There is no better feeling than riding out the gate and hitting the highway. I'm beginning a road trip to the exotic east of Indonesia. My imagination, fueled by the exploits of adventurers past, and by the writings of literary giants, such as Conrad and Maugham, has led me to believe that the further east you venture, the closer you get to being, 'out there', beyond the reach of the hum-drum. So, like 60s rock giants, Steppenwolf, I "Head out on the highway, lookin' for adventure, and whatever comes my way." The engine hums, the tyres thrum and the wind retreats as I slice through the cool morning and lean into the first bend. Does it get any better than this? I'm about to find out!



I'm in Kuta, Lombok, heading two islands east to Flores. I've been there before but never ridden there. It's an island of obscene beauty, 500 km long, 150 km wide. It sports a mountainous spine containing fourteen active volcanoes whose lower slopes are clothed in verdant jungle. The coast is indented by a myriad little bays; the valleys play host to rushing streams. The population is an eclectic mix of Indo-Malay and Melanesian types. Throw in an assortment of Javanese, Arabs and Chinese, as well as 350 years of Portuguese colonialism, and you have a combination guaranteed to set any ethnographer's pulse galloping.



I've set my bike up with a home-made rack and a PVC storage tube for spares. My seat sports a self-made booster pad of high-density foam. With this beneath me, numb posterior in the early afternoon should be eliminated - that's the theory anyway! Each item carried has been carefully chosen for utility and weight. I'm a minimalist by heart, which is just as well because you can't carry much aboard a Kawasaki KLX150. As it is, my pack, strapped to the tank, still seems bulky. Whether or not it would pose a problem occupied my thoughts for a fleeting moment but such pre-occupation was soon replaced by sight of a signpost: "Kopang, turn left."


I began the long, gentle climb between fields of tobacco and*padi. The road, smooth and straight, was shaded by clumps of bamboo. I came across a tangle of high school students let loose for a sports morning. They spilled from the schoolyard and commandeered the road, laughing and shouting, full of the exuberance of youth. A couple of wide boys had hijacked a ride aboard a farmer's pick up. They yelled and gesticulated to their mates, as they rode by in style, while their compatriots Shank's ponied it. Heroes for the moment, but doubtless the headmaster would take a more jaundiced view of their braggadocio if he ever got to hear about it.


I reached the main road and swung right into the traffic stream. Pelabuhan Kayangan, the "Port of Heaven", lay an hour away on the edge of the Alas Strait which separates Lombok from Sumbawa. To get there I still had to pass through some major conurbations - Masbagik, Aikmel and Pringabaya. With a keen eye, and brake 'in hand', I plunged on determined to make it in and out of each bottleneck in one piece.


The scene alongside markets sometimes resembled a collapsed rugby scrum. Vehicles of all shapes and sizes jostled for space, drivers eager to load or unload passengers and goods. Hapless parking officials, their smart uniforms mocking their lack of authority, blew whistles to which no one paid heed. Horses sweated in quiet resignation seemingly oblivious to the swirling din - I guess they'd heard it all before.


With relief I left Pringabaya behind; the run from there to the port was a doddle. I swung right at Kayangan's crossroads and cruised along following the shoreline of the pretty bay. Graceful fishing boats lay at anchor, scarcely moving. The foothills of Rinjani, draped in filmy smoke haze, watched over the scene. I swept through the port gates, happy to see a ferry tied up to the quay, its ramp down, disgorging the last vehicles. I bought a ticket from a smiling clerk. Five dollars got me aboard for the 90 minute trip to Sumbawa, neglected by tourists but beloved by those who seek the road less traveled.*I rode up the ramp and was directed to a spot where I could tie up. Before long I was on deck, seated in the shade ready for the next leg of the journey.



We were soon underway. A spruiker grabbed a mike and gave us a run-down of the safety procedures emphasizing, in particular, the dangers of smoking on board. As soon as he finished his spiel he lit up a smoke – I travel to experience something different and I wasn’t being short changed!


Kayangan – the Port of Heaven - lived up to its name if you ignored the pitted expanse of the car park and the cyclone wire fence against which lay a thousand discarded plastic bags . As the dock retreated the white hull of a ferry, tied up for repairs, glistened against the backdrop of the foothills. The Alas Strait shimmered under an azure sky. Little islet poked their heads up to port. We slid over the tranquil sea accompanied by the steady beat of the engines. Hawkers with their trays of snacks and bottled water made the occasional sale. Passengers squatted in circles on the deck surrounded by cases and cartons.



