The Diaries of Adventure Guy

August 2011

Timor Leste (East Timor)

Dear Diary

I had not returned to Timor Leste since the heady and wild days beside Xanana Gusmao in the hills behind Dili, fighting the Indonesians. I those days I kept my head down while those around me did the fighting. I found myself drawn into the conflict by accident. I was in Dili shagging some half blood Portuguese Timorese wench when the damn Fascists in Portugal came to power and decided to abandon their colonies. The Indonesians simply filled the power vacuum as the Fretelin (which I had accidentally become part of) was too far left of centre, something the Indo's found unacceptable.

Now 35 years later, there I was again, retracing the same paths towards the central highlands and the nations highest peak Mt Ramelau. This time however I was accompanied by a group of far North Queenslanders or FNQ's. I guess I was in good hands, as they were all health care workers with first aid kits that would make a Dili hospital drool wit envy. And of course my trusty friend Wapu accompanied me, though as usual I felt like I had to do everything and think for the two of us.

The high country really hasn't changed in the last 100 years. The occasional Portuguese residence with its unique conicalled thatch roof, strategically placed on a hilltop, open high country plains with roaming buffaloes, goats and ubiquitous herds of Timor Ponies. Small villages have grown into towns in the valleys farming everything from strawberries, to lettuce to tomatoes and of course piles of Robusta and Arabica Timor coffee (an amazing marriage of chocolate and coffee on the palate).

The day of trouble started poorly. We had been steadily climbing into the hills for a few days through wonderful villages of mostly backward people, breathtaking views of a multitude of horizons accompanied by every hue of blue, when I was rudely brought back to reality by the sharp “Hehs” of a Timor Cowboy rustling his stout but rather small beast past us. Astride the beast erect and proud, moustachioed with a brown face that told a story of many rugged years and adorning an eight gallon goat leather hat, the Timor Cowboy strode past oblivious to my presence. I stumbled backwards almost down a sheer drop and my natural instinct was to call out “Damned fool!”.

The pony came to a halt and the cowboy reared around. His large machete, sheathed in its wooden holster, thudded against his hip and the man stared at me like no other, insulted by my comment he looked through me, a rage borne from years of abuse from the Portugese no doubt. Time stopped and I thought he would not break his gaze. But he did, laughing obscenely and puffing smoke from his hand rolled cigarette, he turned on his heel kicking the pony's abdomen with his goat leather boots. And then he was gone.

My heart pounded and sweat beaded on my brow. “Damned fool” I said again, this time at a whisper. How utterly obnoxious. Wapu came close to see if I was ok but I gestured him away before he came too close. The FNQ's giggled aware of my agitation (Damn fools).

That evening we camped by a wonderful river. Rather than eat camp style, we were invited to a local home for some traditional food. The host was a lovely young filly, with dark hair to her waist, a mouth of white gleaming teeth and a pert body to boot. The food was a selection of rice and vegetable and deep fried chicken. Delicious, I shoveled it down with glee. Back for seconds I stood up nearly striking my head on a cross beam. To evade this I stepped to my left, lost my balance and grabbed the closest thing too me. Fortunately is was our beautiful host but I could not balance and we danced the foxtrot across the dirt floor ending our folly on a bed, me wedged between her legs and her long slender brown thighs and calves positioned somewhere near my ears. She screamed but it wouldn't have been the first time this had happened to me. Any other time and I would have made a rogering move but as I started to get into the whole village girl fantasy, the door to the hut swung open with a crash. I turned thinking it might be her husband. But no, it was her Father, that being the Timor Cowboy who challenged me to the optical showdown earlier that day. Without a moments noticed he unsheathed his machete and came at me, defending his daughters honour. As the blade was about to strike down on me, Wapu intervened. I never knew he spoke Tetum but he spoke to the Cowboy obviously explaining its innocence (not if I had anything to do with it). Several minutes of gesticulating passed and the Cowboy and his daughter were reunited and left the hut.

“What happened Wapu? Why did you stop him? I was about to give him a bit of “what for!”

