(Credits to L for the titillating title...)
15/11/2007
Borrowed Pak Leo’s motorcycle this afternoon. Perilous 4-kilometer ride to Liquica Hospital with Yudha to meet Pak Filomeno, the district health director.
This Honda [Something] is a 100cc pygmy that has been worked mercilessly by Pak Leo and pretty much anybody who can ride a bike in Vatunau for the last 7 years. And it shows.
Getting her started requires a brutal kicking, the engine is anaemic, frame rattles like a jar of teeth, lights don’t work.
The buttocks-shaped hole on the foam seat inadequately accommodates my standard-issue-Indian-buttocks.
Shifting gears is a vehicular Russian Roulette. I hold my breath, kick the pedal and hope for the appropriate the gear. Odds 1-in-4.
Brakes don’t work, so I keep her trotting along at a pace that would allow Yudha and I to skip off and run out of the way should we be faced with the prospect of a collision. I don’t think I’ve hit 30kmph – but then I can’t be sure, the speedometer doesn’t work either.
Approaching a junction is a particularly faith-stretching manoeuvre. Implement boots-to-road technique to slow down. Avoid stopping, as that might precipitate another engine flatline requiring painstaking resuscitation. Honk gratuitously. Look out for any approaching traffic that might necessitate an emergency offroading. All clear? Prayerfully throttle up through the junction. Phew!
Risk to life, limb and neurological integrity aside, it was an awesome ride. Views of the coastline and hills are spectacular, and the nakedness of being on a motorcycle brings a sense of vulnerability and proximity to the land that I don’t think I could ever have ensconced in the metal hull of a car. I can think of no better way to see Timor.
Borrowed Pak Leo’s motorcycle this afternoon. Perilous 4-kilometer ride to Liquica Hospital with Yudha to meet Pak Filomeno, the district health director.
This Honda [Something] is a 100cc pygmy that has been worked mercilessly by Pak Leo and pretty much anybody who can ride a bike in Vatunau for the last 7 years. And it shows.
Getting her started requires a brutal kicking, the engine is anaemic, frame rattles like a jar of teeth, lights don’t work.
The buttocks-shaped hole on the foam seat inadequately accommodates my standard-issue-Indian-buttocks.
Shifting gears is a vehicular Russian Roulette. I hold my breath, kick the pedal and hope for the appropriate the gear. Odds 1-in-4.
Brakes don’t work, so I keep her trotting along at a pace that would allow Yudha and I to skip off and run out of the way should we be faced with the prospect of a collision. I don’t think I’ve hit 30kmph – but then I can’t be sure, the speedometer doesn’t work either.
Approaching a junction is a particularly faith-stretching manoeuvre. Implement boots-to-road technique to slow down. Avoid stopping, as that might precipitate another engine flatline requiring painstaking resuscitation. Honk gratuitously. Look out for any approaching traffic that might necessitate an emergency offroading. All clear? Prayerfully throttle up through the junction. Phew!
Risk to life, limb and neurological integrity aside, it was an awesome ride. Views of the coastline and hills are spectacular, and the nakedness of being on a motorcycle brings a sense of vulnerability and proximity to the land that I don’t think I could ever have ensconced in the metal hull of a car. I can think of no better way to see Timor.
Wait, I can: A bike with brakes.
- raj
2 comments:
I've thought of a really good name for the bike: "call-me-macho"
What makes you think you drive any differently here in Singapore?
:-D
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