We hurtled and bounced, and bounced and hurtled. In between the bounces we cursed the foolish optimistic Lonely Planet writer, who had deemed this particular bit of hell 'a decent road with some dodgy patches', that was 'easily manageable for a competent scooter rider'. He failed completely to mention that said scooter rider would have to be sat comfily in the passenger seat of a 4wd truck, and preferably have a penchant for nasty cranial bruising. Two hours later than expected, and following some hearty swearing and a 2km downhill hike for one of the party (ahem.), we arrived at the port. The boat trip to Bali was pleasantly benign, and we sat and discussed our preferred despatch methods for Indonesia Lonely Planet writers. Bali, when it arrived, was radioactively bright. It seared through the flesh on our eyeballs and they dropped out, leaving us with enormous gaping skull-holes. That bit isn't quite true. But it was very bright. We a...
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