Mentally prepare yourself for a head on collision with a tanker truck going 85kmph on a one lane, gravel road in the pouring monsoon rain. Stare down the high beams from a 4x4 passengered and driven by piss drunk 18-year-olds on a terrorizing joyride. Swerve too far in panicked desperation and nosedive into the meter-deep aqueduct, or worse, into a volcanic gulley. As the late Hunter S. Thompson would say,
"Whammo. Game over. Meet the sausage monster."
If at some point your nerves resign to take a break on some village road, dont hit the chickens or the children criss-crossing the path. If you mistakenly park in front of some Bali-hound's territory, stare him down, slowly get on the bike then rip on the gas because its a contest of acceleration. Once your off, its a day at the races and the mutt doesn't distinguish between your right calf muscle and a frightened hare.
The road is only traveled alone. My short-lived Mexican com padre didn't understand that there is no such thing as a "Wrong Turn". This is the most vital wisdom to possess when setting out on a motorcycle journey in a foreign land. If you are equipped with this info:
put on a helmet, you cocky maniacs
fill up with $1.20 worth of Petronas
and
Punch it.
Other pieces of advice:
Avoid the templed; just like in most places in the world they are hives for cheats, scam artists and villains.
Steer clear of monkeys. They are shameless thieves with razor incisors and rabies, and they move shadow quick.
Go fast, but never rush. Those in a rush are blindfolded, straight-jacketed comatose cannonballs on a mindless bullet's-route to the grave.
If you are a circum-navigator, days are long, but bear in mind that 12 hours on a saddle is a creampuff latte frappe cake-dance compared to endless clicks on a smoked-out Chinese bus in the hinterland.
JalanJalan
I'mashyo!