I spent my time chatting with a wiry middle aged fellow on his way to a project in the Taliwang district accompanied by a couple of his apprentices. These two kids smoked constantly. I suspected this was their first venture into the adult world and they were trying to convince themselves that they fitted in. Their boss was a man of vast experience. As a young fellow in the 80s, he'd walked for 5 days through the Kalimantan jungle to free himself from the tyranny of an up-country timber camp where, gambling, fighting and fever were ever present. He'd seen it all, he said, and now felt he was on easy street as project manager for a small construction firm.


Poto Tano appeared, clinging to a barren stretch of coast, the jetty being its only reason for being. A few hardy souls scratched for gold in the denuded hillocks that poked up here and there. Upon disembarking I breezed out the port gates happy to be heading east. Sumbawa Besar city, lay two hours away along a good road that straddled the coast before winding inland through farming country and low scrubby hills. I zinged along feeling relaxed, enervated and free.

The road struck the coast again at a place called Batu Gong. Up until late 2013 this had been the site of a 200 metre long strip of what are euphemistically dubbed 'cafes' - read bordellos - disguised as*kareoke*bars. It now looked like a bomb site. Quiet by day, raucous by night, rumour had it were the fiefdom of the city constabulary. Be that as it may, the strip had attracted the ire of the religiously inclined who'd been agitating to shut the complex down. In such an atmosphere it only needs an 'incident' to spark an inferno and towards the end of that year it happened. A Muslim woman died when, after an evening's carousing, her Balinese policeman boyfriend crashed their motorcycle on the way back to town. Next morning the rumour mill went into overdrive powered by SMS. The girl had 'been raped and murdered'; the 'police were involved in a cover up'. A mob gathered, the police were caught off-guard and the local Balinese population, some third generation residents, became the hapless victims of hysteria. Businesses and houses were torched and the people fled for the nearest sanctuary they could find. Police reinforcements were flown in and eventually order was restored. Fortunately there was no loss of life. Batu Gong was flattened by an excavator the next day.

I headed straight for Hotel Tambora. The damage from the 2013 madness was still evident. Workers were busy in the foyer putting up a ceiling. En route to my room I passed a wing gutted by fire. Smoke-blackened walls enclosed roofless rooms whose floors were littered with broken tiles and the flotsam and jetsam of mayhem. It must have been a terrifying few hours for the unfortunate victims of this madness.

My room was an oasis overlooking a pleasant garden. I showered and took a seat on the porch to unwind and enjoy the stillness of early evening. The light faded quickly. Soon the sound of azan could be heard calling the faithful to a mosque in the middle distance. I've always thought it to be a very beautiful sound. It seemed to float over the city momentarily quieting other sounds - as if to establish its pre-eminence.

I took dinner in a nearby restaurant. Plain rice,*tempeh manis,*cassava leaves in coconut, mixed vegetables and fried chcken with a dollop of delicious*sambal.*The young waitress fancied herself as a budding*femme fatale*inquiring languorously, "Where you from Mister?" "Where you go, Mister?" Satisfied with my answers, she sashayed off to the kitchen, turning her head as she went: "You want anything, you call me, OK?"

The meal was delicious. I paid my bill. "You come again Mister when you go back Lombok, OK?" I suppose I was a bit of a diversion as I can't remember the last time I saw a tourist in Sumbawa Besar city. Back at the hotel I cranked up the air con, and hit the sack. I slept the sleep of ten men, walking the street of dreams in blissful solitude.

The next day saw me up with the street sweepers and the foraging crows. I rode east down Diponegoro and soon found myself marooned in a hive of activity outside the market. Trucks,*bemos, dokars,*hand carts and motorcycles edged this way and that. Sarong-clad women moved gracefully between the chaos, purchases balanced on their heads. Stalls laden with melons and pineapples lined the roadside, tarpaulins of whitebait glistened beside baskets brimful of sardines and woven mats piled with scarlet chillis. The noise of commerce reverberated around me dueling with the honking of horns. I slowed to walking pace, edging my way through the crowd, wary of kids and the elderly whose judgment might lacking. Soon the road opened up; released from the clutches of the throng I was on my way!

