One day I decided to rent a scooter and take a ride from Amed – the beach area where I was staying – to a couple of tourist spots in the mountains. It was a lovely ride up, along a well-maintained road, with lush greenery on both sides.
Soon I came up on the bright green terraces of rice paddies. I pulled over to a warung (a local restaurant) with a fantastic view of the paddies; it was overlooking a vast bowl-shaped scene of rolling green fields, as far as the eye could see, cradled by blue
mountains. I ordered a fresh young coconut, and spent a lovely hour sipping it, watching the breeze rippling through the fields.
Then I drove ahead to a supposedly famous tourist spot, the Tirta Gangga, but it was such a disappointment. I came out in five minutes – so far short from the four hours that the folks had said one could spend here!
It was too early to head back, so – after indulging in a long lunch – I decided to take a longer way back, going down the other side of the mountain, and driving along the water, lopping around the island to come back to Amed.
On the way down, I came across a stunningly beautiful area, and couldn’t resist pulling over for an impromptu stop. It was the Taman Jung Water Palace, infinitely more gorgeous than the Tirta Gangga – laid out with serene ponds bordered by ancient trees and terraced flower gardens. The palace itself blended Dutch, Chinese and Balinese architecture in an interesting way. I spend two hours there, quietly walking up and down; there were not many crowds, which was really nice. I was so relieved and happy that my trip was not wasted, and floated out of there, ready to head back after a lovely day accomplished.
Unfortunately things went downhill from there. Or maybe that’s not quite the right word – since downhill was exactly the direction I was seeking… but the road kept taking me uphill!
Indeed, the road that had looked parallel to the water in the map, was quite parallel… only it was two thousand feet above it! Not something that is shown in a Google Map, and I rued not checking it out with someone local.
Nevertheless, I started on the path, hoping that I would soon reach the beach level. But the road went on and on,
deeper into the jungle. My scooter was a measly 10 HP Honda Scooty, and she groaned at the steepness. Soon the road started getting poorer too, with pot holes that I bumped over, and even washed out in many parts. I started getting worried. There were not many other vehicles either —the cars that were with me at the beginning had dropped off some ways back, and now only an occasional motorcyclist crossed me.
But there was yet daylight at 4 pm in the afternoon, so I continued on.
At every curve where the road tended slightly downwards I felt a surge of hope – now, now, we are finally going to the beach level! But alas it relentlessly curved back into the hills, and I would grit my teeth and climb up yet another curve. The sea shimmered sometimes in the far distance, giving me a clear idea of how far away I actually was! The scenes were gorgeous, yet I didn’t stop to take any photos…couldn’t stop actually because there was no way I could slow down that scooter on that incline without it rolling backwards.
Then I started getting worried about the fuel, which was dipping below the 40% mark. But there were no petrol stations to be seen on the way – how did the people who live here get petrol? The couple of Pertamina stations that I had passed on the way looked broken down. I rode on, keeping an anxious eye on the fuel tank, and telling myself I have no choice – was there any other direction I could go?
Reassuringly, I also periodically passed small clusters of hamlets and some shops, people sitting outside their homes, nonchalantly chatting, some glancing up at me – a grim faced woman in a helmet, a rare sight on that road. Seeing them comforted me. I told myself that in the worst case scenario I would just stop at one of the hamlets, throw myself at their mercy, and call the rental company to pick up the vehicle…from who knows how many feet up in these godforsaken mountains!
Finally after an hour or so of driving, and now feeling really scared and worried about the petrol, I pulled to a stop in front of a small shop selling an assortment of snacks, plastic goods, few fruits and vegetables. A man stepped out wearing some kind of uniform, and thankfully he knew a bit of English. I showed him my map and asked if I was on the right road to Amed.
“Yes,” he said.
I was quite shocked to hear that actually. All the weird contortions I had done so far were indeed part of a legitimate road? It did not seem so!
Then I asked him about the petrol stations and if there was one coming up soon, as I was running out of petrol.
“Right here!” he said, and pointed to a set of plastic water bottles lined up on a table, filled with some kind of greenish-blue liquid.
Aaah.
This was what was done in these parts. Petrol sold by a bottle. I had passed so many of such shops! Duh.
Promptly, I bought one bottle and poured it into the fuel tank of the scooter.
Feeling steadier after this small victory, I calmed down, and soldiered on. It took me another one hour of jolting and bumping before I finally reached an area I recognized. When the first signs advertising “Spa Massage” and “Dive Shop” appeared, I welcomed them with immense relief.
It was late evening by the time I returned the scooter, my legs trembling.
For more travel stories, and the complete adventure: https://unmooredthebook.com/