Moni to Riung

On the road again. A long day.

During the first two hours of the journey, between sheer cliffs, luminous paddy fields and ikat clad crowds coming from church, I propose we go somewhere completely different. Ul acquiesces, barely glancing from his book. I spend the day fretting over the decision while he remains oblivious, living in some sci-fi universe. Between winding roads, agro at the bemo park, a 2 hour wait for the onwards connection and being squeezed between the bass, a chicken and a sack of rice, I'm extremely grumpy by the time we arrive to bungalows which, whilst nice, are hardly the beach dream promised by the guidebook - the sea being nowhere in sight. Somehow Ul has read his book all the way and missed the evil looks from the bus boys when he asked them a second time to turn down the music. This is not helpful.

We do find good supper and cold beer and whilst no sea, are surrounded by jungle sounds and not a cockerel nearby.

Public transport here: Bass essential. Preferably able to shake the whole vehicle. Some kind of strangled screeching on top, desirable. Large stickers all over of rap starts or Jessica rabbit western ideals, particularly on the windscreen, which should also have a series of small mirrors facing the driver. Swinging packets of air freshener and cuddly toys. Buses are slowest and therefore safest. Then bemos. Then the shared taxis - only for the suicidal.