The ride passed alternately through rock-pocked, parched hills and alongside a pristine coast, deserted save for tiny fishing villages their*perahus*drawn up beyond the caress of the waves. Being dry season the hills had been put to the torch. Blackened knobs, criss-crossed by a dun-coloured tracery of goat tracks, took on a jigsaw-like appearance. Occasionally I'd come across burning fields. Bands of thick smoke rose from the cackling stubble to blanket the road and reduce visibility. Naked flames licked at the verge; ancient stumps glowed and fizzed red hot when stuck by the gusting wind. My exposed face burned as I passed by.

Plampang, a regional town, came and went; Empang did the same. Then the road reached the coast again prior to climbing high above the sea. Salleh Bay, blue and wide, stretched below its surface glinting in the sun. I pulled over. A lone fishing boat, the chug-chug of its single cylinder diesel the only sound, made for an islet off shore, a vee-shaped wash marking its progress. It's moments of peaceful solitude, such as this, that remain vivid in the mind's eye long after the last kilometre of the journey has been racked up.

I continued on climbing ever upward to a pass that opened the way to a broad, fertile valley watered by a wide river. A patchwork of*padi*fields bore witness to the richness of the soil. Enterprising women had set up stalls selling snacks and drinks. I took a break and enjoyed some casual banter. Refreshed by lively conversation, and a strong black coffee, I bade farewell and commenced the descent to the valley floor. A succession of sweeping bends finally ended in a straight stretch of road. My Kawasaki hummed along at ease with the world. Before long I was at Soriuti where I would turn left for Mt Tambora. I bought fuel from a roadside stall and inquired about the road. To my delight it had recently been upgraded. I'd made a nightmare trip along it in 2008 aboard a Honda Vario scooter, so, this was welcome news.

With a full tank I headed north-west for Mt Tambora. I was looking for a turn off about 50 km down the road, which would take me to a spot called "Post 3", a rude shelter in which to rest up for the night. From there it was only three hours climb to the summit. The road was in excellent condition. It passed through sparsely populated savannah country; the occasional shack and a few wandering black goats, were the only signs of life. The sun beat down and my tyres sang as I cruised along.

As anticipated, after travelling about 50 km, I found the track into the forest and turned east. It was sandy. And when not sandy it was covered in powdery dust. Staying upright became a focus. About 7 km in I came to the first steep incline. Sandy and rocky, I made it half way up before picking the wrong line and coming to a halt, front wheel snookered by a boulder. I tried to wriggle sideways but in doing so found myself sliding backwards. I managed to keep the bike upright for a few metres but then it lay over with me beneath it. I got out from under, chucked aside my pack and got the bike upright. Flooded, it wouldn’t start. I turned the petrol off and waited. It was midday and hot. There was no one around, my progress – or lack of it – witnessed only by a few wild horses and a couple of glossy black pheasant.

I took a drink. Refreshed, I had another go at the bike. The engine roared to life. With no gear aboard, I found the bike easier to handle so made it to flatter going without a hitch. I reloaded and set off again.

A couple of kilometres later I hit a steeper, longer stretch in worse condition than the first. Foolishly, I charged up fully loaded. Same result, only this time I took some bark off my shin. I cleaned the wound and applied antiseptic. Beads of perspiration dripped from my nose. I unloaded the bike. Again she wouldn’t start. I left her and went for a walk further up the track. It looked OK but logic told me it had to get steeper and tougher. I still had maybe 25 km to go. Help was a long way off if I found myself in extremis.

I walked back to the bike. She started first go. I would have to go up as there was no easy way to turn around. I picked a line and gunned the motor. Lurching and bucking over large rocks I made it to the top of the rise and turned around. I could see back down to the coast. I knew a cool beach hangout that I could make before dark. I may be old but I’m not a fool. You have to know your limits and I was giving mine a right old nudge. I decided to turn back and head for Hu’u Beach. Mt Tambora would have to wait another day.

PART 2

Indonesia’s south-east islands - Nusa Tenggara Timor – had held me under their spell for thirty years. East, the exotic east – who can resist its siren call: the wind in the palm trees, the spicy garlic smells, the tinkling temple bells? Certainly not me!

I’d spent the night at Hu’u Beach, Sumbawa, a mere day’s ride from the ferry that would carry me across the sea to Flores and Labuhanbajo – the port of the sea-gypsies – to continue my odyssey east.

