriced, overcrowded.

Not fun.

After a shower we went to have dinner with Hanika and Marayka.

And if there was any slight chance of dalliance, it was snuffed out then and there, for Marayka’s boyfriend, Pieter, had flown out to join her.

He was currently doing his national service as a submariner in the Dutch navy, and was on two weeks leave.

He was everything I wished to be, young, handsome, fit and in bed with Marayka every night.

However, he was a lovely man, and we had a nice evening.

Later on we said good bye to the three Dutch travellers, they were heading for a different part of the island, and retired to our stuffy dorm for what was becoming the norm, not a very good night’s sleep.

The next morning we examined our guide book sand maps and figured out what to do.

I was very happy as there was an English language book store and so was the first port of call.

I was then, maybe still am, a horrendous cheapskate, and so went there and browsed every shelf of the place, examining stock and comparing prices, without purchase, I was going to make that decision at my leisure.

That night we went to the movies, and the next morning we had a conference and made a decision that would change my life.

Over coffee, Neil pointed out that so far in Jakarta we had shopped in an English Language bookstore, had dinner at a nice restaurant, gone to the movies and sat in rush hour traffic.

We might as well be back in Sydney, he said.

I heartily agreed and so we decided to go to Padang, a coastal resort a long way from Jakarta.

So far the rhythm of our trip had been to stay in one place for three days, then travel for a day.

A day’s travel in Indonesia then, probably still, could be 50 kilometres, or 500, mostly the former.

This had been sustainable and we had had a generally good, if not overly, relaxing time.

Why we made this decision I cannot now recall, but I think it was largely due to the unpleasantness of Jakarta.

There were plenty of nice beach resorts close by, but we somehow thought that the further we got from Jakarta, the nicer things would be.

Anyway, the internet maps give the laughably optimistic time for the journey to the mid-west coast of Sumatra where Padang sat centrally as the capital of the region as 26 hours.

If only.

So we made the decision and went to bed planning to check out and move on the next day.

Morning came and we packed our gear for the trip.

I was ready earlier then Neil and was ready to go while he was still smoking his first fag of the day.

So I said, "Ok, I’ll take my gear and walk around to the bookstore to buy something for the trip.

When you’re checked out, come and join me there.

If I buy something and am ready to leave I’ll walk back and meet you on the way, then we’ll head to the bus station, how’s that sound?"

He said, Ok, and I headed off.

Like everything else in Jakarta, walking was not pleasant.

I had my whole pack on and within metres of leaving Neil’s table I had sweat rolling down my body.

The smog caught my throat, and my shoulders already felt the bite of my straps.

The book store was about a kilometre away and when I arrived I felt like I had beaten Tenzing to the top of Everest.

I had pretty much made up my mind what I was going to buy.

It had to be a long book, as I wasn’t sure when I would next find a bookstore, and it had to keep me engaged, or I knew I would throw it aside in boredom.

So I purchased Lord of the Rings.

I had already read it twice, but knew it could stand a third pass-through.

I carried my book and bag out to the footpath and looked down the road for Neil.

No sign.

I waited a few minutes, and then with a long-suffering sigh, hoisted my pack and began the walk back to find him.

I got all the way back to discover him still at the desk of the backpackers arguing over some sundry expenses.

I was exasperated, but he was doing the right thing, haggling is a way of life in Indo, and you want to pay a fair price, but not be regularly ripped off.

Not that the money matters to us phenomenally rich westerners, but even the Indonesians gave you greater respect if you haggled to a mutually acceptable middling price.

That over we loaded up and headed for the bus station.

Another kilometre walk in the smog and heat.

We got there and tracked down a bus going to the ferry port of Cilegon on the northern coast of Java.

Our vehicle was a standard Indonesian eight-seater mini bus.

I say eight-seater, though I am not sure if these vehicles ever travelled with eight people in them; 30 was common, 40 not unknown.

Additionally, there are no timetables in Indonesia, you simply get on the bus, and when there are so many people on board that the driver can’t reach the gear stick without asking someone to move, you go.

And go we did.

Another characteristic of these trips is that any westerners sit up front, with, as it happened, full nerve jangling view of the carnage to follow.

I should say, Neil and I aren’t giants, but best described as medium large westerners.

Both being just over 180cm (just under six feet tall) and weighing in at 90k (190lbs).

I mention this because the only place we would fit in these mini-buses was on the front bench seat next to the driver.

20 odd Indonesians of smaller stature were crammed in the rear.

The journey to Cilegon took about three hours and the first hour of that was through Jakarta.

I thought we were going to die a few times and already my eyebrows were becoming permanently fixed to my hairline.

In my massive, massive naiveté, I thought once we get onto the highway through the countryside, things will calm down, surely?

Wrong again, Lachlan.

We eventually left the outskirts of the capital and my eyebrows began to return to their more customary position above my eyelids when we passed our first fatal accident of the morning.

Glass everywhere, two bent and savagely twisted vehicles.

I don’t know for sure if someone died, but there was blood on the roadway and knowing the Indonesian predilection for overcrowding any vehicle, it was almost certain.

My eyebrows once again took off like the space shuttle and we watched with the standard appalled fascination as we inched through the traffic around the accident.

That passed we returned to cruising speed and continued northwards.

At the time I was enjoying learning Bahasa, the official language of the archipelago.

I had some See-Spot-Run level primers and it was something I genuinely enjoyed.

I was reading from one of these in a vain attempt not to watch the road, when Neil, who likewise wished to learn a little bit, asked me, How do you say, ‘What is your name?’.

I replied, Siapa nama anda, and the bus driver, naturally thinking we were addressing him, replied, Rambo.

Like absorbed spectators at a tennis match, our eyes swivelled in unison to look at him.

Rambo??

I don’t know to this day if Rambo is a common name in Indonesia, or if he took it, or was given it, for the Sylvester Stallone movies, but as we were to learn over the next two hours, it was almost certainly the latter.

If he had been born in first world, he would have been dedicated driver of V-8 gruntmeister vehicles.

I guess we were lucky that his minibus was hopelessly underpowered, but then that created problems of its own.

I’ll just digress to say that many have written about the traffic and driving in the third world, but none better than P.J.O’Rourke in his book Holidays In Hell.

His story, Third World Driving Tips is best remembered for its description of driving maniacally up hills, down mountains, through walls and over people.

I’ll just put in this little extract for those of you who wish to read it.

"When to honk your horn in the third world.

When starting the car.

When stopping the car.

When someone is coming.

When no one is coming.

And at all other times."

So with my eyebrows already starting to go over the top of my head and return under my chin we entered the mountains and we became unwilling