Employee Spotlight: Get to Know Josh Miles, a Notorious KIG!
One year ago, I set off on what was going to be the most ridiculous, dangerous, and exciting month of my life. Here’s part one of a three-part series chronicling the adventure:
It only took a few beers before I foolheartedly accepted an offer to flee the States, crab walk across the sands of Bali, and race a moto-rickshaw against some 20 other teams over 3,500 kilometers of Indonesian beaches, mountains, cities, and jungles. The sweaty, festering, jungle rot of a race was put on by UK company The Adventurists, pioneers in the adventure-travel-for-charity industry, who warn, “There’s no guarantee of making it to the finish line, no set route and no back-up. It’s just you, half a horsepower of engineering genius and two glorious weeks facing every obstacle Indonesia can put in your way.”
Obviously, this was the best possible decision for my future. I promptly secured two teammates, seducing them with promises of beaches, babes, booze, and, above all, adventure. If only they knew the beautiful hell I was dragging them toward. The race was an impossible task, as I was doomed to discover.
Nels, the nicest man you’ve never met. He’d sooner shave off his hamster-esque mustache than hurt your feelings.
Scott, the bearded, wandering philosopher. Handy with a wrench and handier with an uppercut, Scott’s been known to stop syllogistic fallacies with his chest.
Me, the wind to your three sheets. One time I fell down some stairs in the rain and landed at the feet of two policemen attempting to break up my party.
The 10 months leading up to the start date flew by in a haze of cheap beer and cheaper attempts at planning our trip. Finally, October slapped us in the face and we were off to a country whose history we were mostly ignorant of. Something about the Dutch, and Obama, right?
We landed, poured out offerings of sweat, and set off for five days of surfing, motorbikes, and quite a few Bintang beer benders. It was paradise. Scott’s beard drew much attention, with the locals shouting “Osama!” a staggering 19 times! I daily fell in love with the girls’ chants of “Anda tampan!” and Nels made friends with a German named Thilo. We also met The Trident Thunderbolts, an Australian team, and together we terrorised the streets of Seminyak. But all good things must come to an end, and soon enough it was time to rise from our relaxation and meet our sultry rickshaw.
She stood tall in a parking lot amidst her 25 peers, her windshield clear as Indonesian tapwater and her frame as strong as my weakened-by-dysentery constitution. She was red, she was loud, she was broken, but above all, she was a babe.