My Kawasaki KLX150 was geared up, fuelled up and ready to roll. After a refreshing swim and shower I bade farewell to Robbie, manager of Monalisa Hotel, and headed for the highway. Robbie reckoned there was a late afternoon ferry from Sape that would get me to Labuhanbajo around midnight - not the most ideal time to make landfall but I was eager to hit Flores after a six year hiatus.

I reached Dompu around 9.00am. At a stall near the market I enjoyed breakfast whilst watching the comings and goings of shoppers, traders and idlers. Women lugged their purchases from stall to stall. The meat delivery man arrived, a freshly slaughtered goat slung over his shoulder. Sacks of onions were being thrown from a truck onto a rickety hand cart. Out in the street a cat, sporting a deformed tail, rummaged through the rubbish in competition with the flies; a mangy dog wandered by in search of whatever. A skeletal man, dressed in singlet and pyjamas, hosed down the footpath, a hand-rolled smoke clinging to the corner of his mouth. I drained the last dregs from my coffee. It was time to go.

The town's one-way system disgorged me onto the Bima road and I soon found myself in open country. A series of bends carried me beyond a range of hills to a broad coastal plain. Light traffic and a wide, straight highway made for good progress. Before long I was in salt making country. Flatland, partitioned by earthen banks,*stretched to the coast. Between these artificially created ponds lay pyramids of harvested salt. Sparkling, crystalline, white, they glistened in the mid-morning light, stark contrast to the cracked brown earth of the dried out evaporation ponds. The landscape was dotted with shanties where the workers could take shelter from the fierce heat. At the roadside, sacks of harvested salt lay awaiting collection. My boots crunched on the gravel as I walked towards my bike. Surrounded by silence I donned my helmet and gloves, fired up the motor and engaged first gear - time to get moving again.

Time on my side, I cruised the smooth, broad, highway taking in the scenery. Around midday Bima Bay appeared. This long, narrow inlet had provided safe harbour for seafarers since ancient times. Its normally placid surface was being whipped up by a stiff breeze. Fishing boats at anchor bobbed and swayed, powerless to resist the assault of the whitecaps. I found a track, which ended at a low wall adjacent to the sea, and dismounted. I took some photos and before long was joined by a pretty, young woman dressed in riding gear. She had been having a coffee at a nearby stall when I pulled up. Manda was her name. She'd just returned from a ride to Surabaya on her 200cc Honda Tiger. I took a couple of photos of Manda posing with my bike, Bima Bay looking on. The wind ruffled her thick, black hair. What a pleasant way to while away a few minutes.

I set off again for Bima town. My stomach told me it was lunchtime so I was on the lookout for food. Turning left at a tee-intersection I saw it: "Bakso Favorit" proclaimed the large painted sign. I pulled up in the shade beneath an awning. Dining was*alfresco*and the place was jumping. The crew, dressed in black pants and orange tee-shirts emblazoned, "Bakso Favorit", buzzed around like wasps on steroids, serving food, cleaning tables, shouting out orders, all the while laughing and joking with customers. I took a seat. The customers were mostly office workers with a sprinkling of women with their kids. I ordered chicken soup and a glass of hot orange. My order soon appeared - a big bowl of piping hot soup with lashings of shredded chicken, bean shoots, fried onion flakes, spring onion and a fried boiled egg swimming in delicious spicy liquid. I ate with gusto. The hot orange, served in a huge glass, was so good I ordered another. My appetite was sated and my thirst slaked; when I threw my leg over the bike again I felt like a new man.

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From Bima to Sape the road climbed and dipped through a range of hills. Passing through a forest I came face to face with a posse of gamboling*macaques*being fed by passengers throwing fruit from their parked bus. The monkeys formed a rolling scrum of flying limbs, each thrown morsel an object of intense desire. Immediately a prize was snared, the winner would scurry off only to be confronted by bully-boy stand over merchants. Bared fangs and malevolent grimaces sometimes saw the muscle men off, but, more often, the fruit would be dropped in order to avoid a savage mauling; the alpha male had the cold, emotionless eyes of a serial killer. I have don’t trust monkeys that have become used to human contact so, when the food ran out and a couple of the bovver boys approached me, I left them sucking on dust.
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The ferry to Flores leaves from Sape which means ‘cow’. This little cattle-exporting port is peopled by Bugis settlers from South Sulawesi. Famous seafarers, and boat builders, they still ply their skills in the town, fishing and hand crafting their magnificent*pinisi*schooners. For centuries they sailed from Makassar in South Sulawesi to the Gulf of Carpenteria, in northern Australia, to collect*teripang*or sea cucumber. These would be smoked and later traded to China where they were considered a delicacy.

