FROM BIAK TO MEDAN on Kindle Amazon

FROM BIAK TO MEDAN covers my travels from Indonesia's Irian Jaya to Sumatra in 1991. A time was before cellphones and ATM. My modes of transport were liners, jets, prop planes, horses, motorbikes, trains and buses. I was a 'mistah', but soon learned enough Bahasa Indonesian to know that 'angin' was dog and 'babi bear' or big pig meant man to cannibals. These are the first of a series of stories from the Ring of Fire, when I was still younger than yesterday.

Selamat Datang

Here's a sample OF FROM BIAK TO MEDAN

BERENTI MISTAH

In 1991 I bought a round-the-world ticket for $1399 from Pan Express. The owner set up a magical itinerary.

"New York - LA - Hawaii - Biak - Bali - overland to Jakarta." John was reciting the trip from memory. He sold hundreds of these tickets every year.

"What do you mean 'overland to Jakarta'?" Their advertisement in the NY Times offered a flight between Bali and Jakarta. My foreign ventures had been limited to Europe and Central America up to this point.

"Oh, sir." His Hindi gentility was measured to assuage the traditional occidental temper and John produced an Indonesia brochure extolling the volcanic beauty of Mount Bromo, ruined temple of Borobudur, and ancient palaces of Yogakarta. "Many people prefer to travel overland to see the sights of Java of which there are many. I give you a flight from Jakarta to Padang."

"Padang?"

"Yes, sir, in Sumatra." Another brochure praised the cultural heritage of the Batak, the awe of Lake Toba, and the jungle paradise of the orangutang reserve. "You fly out of Medan to Penang and Malaysia and overland to Bangkok."

"Let me guess." I was falling into step with the program. "Many people do this overland."

"Yes, sir, you see the picture better than most. What are you going to do on the trip?" Hindi are a curious people. John was no exception.

"I'm writing a novel." NORTH NORTH HOLLYWOOD was a story about a hustler forced into a contract murder of a porno producer by dirty NYPD cops and who avoids violating the 5th Commandment by escaping into the desert with two lesbians filming a movie about the last man on Earth. John didn't need to know the plot. Hindi men were in some ways very curious about sex.

"Oh, sir, I must warn you that many countries in Asia do not like writers. Especially journalists."

"I'm not a journalist." My typing was atrocious and my grammar was even worse.

"Whatever you do, do not tell anyone you are a writer." His head bobbed side to side like a broken bobbing dolls. "Big people and police do not like journalists in Asia."

"I'll keep that in mind."

John was 100% correct about overlanding across Java. I saw the dawn from the rim of a volcano, met the sultan of Yogakarta, drove up to the vertiginous heights of the Dieng Plateau, endured the scorching equatorial sun riding a motorcycle around Lake Toba and watched male orangutang masturbate without shame. The females shunned the jerk-offs. I arrived at the Medan airport with my trip and book at the halfway state.

I queued for the flight to Penang. The police spotted my typewriter. I

"Berenti, mistah.

"Saya." I had learned a little Bahasa in three months.

"Yes, you." A short pineapple-skinned officer pointed my way. The three of them pulled me from the line. The other passengers smiled with relief. I was their sacrificial lamb. The police sat me in their very official office and asked, "Journalis?"

The trio wore grim faces. Torture was their specialty. A single overhead fan wobbled in its socket.

"Tidak journalis. Penulis buca." I claimed the higher status than journalist.

"You write books? About what?" The lead interrogator leaned forward with a metal sap in his hand.

"About the mafia. Porno. Hollywood." I was one smack away from squealing the truth about any crime from Adam upward.

"Hollywood?" The three cops intoned the word with sanctity normally reserved for Allah. Indonesia was 90% Muslim.

"Yes, Hollywood." I followed the lead and told them about how JFK was killed by the CIA. They spoke about the betrayal of Sukarno by the present dictator. A bottle of Johnny Walker Black hit the desk. Red is beneath them. We drank toasts to freedom.

"Beraka." I spoke every language with a Boston accent.

Whiskey in hot weather was a hard slog. It was getting late and I asked the chief officer, "So I missed my flight, how do I get to Penang?"

"You didn't miss your flight. We held the plane. One more drink and tua jalan."

"To whiskey." Without it the Irish would have ruled the world.

The police drove me to the waiting plane. The other passengers were gobsmacked by re-appearance from the belly of the beast and even more so by the power fist salute of the police.

"Beraka."

It was a small world after all.

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Terima Kasih Bayat

PHOTO ROMAN by Peter Nolan Smith

PHOTO ROMANS is a semi-fictional compilation of my travels across the world accompanied by photos taken in Bali, Peru, Guatamala, Sulawesi, Sumatra, Jamaica, Paris, Thailand, Tibet, New York, California, France and Maine. When asked whether they are all real, I can only answer, "All stories are true, if interesting."

To purchase PHOTO ROMANS FOR $6.99, please go to the following URL

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01ATSWT1A#nav-subnav

THE REACH OF JOCKO by Peter Nolan Smith ( an excerpt from FROM BIAK TO MEDAN

Four years ago Michael Jackson was found dead in the bed of a rented mansion in LA.

Millions of Jocko's fans around the globe deposited flowers before US embassies and consulates to mourn the superstar's passing.

I was in Thailand.

I saw a Thai cop cry.

My younger friends in New York reported that on the night of his death club-goers danced to a cascade of Michael Jackson hits from the Motown years to his CDs of the 21st Century.

THRILLER was his Mount Everest and this hit-spawning monster sold over 100 million albums. Its epic success earned Michael Jackson worldwide recognition, although I never understood how deeply his influence had penetrated the masses, until I was crossing Sulawesi’s Lake Poso in 1992 in the middle of the night. Most of the passengers were Indonesian, although one German woman was traveling on her own. Her name was Ulrike.

The long prau motored close to the shore of the 1500-meter high lake.

Around midnight rising winds forced a stop at a remote village. The hamlet had no electricity. The locals cooked food by fire. They lived in wooden shacks, A young boy strummed Indonesian love songs on his guitar.

Somehow my conversation with Ulrike turned to Michael Jackson.

“I danced to Michael at many nightclubs.” The DJs at Studio 54, the Bains-Douches, and Mudd Club loved THRILLER.

“Michael Jackon is #1.” Ulrike was clearly a big fan.

“For dance music, yes, but you can’t play one of his songs around a campfire."

"What about BEN?"

"A song about a rat, no way."

A young boy picked up a guitar. He sat by the fire. His fingers plucked notes.

They came from BEN.

“Fire, Michael Jackson. Song.” Ulrike was keeping her argument simple.

"Okay. One song, but none of the others can be sung around this fire."

The young guitarist glared at me and played a slow version of BEAT IT.

We were halfway around the world from Neverland without a radio or TV. Jocko’s songs had reached these people on Lake Poso. His mother placed a log on the fire and the flames rose higher, as everyone gathered around the fire to sing the chorus.

We all knew the words.

I sang with Ulrike. We sang with everyone around the fire. The world was small. Michael Jackson was big.

"So?" asked Ulrike.

"I was wrong."

"And you were right to admit it."

Ulrike was right. The boy was right. I was right too, because it doesn't matter whether you're white or black.

Michael Jackson was the King of Pop.

Then, now, and forever.

From the North Pole to the South Pole.

BEAT IT

To hear BEAT IT please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6B2wtC91_0U