Cycling Indonesia: A Breath of Diesel-Infused Fresh Air

Ah, Indonesia; a land where Mother Nature clearly had one of her better days at the drawing board.

It’s as if she decided to throw in every picturesque element she could muster, rolling hills, majestic peaks, valleys that seem to fall off the edge of the earth, and for a bit of fun, plopped it all within half an hour’s pedalling distance from urban chaos.

Just like how it takes you 30 minutes to eat a plate of nasi goreng, Indonesia’s natural beauty is within tantalising reach, provided you can survive the concrete jungle.

It’s a cyclist’s dream, isn’t it?

Well, yes, but only if you conveniently ignore a few small details.

You know, like the vehicle exhaust clouds that are so thick you’d think a barista was brewing diesel-flavoured kopi, the motorcyclists who seem to think road rules are mere whispers in the wind, or the neighbourhood traffic regulator who believes the fate of the world rests on him helping a car reverse out of a warung.

Let’s start with the good stuff, shall we?

The views; oh, the views!

They’re the kind of vistas that make you want to burst into song, though, knowing you, it’ll probably be the default ringtone on your smartphone.

One minute you’re cycling past a 2km-high mountain that could grace the cover of a travel magazine, and the next, you’re wheezing through a street so thick with pollution it feels like you’re pedalling through ominous clouds.

The contrast is staggering, like finding a slab of meat in your Mie Bakso, delightful and unnervingly out of place.

And then we have the traffic. Yes, the Indonesian traffic.

If you ever feel that life is too predictable, just cycle through Jakarta.

Here, traffic laws are about as optional as saying "please" when asking for sambal that won’t burn your tongue off.

You’ve got cars diving into roundabouts like a cat leaping into a bowl of Soto, no warning, no logic, and with the unshakeable belief that everything around them will stop to applaud their audacity.

But they pale in comparison to motorcyclists! Oh yes, they’re the real entertainers.

Upon spotting you, peacefully minding your own cycling business, they slow down and match your speed as if this is some sort of impromptu race.

But here’s the kicker: they don’t overtake.

No, they just loiter alongside you, much like a plate of Rendang left on the table, untouched, leaving you wondering what exactly the point of the interaction was.

And then, just when you think they can’t possibly do anything more baffling, they ride against the traffic.

Not out of necessity too, mind you!

No, it’s because turning 200 yards down the road would simply be too much effort.

Why go the long way when you can just play a game of vehicular chicken with a bus?

As you dodge these two-wheeled daredevils, you’ll inevitably encounter the self-appointed traffic marshals. Usually stationed near an Alfa Mart or Indomaret, wielding a Chinese sabre (or whatever they can get their hands on) and a whistle, they’ll halt an entire lane of vehicles, including you, the poor cyclist, so that one solitary car can reverse out of a parking spot.

Pak Budi’s 1995 Kijang must be the national treasure we didn’t know we had, because the lengths people go to accommodate its gentle reversing ballet would make you think we were all extras in some traffic symphony.

I sometimes wonder if this is a test of my patience or a bizarre twist on the Jakarta Marathon.

Now, let’s talk about the perfume de la pollution; a delightful cocktail of unregulated fumes and thick air that clings to your lungs like the lyrics of a Dangdut (Kiri-Kiri & Kanan-Kanan) song you just can’t get out of your head.

You take a deep breath and suddenly realise it’s not a workout, it’s a lung endurance test.

Each gulp of air is a lottery; will it be the refreshing mountain breeze you crave, or the acrid exhale of a truck that looks like it’s been around since Suharto’s reign?

And so, you find yourself asking: Is cycling in Indonesia really good for you?

Well, you get to soak in some of the most stunning scenery on the planet; that’s undeniable.

But, you’re also dodging motorbikes, cars, and the kind of exhaust fumes that make your lungs wave the white flag before you’ve even finished your first kilometre.

It’s a bit like eating Gorengan: sure, it’s delicious, but deep down, you know it’s probably shaving a few months off your life.

Ultimately, cycling in Indonesia is like dating a supermodel with a volcanic temper; irresistible at first glance, thrilling to experience, but always with the looming threat of something going disastrously wrong at any moment.

One minute you’re basking in the beauty of nature, and the next, you’re questioning your life choices as a motorcycle swerves past you against traffic like it's the most natural thing in the world.

The ride is exhilarating, yes, but it’s always a little too close to disaster.

In conclusion, it’s a paradise of peril.

You’ll love the adventure, but don’t be surprised if you find yourself, mid-pedal, wondering, “Is this really how I want to spend my last day on Earth?”

Happy Cycling!

Enjoy and Be Safe.

Cheers.

Minn Tun

October 2024