Sape, 3.00 pm. I pulled in for juice at a servo near the port. The young pump attendant informed me that the ferry would leave at five. Robbie*had been right and when I breezed through the port gates there it was at the quayside. I paid my AUD$18 for a ticket and rode aboard.

Up on deck I found vacant bench, stowed my gear and made myself comfortable. A few minutes later, to my surprise, a couple of Caucasian faces emerged from the stairwell that led below deck. They belonged to Marta and Veronica, a mother and daughter from Argentina, who were spending a month cruising around Indonesia. They couldn’t afford the air fare from Denpasar to Labuhanbajo, so, they'd got a cheap flight to Bima and taken a bus to Sape - problem solved. I admired their pluck. They knew no Indonesian and Marta spoke little English. Veronica was fluent having just spent a year working in Australia.

At six our ferry pulled away from the dock. Water taxis chugged by carrying passenger to a distant stilt village. Large fishing boats and slim perahus, rested on the placid waters. As we sailed east the sun sank lower bathing the sky in a golden radiance which changed by the minute - tangerine, orange, red, blood red, violet; the day was put to rest.

We sailed over a quiet sea. The lights of Sape disappeared, stars blinked overhead and a crescent moon - silver scimitar of the night sky - continued on its endless journey. My fellow passengers slept. Some sprawled out on the benches, sarongs drawn up over heads; others dossed down on the deck atop woven cane mats. I watched a cockroach snuffle through a pile of discarded peanut shells until it lost interest and returned to the home comforts of its drain. Vendors made desultory attempts to sell their wares, moving from passenger to passenger, more by force of habit than genuine hope. Marta and Veronica sat knees up, back to back on the bench seat in front of me, chasing sleep. Lulled by the steady vibration of the engine, and the rhythmic swish of sea against the hull,l I entered the twilight zone, semi-aware of my surroundings, not sure if my stream of consciousness was real, or if a was dreaming.

It was midnight when we docked in Labuanbajo. I felt beat. Marta and Veronica disembarked and went to look for the Bajo Beach Hotel which was supposed to be nearby. I had to wait until I could retrieve my bike. I could just see its mirrors poking up from behind a Giza-like pyramid of sacked onions. I waited patiently for them to be loaded onto a pick-up by a team of sweating navvies. Once clear I geared up, ascended the ramp and entered the deserted main street, accompanied only by the cackle of my exhaust: Labuhanbajo was sleeping.

I spotted Marta and Veronica standing beneath a street lamp looking forlorn. They couldn't find the hotel and everywhere else was shut. I told them to sit tight and await my return. I did a recce of the main drag scanning the myriad signs advertising restaurants, dive shops, fishing tours, dragon spotting, hotels - but no Bajo Beach Hotel.

On my return I spotted the "Hotel Komodo Indah" a short distance from where I'd left Marta and Veronica. I parked the bike and opened the door. I expected to find a sleeping peon behind the desk but when I stared over the top, bare grimy floor tiles stared back at me. I called out - the hollow sound of my voice mocked my optimism. Even the Bates Motel had more life to it. I ventured down the hall and tried a door. It was locked so, I tried another: also locked.

I found the stairs and ventured up. The first room I tried opened. By the light from the hall I could see it was unoccupied. I found the light switch. It revealed a double bed with mattress sans sheet. Stains of various hue and provenance were concentrated in the expected locations. There was probably enough DNA to keep a lab in work for a month. I went to the next room. It was better, if you could call an airless cell with no windows better. There were two single beds with sheets, grayish in colour - but smelling clean - and an attached bathroom and toilet in fair shape. I figured the women would sleep here for the night. I checked the room overlooking the street - at least it had a window. There was a double bed and a mattress even dodgier than the first; fortunately, I had a ground sheet to take care of that problem.

