After being ripped off by the "porters" at the airport, we luckily found a quiet spot in the corner of the terminal to assemble our bikes.

For the first time on this whole trip, I didn't pack the bikes myself. We had paid the bike store in Albury, Australia to pack and ship them to Sydney (where we picked them up and put them on the plane). I will never pay someone else to pack our bikes again. They did an awful job. In fact, I think they were mad at us for "rushing" them to ship the bikes and they intentionally damaged them, especially mine. We gave them three weeks to pack and ship the bikes and they didn't even start until after three weeks. Then we called to tell them to hurry, so I guess that was rushing them.

The handlebar tape on both sides of my bike was torn and cut. The brakes and shift cables were all pulled out of the cable housing, and the cable ends were frayed. It took two hours but finally we got both bikes on the road.

Shortly before we finished, another American couple with bicycles showed up. This was surprising enough, but they even had the same Phil Brule panniers we have. The panniers convert into backpacks. Phil makes these things in his basement. We haven't met anyone else that's even heard of these panniers let alone have them. I told the Texans I felt like I was looking in a mirror. They were working their way around the world in the opposite direction, and had already ridden in Europe and Nepal.

The Texans didn't assemble their bikes right there. They got a station wagon to take them to their hotel. We hoped to meet up with them but it didn't work out.

I definitely felt nervous as we walked from the passenger-only part of the airport into the masses that had been watching us through a window for two hours. We didn't have a decent map and I wasn't even sure which side of the road the Balinese drive on. (The answer is both, but it's technically left).

It turned out to be easy. The road in and out of the airport was a simple two-lane job, busy but not that fast moving. Far less dangerous than most other airport roads we've been on. The throngs outside left us surprisingly alone. I expected to be hassled by people trying to sell me trinkets and stuff, or take me to a hotel, but we didn't get much of that. The trick is, we kept riding the bikes.

The number of motorcycles here was shocking. The motorcycles, mostly small ones and scooters, far outnumber everything else on the road combined. They outnumber the women with baskets on their heads, the three-wheeled carts selling fried chicken, the Japanese cars, the bemo vans (public jitneys), the people selling chopsticks boxes (for 1,000 Rp.), the old men carrying chickens, and the bicycles, which often carry whole five-and-dime stores. (In Indonesia, I should say, 500 and 1000 rupiah stores).

This is despite the fact that the cheapest motor bikes cost 4.5 million Rp. (new). Although at current exchange rates (10,600 Rp. to one U.S. dollar), I paid more than that for my bicycle. We have found out since that you can buy a moped here the way you buy a car in the U.S.--you can get a five-year loan.

We made a quick tour through the famous and awful place called Kuta Beach. This place attracts the most visitors on Bali. Imagine the local fast food strip near you (the one out by the mall) with a beach along one side. Make the road two lanes wide and replace the cars with motorbikes. Add a dense population of poor but energetic salesmen. That's Kuta Beach.

Everywhere we go here we are like a lottery ticket to the people we pass. If they say the right combination of words to us, they might get lucky and win more Rupiah than they have ever imagined. One kid yelled to us "One thousand dollars!" Kuta just happens to have a very large collection of Rp. millionaires visiting. Ad therefore a lot of Balinese people were trying to buy lottery tickets.

So much for Kuta. I was tired and ready to pay US$30 for a place then get an "early start in the morning." But Joan insisted we keep looking. So we rode towards the main city on Bali, Denpasar.

We saw a lot on that 10k trip. It's almost like the rest of the trip has been a repeat of that 10k.

More striking than the number of motor bikes is the number of people on each motor bike. Sometimes a whole family of four. The passengers, when not holding children, sit casually, even bored. Dressed up women sit side-saddle, while their high heels glide just a fraction of an inch from the pavement. It's not uncommon to see someone driving a motor bike while holding a bird cage. In fact, I've seen bicycles rigged to carry eight or 10 birdcages.

There are just about as many women on motorbikes as men, though it's mostly men who drive. Most of the people, especially the ones with transportation, dress neatly in western clothes. Women mostly wear above-the-knee business skirts. We look like slobs among them. When Indonesians visit the U.S., I imagine they remark on how poorly so many Americans like me dress.

Mostly just women seem to carry stuff on their heads, although a few men do too. Several tims I saw a pile of rocks halfway on the road clearly dumped their by a truck. Then I would see a woman wearing a sarong, filling boxes with several soccer-ball sized rocks, then balance the basket on her head and walk off in single file behind a dozen other women who had done the same thing.

Old men ride bicycles. They ride these old style bikes with complex and very long front forks. Younger people usually ride mountain-bike style bikes. Travelling salesmen prefer bicycles to motor bikes. The rolling five-and-dime was on a bicycle. I have also seen rolling bakeries and chicken coops on bicycles.

Kids like to ride adult-sized women's bikes. Some kids trying to ride these bikes are so small their necks are about seat level. I don't think they can use the brakes.

The main roads are shockingly smooth, smoother than NZ roads. Years ago however someone did a disservice to the peasants in the country side: they paved their roads. No repair has ever been done and these roads are absolutely awful because of the remnants of pavement. A dirt track would be better.

The only thing I find sloppy about Indonesians is the way they handle or don't handle garbage. Papers, wrappers and plastic bottles lie around any unowned place, although private land is usually well kept. Soccer fields on a breezy day have lots of things other than soccer balls bouncing across them. I remember one soccer field, mostly dirt with patches of brown grass, a wooden goal with no net and peeling white paint, papers scattered about but mostly in the downwind corner, and a cow nearby.

When we got to Denpasar Joan inquired at the expensive hotel where we might find a cheap one. They told us. We went a few blocks away to the Two Brothers. It was getting dark and we had to go down this gravel alley that made us a little uneasy but it turned out great.

The Two Brothers is actually what they call a "losmen," or guest room in a family house, as opposed to a hotel. It's a line of a few simple rooms with one long porch. On the porch are chairs with small tables between them. The Two Brothers has a shared mandi, or bathroom, but many losmen have bathrooms in each room. A mandi is a bathroom with a tub of water and a dipping bucket instead of a shower. You stand on the floor and dump water over yourself and it goes down a drain in the floor. The toilet is very low and you stand over it instead of sitting down. You flush it by dumping in water with the dipping bucket.

The simple square rooms almost always have a fan (Thank God), pillows and a sheet. Sometimes a blanket at high altitudes. So far the losmens we have stayed at have been very clean. A lizard or a bug crawls across the six surfaces now and then, but we haven't seen any downright infestation. Although the bed bugs do bite.

These places are clean because someone sweeps constantly. Some of the nicest tiles floor I've seen anywhere in the world are at $2.50/night hotels in Bali. Every morning we wake up and hear somene sweeping (over Muslims chanting in the background). You can smoke two packs of cigarettes and throw all the empty butts and packs in the grass by your porch. In the morning someone will sweep it up. We don't smoke or litter but we watch our neighbors do it all the time. Yes, they even sweep the grass. I suppose sweeping beats carrying rocks on your head.

Lots of men smoke in Indonesia. We don't see any women doing it, but we do see a few 12-year-olds indulging. I read that Asia is the fastest growing market for tobacco. Indonesia's big cigarette company is one of the hot stocks in Asia. Smoking is in. You don't hear "Do you mind if I smoke?" at all. Of course, based on life expectancy here of about 60 years, most Indonesians will die before they get lung cancer. And it seems rather weenie in this country of tropical heat, diesel fumes, malaria, crazy drivers and contaminated water supplies to ask, "Do you have a non-smoking section?"

Next: Chapter 2, Denpasar

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