Wapu explained that rather than fight me he would challenge me to a race on the Ponies in the morning. If I lost he would use his blade on my manhood. And if I won I could leave the village in one piece. Needless to say I slept poorly. What would I do if I lost? Live the life of a eunuch a life like the last White Raj of Sarawak?

Before the sun arose the following day, I exited my tent after a fitful sleep. I could see ghostly figures wrapped in dark sarongs moving along the river bank towards our camp site and through the mist a herd of Timor Ponies biblically thundered towards us, lashed together and led by my antagoniser. I was presented with my stead (if that is what one could call it). Its ribs protruded through its belly and its gaunt face drooled a thick white saliva. Its skin twitched a scruffy coat and its tail was tattered to almost a stump. As I sat atop, my feet virtually touched the ground. I was sure to loose my manhood this day.

Wapu explained that we were to race each other over a small hill across the river twice and back to where we stood. The FNQ's stood sipping their coffee with clenched hands, shuffling from foot to foot, trying to keep the morning chill at bay, oblivious to my fate. The Cowboy tipped his hat to me and then it was on. His Pony shuffled away across the river before I even got going. As I moved off like the proverbial tortoise, the Temptress smiled at me, she must have thought about the possibility after our previous rendezvous. My Pony timidly moved its way down the embankment and across the river, the Timor Cowboy nowhere to be seen. I was a goner.

My "steed" lumbered up to the ridge only to see the Timor Cowboy swing around for the return visit. My natural instinct of course was to run for it, but to where. The open country furnished no hiding spots and I would be caught up in a moment only to have my jewels ripped from me.

I laid my boot in nonetheless and thrashed my beast with my whip exorcising a spirit from the beast it had not felt for many years. Down the hill we hurled, dust spitting out behind us, by bones rattling as the pony heaved beneath me, its long teeth flaying saliva here and there. I continued well past the point of return. I had chosen flight though gravity had a hand in it too.

I had been gone for some time and I could hear the crowd gather atop the hill to see if I was alright. They could easily see me in the distance and by now had worked out that I had decided to evacuate myself from the ghastly situation. As I turned to observe their whereabouts my "trusty" beast of burden buckled beneath me. It began to roll into a somersault with me locked into the stirrup. we crashed with an almighty thud, pain shooting down my back and legs like a hot knife. And that is all I could remember, I was out!

I could first feel the wind rushing around us like a hurricane and then a thudding drone slowly entered my ears. Blue sky is all I could see now in my semiconscious state, perforated by dark blade that moved in rhythm with the thudding cacophony. And then an infernal face as big as I have ever seen placed itself close to mine. He was saying something very very slowly in an American accent. What the hell was this?

Before I knew it my body levitated toward an American helicopter. I struggled momentarily, damned if I was going to be helped by the Americans, but I checked myself as I realized what the alternative was. My hand shot between my legs and "it" was still there. They weren't here to help me with my groin. They must have been here because of the horse accident. It was lucky for me in one sense that a US Medical ship was in port at Dili on a Good Faith mission to counter the Chinese influence in the country. I say lucky in a sense because although I had averted my castration, I had to spend a week aboard the USS Cleveland, being treated by obnoxious Americans and their confounded jovial spirit.

I caught up with Wapu a week later at the Hotel Dili. He looked a little worse for wear, having to go bush himself to avoid the wrath of the Timor Cowboy. It took him 9 days to get back to Dili.

The FNQ's continued on their jolly way and reached the south coast of Timor Leste before returning to Dili and then on to Australia.

Me, I kept low until I could fly back to Bali for a little re R and R.

UTAG

If you would like to know more about our Sparrow Force Expedition click here.

August 28, 2009

Gunung Rinjani, Gunung Rinjani National Park, Lombok, Dutch East Indies (Indonesia)

Dear Diary

It had been a pleasant stay on the beaches of Sengiggi and Gili Tranwangan. Wapu and I had taken a few deserved days off and decided that a spot of Boogie Boarding would do the trick. It was with Boogie Board in tow and some higher altitude equipment that we headed into the mountains.

It has taken a couple of  days to climb the slopes of Gunung Rinjani. Gunung means mountain in Indonesia, but no-one told me how high this mountain would be, nor how spectacular it is once you make it to its rim. All day, you are looking up into forest or grassland and then as you reach the rim your horizon explodes from left to right into an enormous caldera, home to a fresh water lake and Dante'esk Gunung Baru, bubbling with activity.

