Amazing how sore a few days on a motorbike can make your bottom.

There are two types of motorbike drivers in Southeast Asia: those that have already fed the concrete and those that are going to feed the concrete with skin and blood. Luckily, I’m still a part of the later group.

After several more days of exploring this remote and fascinating place, I decided to give up my scooter. Despite the gorgeous scenery, I had the feeling that I was just one random chicken, dog, or pothole away from paying my dues. I even returned the bike with a flat tire.

On the last trip out with Chris – and with random Croatian girls on the back of our bikes – we were caught in an unbelievable downpour at dark. I couldn’t see three feet in front of me and was shivering violently enough to wreck us without the help of the slick roads. I hit a massive pothole which sent us bouncing off the road into the grass, just a few feet from a ravine, but miraculously we didn’t turn over.

Luckily, my Croatian friend – who was nervous about riding on the back anyway – had rain in her eyes and didn’t get to experience the minor heart attack I enjoyed by coming so close to the edge. In the end, we made it home, and ate a pizza to celebrate the survival.

After telling so many great new friends met here goodbye – a daily occurrence on the road, I’m afraid – I had a very interesting end to my two weeks here in this beautiful-but-rough little place.

Unfortunately, details cannot be shared as to protect the innocent; however, the event did involve one long-haired Batak local with red eyes telling me without a smile that he was going to eat me. I did nothing to earn such a threat, I was only there to help a stranger just met.

Surrounded by his friends, I simply smiled back and told him in Indonesian “Anda tidak bisa, saya tidak sangat enak” (You can’t, I’m not very delicious) meanwhile scanning the room for a weapon to bash his drugged head in. We chatted for a tense moment; speaking a little of the language may have kept me kicking in a place with no police where a guy could find himself at the bottom of a very, very deep lake.

A knife was pulled on a woman, who literally had to run for her life. She ran to me.

Eventually, the current situation was defused, but in the end I spent a sleepless night in my room with the door barred, peaking out the windows and wondering what was to come next. I then caught the first boat off the island at sunrise — watching my back the entire time.

Kenny Rogers sang “…know when to walk away…and know when to run.” This was definitely a time to run. You’ve got to listen to your gut in a place like Sumatra.

Sad to think that I can probably never come back here without an army escort, however, two weeks was plenty and I get to add one more crazy travel story added to the repertoire.