Sometimes you feel inspired to go out of your way to add to that list. You know, the list of things you can say you’ve done in your life. But other times, experiences just append themselves to the list unexpectedly. Yesterday was a prime example of the latter.

Indonesia takes April showers very, very seriously. For a week it won’t rain and you could even start to suspect the rainy season had burned itself out. But that’s what they want you to think. Silently the smokey clouds roll in, and before you know it, dusk seems to be falling at noon. The air is almost unnoticeably cooler and has barely begun to blow when the first raindrop collides with the smouldering ground, punching a hole in the dust membrane left by premature building work. Another follows close behind, and soon the cavalry arrives and the onslaught begins. People snatch clothes from lines, bushes, the floor – wherever they’d been drying – before retreating within and leaving the street deserted, but by no means silent.

The rain roars and the first thunder rumbles. Within minutes the roads become rivers and rivers become torrents. This is the rainy season in miniature, and it’s in this setting that a memorable experience sprung itself upon me.

Rather typically of me, I had done something very silly and forgotten my (rather expensive) camera in a warung (eating place). But it was raining, I mean really raining, and it was at least one of my regular haunts, so perhaps the owner had recognised it and kept it safe for me, but then perhaps not, and I wasn’t taking the risk, so I had to go there trotz des Regens und der Regen zum Trotz (i.e. überemphatic German version of rain or no rain, despite the rain, rain be damned etc.).

I was soaked to the skin before I’d even started my bike engine, so after that I didn’t really care about being wet. I managed to avoid aquaplaning on the near constant flow of water between my wheels and successfully navigated the steep slopes that were an inevitable part of my route, and so I arrived, streaming rather than dripping wet, to find my camera safe and sound. Yay!

Wet as I was, it wasn’t yet cold, and with my lifted spirits, I embarked on my Heimweg (way home). I climbed the hills I’d descended and descended those I’d climbed until I reached a bridge at the end of my road – a concrete construction straddling a drainage ditch, which is a couple of meters wide and at least a meter deep. Such are its dimensions that the designers saw fit to equip it with iron bars/hand railings on either side to prevent people and motorbikes alike from careering into the chasm below. On a typical day there was but a trickle of old washing up and toilet water dribbling down the centre, but quarter of an hour’s heavy rainfall had already exceeded its capacity and a torrent of water was now flowing both over as well as under the bridge, fordifying it.
Perhaps there was another way round, but I was so close to home now, and feeling adventurous, so I steered the bike over the bridge without investing as much forethought as I otherwise might have done. The torrent felt stronger than it looked, but the tyres held their grip and a second or so later I had traversed the rapids.

What lay in front of me, I hadn’t anticipated. The other side of the ditch was lower, and what could probably now be referred to as a river had burst its banks and spilled out onto the next 20 or 30 meter stretch of road. Still, I had started along this road, and looking down I realised the water level had risen above that of my exhaust pipe, so I elected to plough on, keep the revs up and hope that would suffice to keep the water out of the engine.

It was far from a home straight, as a couple of cars had suffered waterlogged deaths and a van was risking its own and had set about trying to haul them out. Avoiding these vehicles, a submerged concrete flowerpot bashed into my pedals, knocking me out of gear. Blindly fumbling around underwater with my foot, trying to rectify this, my sandal was almost swept away, and with high revs and only an automatic clutch, my recovery was far from smooth, but I nevertheless emerged on the other shore in one piece and with a full complement of apparel.

I blasted out a little water with a few revs, careered up our newly (and rather unwisely) ceramic tiled ramp and skidded across the equally slippery floor into my usual parking spot. I changed my clothes, and perhaps it was the adrenaline, but at no point was I cold. I sat down and continued playing gamelan.

A short while later, the rain eased and I ventured out to observe the aftermath. The street had drained and left only an earthy sediment, possibly originating from a row of roadside flowerpots, now strewn the length of the street. Looking at this, it’s surprising I didn’t hit more. The only other sign I saw was an umbrella detached from its handle, but this is a yearly routine for these people, and this morning the street was as dry, dusty and disorderly as the day I arrived.

Rob