Because this mountain had been erupting for some months, the powers that be at the National Park office had closed the inner caldera and the summit. Pishtosh I say. We had tried bribing the designated officials but for the first time in my extensive career, they were not interested. How dare they not be interested in some graft and corruption.

Last night, Wapu and I (really I, as Wapu is a few sandwiches short of a picnic as those Neanderthal Australians would say), formulated a plan. After Wapu erected my tent, cooked dinner and tidied up, we would both retire to our quarters, waiting for the other Porters to doze off. Forthwith, we would dexterously make our way to the summit ridge line, undercover of the full moon. From there, we would dash to the summit and be back in our tents before anyone else noticed we were gone.

Plans of mice and men. Our plan was working smashingly. We had fooled the Porters that we were asleep before we thievishly made our way to the ridge and then the summit. It was here our plans went haywire.

Gunung Baru began to clear its throat about half way up the slope. By the time we reached the summit, she was blowing her top like some wild bull preparing to charge a matador. The earth began to shake, and Wapu and I were separated. At the time, I thought Wapu was cowering in fear (a common reaction by natives). I lost my footing and found myself tumbling towards the open and lavashish Gunung Baru. I could feel the heat from the spewing magma on my manly skin. The hairs on my chest began to ignite. Was this it for Adventure Guy I thought.

Just as my body was heaved into the air by an earth tremor towards the open caldera, sacrificed like some island virgin to the mountain gods, Wapu grabbed me. I suddenly realised we were surfing the slope of Gunung Baru toward the lake on one of our Spiderman Boogie Boards. What the hell was Wapu doing with a Boogie Board on the summit of a mountain?. As we were hurtling down the slope I asked Wapu this question. He just returned a nonsensical smile as usual.

But the board was travelling too slowly. The lava river was closing in on us, so I did what any true gentleman would do in this situation. I pushed Wapu off. It did just the trick. I made it to the lake safely and paddled to the opposite shore.

I waited a minute or two for Wapu, but he was nowhere to be seen. I then called in the rescue chopper. Within 45 minutes, the helicopter was transporting me to safety. As we lifted off, I could see Wapu drag himself onto the shore. He had a few frightful burns but I am sure he would be fine. I have not seen him for a day or two now. I must visit the local hospital or God forbid, the morgue.

Note from No Roads Expeditions : We will release the remainder of this entry next month.

Want to know more about Timor Leste - Sparrow Force Expedition and the area Adventure Guy and Wapu were traveling through?

UTAG

Want to know more about Gunung Rinjani and the area Adventure Guy and Wapu were traveling through?

May 3, 2009

Sekonyer River, Tanjung Putting National Park, Borneo, Dutch East Indies (Indonesia)

Dear Diary

It has taken us several days to reach the dark jungles of Borneo. Our klotok captain, has masterfully navigated the Sekonyer River to bring us to the habitat of the Man of the Jungle - the Orang-utan.

The jungle in these parts is dense with a plethora of flora and fauna. Proboscis Nosed Monkeys and Gibbons taunt us from the shore and our equally moronic travel companions taunt us from on board. I am sure that the collective intellect of our boat (excluding myself, Wapu and the native crew) would not exceed that of a small troupe of Grey Macaques. I am not sure how long I can handle their company, before I unleash the power of Des and Troy on them.

I digress.  The incident I am about to recall occurred well into our journey, past Camp Leakey. There was commotion among the native crew, and word soon got around that the dominant male Orang-utan had been sighted nearby. The excitement was familiar to me, having experienced it many times from the fairer sex upon my arrival at social gatherings back home. I guess people can sense authority, testosterone and sheer sexual power. I and the dominant male Orang-utan, you could say, were kindred beings, though I assure you, he would feel my authority when we met.

I alighted from the klotok at a small jetty. Accompanied by a local Ranger and Wapu, we briskly trekked into to the dank, thick jungle towards the beast. I must say, my heart rate was up, though it wasn't due to our activity but rather the Eu de Cologne I had bathed myself in that morning. The pungent scent of Durian fruit was quite nauseous on board and my only respite was to dowse myself with what the French call Aventure. The ingredients were such that they would make anyone nearby, including the wearer, aroused.

