Fred Frederikse: On the road to Pekanbaru

Fred Frederikse

At about the same time as snow closed the Napier-Taupo highway we were in Melaka, acclimatising to the heat and quizzing locals about crossing the Malacca Straits to Dumai in Sumatra.

Research had painted Riau as a frontier Indonesian province, well off the tourist trail. I wanted to see it, but could I safely inflict it on my travel companion?

"No problem if not storm." "Some young men there have been 'Americanised' and use language you shouldn't use." "The road to Pekanbaru is an eight-tonne road with 14-tonne trucks, is bumpy and very busy," we were told.

We decided to do it. For good luck I lit some joss sticks and a gentle sea breeze sent the smoke drifting through the seafarers' temple (the oldest Chinese temple in Malaysia) -- and just to be safe I washed my face and hands at the ablution pool of the ancient mosque next door.

It was Sunday, but St Francis' church was closed. It is reputed by the locals that the Jesuit missionary Francis Xavier, after failing to convert the natives in the 16th century, had put a curse on Melaka before moving on.

Monday's crossing of the world's busiest shipping lane was a breeze. Indonesian customs were surprised to see two old white backpackers and we were swept through the diplomatic/disabled gate. I was patted down to proudly show that they were doing their job, but no one was watching the baggage scanner.

We declined the offer of an air-con taxi to take us all the way. I was looking for something cheaper, bigger and safer. Lurking near a "warung" (food stall) we found an ancient, battered bus.

While we waited for enough passengers to make leaving worthwhile, we were approached by some young men.

Indonesian youths are spirited and cheeky and can come across as a little threatening to retiring New Zealanders, but these just wanted to learn to speak English.

Soon, using bits of stick, I had a group lesson running. "Pick up a sticks." "No ... pick up a stick." "Pick up a stick." "Yes." "Mista, put down the stick." "Very good." Etc etc.

Renggi, one of my students, was returning home, and he joined us on the bus and continued his lesson. His dream was to go to Batam Island, only half an hour by ferry from Singapore -- his ultimate goal.

On each side of the road marched palm oil trees at five-metre centres punctuated by pipes flaring off natural gas.

Barrelling down the bumpy two-lane black-top came crude oil tankers, palm oil tankers, mini-vans, cars and motorbikes. Weaving down the centre line, we passed an 11-year-old with younger passengers in front and behind, all without helmets -- and they were passing someone else.

"Very passing," said Renggi, summing up the trip so far.

Then there was a traffic jam. A front-end loader was putting an oil tanker with a compressed cab back on its wheels. On the other side lay a car looking like a crushed can. Renggi mimed slitting his throat with both hands, flicking his tongue in and out and rolling his eyes to indicate that it was unlikely that there were any survivors.

A few kilometres north of the equator a blood-red sun set and it was dark. Gas fires flared over the palm oil forests and we rolled into Pekanbaru.

I was glad we had decided to take the bus.

*When Fred Frederikse is not building, he is a self-directed student of geography and traveller. In his spare time he is co-chair of the Whanganui Musicians' Club