I returned to Marta and Veronica with the news. They picked up their bags and followed me. I took Veronica upstairs to examine the room. She took a nano-second to come to a decision. "My mother would NEVER sleep here!" she exclaimed vehemently. She spun on her heel and exited as if frightened she might catch the bubonic plague - or worse. I felt a little chastened, but couldn't decide whether my expectation that they might take the room was considered to be a slur on their characters or mine. Without a hint of irony Marta said, "Let's return to the lobby and decide what to do." As we trundled downstairs I knew what I was going to do.

Marta and Veronica had a short, sharp conversation before Veronica turned to me and asked, "What are you going to do?" It was past 1.00am and I was dog-tired. I felt less than chivalrous abandoning them in this sleeping town but I was past caring. This was a hotel. There were beds, the door could be bolted, I would be sleeping across the hall; they would be safe. There is a time and a place for squeamishness but this was neither. "I'm sleeping here, I announced flatly. I didn't have to add, 'You can do what you like.' I went outside and unhooked my gear from the bike. Marta and Veronica began trudging up the main street because there was nothing else to do. I never saw them again.

I went back upstairs to the room with sheets, switched on the fan and undressed. What I wanted more than anything was to feel cool, clean water cascading over my body, washing away the patina of the day's traveling that clung to me like a second skin. I turned on the tap. There was a gurgle. A trickle of rust-coloured water mocked my optimism. "Don't you realize?" it was saying, "This hotel has been abandoned. The owner fled east after his wife caught him in*flagrante delecto*with the house boy. There're no staff. Nothing works. This is a non-hotel." Disgusted, I flopped on the bed. A minute later the fan died. I tossed and turned, then played the atheist's last throw of the dice - prayer; sleep came after a struggle.

I woke with a start, the room filled with noise. A mosque next door! It was 4.30 am and the muezzin was marshalling the faithful. He seemed to relish his work. Like many who cannot sing, he'd taken as gospel the praise of those of his fellows who were too polite to confront him with his inadequacies. When he finished his toneless droning, I made a delusional attempt to return to the land of nod but soon threw in the towel. I found a bathroom down the hall. Its water tank, was half full so I sluiced away the shroud of drowse that enveloped me. I was on my way east again before sunup.

Flores: island of a zillion flowers and a million bends. Colonized by the Portuguese in the 16th century 95% of the population is staunchly Catholic. The island’s mountainous spine boasts fourteen active volcanoes and countless dormant ones. The main road east is narrow. It twists and turns and climbs and dips. Hair pins are so tight you often find yourself dropping down into first to negotiate them. The nature of the road brings out a sense of fellowship among riders. Everyone waves or toots as they pass. If you stop for a break, others stop to inquire if you’re OK.
The early morning air was brisk enough to jolt me into wakefulness, Just as well as the road demanded total concentration. After an hour I came across a major disaster. A monster 18 tonne truck had failed to take a sharp downhill corner. It had gone straight over the edge and now lay, stranded on its side, in a tangle of greenery, ten metres down in a gully. Fortunately no one was injured. The driver was on the phone to his boss - not a pleasant conversation to have, I imagine.

As the morning wore on I realized I needed to charge my phone. I was out in the sticks but it wasn't long before I spotted a hoarding advertising cell phones. I pulled up and explained my predicament. "No problem, you can charge here," I was invited to sit on the veranda. Soon the family gathered. "Have you eaten?" I was given delicious coffee and banana fritters while waiting for the phone to charge. Luis's daughter had just given birth to a boy. He was only two days old and they had yet to name him. Out he came wrapped in a blanket. "Do you have a name for him?" I was asked. I thought for a moment. "What about Lucas," I suggested. They began voicing the name among themselves. "Yes, that sounds good. We'll talk it over with the priest. I'm sure he will like the name too."

The mountains stretched to the horizon, the volcanoes marched to the coast, the flowers blanketed the roadsides and the candlenut trees bathed the hillsides with their sugar-coated greenery. What a joy it was to ride that road east. I skirted the coast, passed through forests of giant bamboo, plunged down canyons to cross rock-strewn river beds and climbed into the clouds to reach upland savannahs where, briefly, the road would straighten before continuing its sinuous journey to Bajawa.

I reached the town in the late afternoon and found the perfect place to stay: Lucas Authentic Homestay and Restaurant. There was a secure spot to park the bike, the room was sparkling new, the restaurant had an extensive menu and the staff had friendly smiles. I’d answered the call of the east and been rewarded richly. What more could a rider want after a day's travel across an island wonderland?