We drew closer to where the male Orang-utan had been spotted. And there he was. An enormous beast, with long bright orange hair, hands 3 times the size of a normal mans and a head to match with giant black glands protruding from his forehead and face. He sat there on the ground with an air of confidence, knowing he was the King.

He raised his head toward us, poking the humid air with his nostrils. He had smelt something, something that seemed to rouse him from his comfortable jungle mat. He looked in our direction, nose still protruding through the growth and then he began to swagger towards us. At first slowly, but with a gradual acceleration. It must have been the Aventure.

Wapu began to hug me with all his might. At first I thought the fool was panicking, but all he was trying to do was get me to run. I would have none of that. I was determined to stand my ground and show the beast who was really in charge in the jungle. The beast came closer and closer, gaining speed with each step. I stood their, my chest out, knowing that it was the beasts bluff. And as the enormous aroused Orang-utan launched himself towards me, Wapu launched himself at the beast from the side, carrying them both into the scrub. An almighty rumble pursued and to my amazement, the Orang-utan forwarded his advances now to Wapu. The Aventure must have rubbed onto him when he was hugging me minutes earlier.

I shall not describe what happened next except to mention that Wapu did not return to the klotok for some hours and he was last seen looking aimlessly into the distant, smoking a clove cigarette.

UTAG

Want to know more about the Orangutan Expedition Adventure Guy was on?

May 16, 2009

Nusa Pimpe, Komodo Islands, Flores, Dutch East Indies (Indonesia)

Dear Diary

I have been travelling with a bunch of buffoons for several days now. Their convict Australian accents are grating on my sensibilities and their get out and live life attitude is both pass and annoying.

The seas were rough today. Wapu (My trusty man servant) did his best to keep our kayak steady while I drank G and T. I watched him struggle against the wind and thought momentarily whether I should help. Finally we reached the small harbour on Rinca island where we alighted from our craft and headed inland towards the lair of the infamous Komodo Dragon.

It was here where I got myself into a spot of bother. I had been warned by my annoying Australian travel companions (a word I use rather loosely), that eating meat jerky would attract the aggressive carnivores. "Rubbish", I thought. Surely the Komodo Dragons couldn't smell the delicious dried deer meat Wapu had prepared for me on Kanawa.

Apparently they did. This is how events unravelled.

We had collected our Local Guide who would escort us across the island. For protection he would carry a long stick which split into 2 small prongs at the end. This apparently is all Dragons need to be deterred. I wasn't so sure, as we walked past a small display of Buffalo, Deer and Monkey skulls that Dragons had hunted and killed. Then again these beasts couldn't hold a stick with 2 prongs on the end of it.

After walking along a dry river bed we came to a small watering hole filled with giant Dinosaurs that just seemed to lounge around like my colleagues back at the Tennis Club on a balmy summers afternoon. Feeling quite peckish from the long journey to the island, I whipped out several sticks of deer jerky. Within seconds, the lumbering mass of prehistory began to writhe in an orgy of excitement. Everyone seemed perplexed as to what was occurring. Suddenly, the Dragons launched themselves at us and our group scattered like a troop of monkeys. But their only intent was me.

I turned and ran up the nearest hill thinking my superior athleticism would master them. Alas, this was not to be. With, jerky in each hand and a piece in my mouth, I scurried through the dry grasslands of Rinca, collecting more and more Dragons as I ran. Wapu, seeing what was happening, confiscated the jerky from me and ran in the opposite direction. By George it seemed to work. The Dragons followed Wapu's fleet feet for several kilometres. I could hear the occasional scream from Wapu and then silence.

I assured the group Wapu would be fine and we retreated back to the harbour. Wapu appeared several hours later, a little worse for wear (his clothes were torn from his back and he had several large gashes to the legs) but he still presented me with the uneaten portions of the jerky. As a reward I shared half my jerky with him and paddled in tandem with him back to our island camp.

Until tomorrow.

Want to know more about the Komodo Expedition Adventure Guy was on?