Bits and Pieces of Travel

There were more than a few places that I went in my 3.5 months of travel where I did almost no sightseeing and/or almost nothing of interest happened. These were places where I generally took a break from sightseeing and just laid on the beach and soaked up some rays.

  

 Phnom Penh, Cambodia (September 2014) 

  My first stop on my 3.5 month-long vision quest.  Phnom Penh ended up being my least favorite place in Cambodia. The main highlight for me was The Killing Fields, although “highlight” seems like an inappropriate word to use. I think soul-shattering would be a better phrase. The Killing Fields self-guided audio tour was really well done. It included interviews with people who experienced the horror of it first-handed. For anyone that doesn’t know, The Killing Fields consisted of various isolated sites in Cambodia where soldiers of the Khmer Rouge (a ruthless totalitarian dictatorship that ruled from 1975 to 1979) would take prisoners and murder them in cold blood. Then they would often be buried in mass graves.  However, the killing field just outside of Phnom Penh is the most infamous. To give an example, there was a tree in the area called “The Dead Tree” (if I remember correctly). It was called this because Khmer Rouge soldiers would quite literally swing babies by their legs into these trees, and smash their skulls against the tree. Horrific, horrific stuff. There was also a prison within Phnom Penh, called S21, which was also known for various atrocities. Khmer Rouge soldiers would often take prisoners directly from S21 to the killing field outside of Phnom Penh. Phnom Penh was also the only city I traveled to in my 3.5 months that I felt unsafe walking around in just after sunset. The only other thing that I liked about Phnom Penh was that its central market was pretty awesome. Really good food for really cheap prices. Besides the above, I didn't really care for Phnom Penh.


Sihanoukville, Cambodia (September 2014)

  Considering the fact that Cambodia has only a very small coast, Sihanoukville is about the only beach town you can go to in the country. Despite the filthy old men hanging around with their Cambodian "girlfriends" (I use that word euphemistically; the underground sex tourism industry is unfortunately alive and well in many parts of SE Asia), Sihanoukville was a great place to relax and catch some rays – not to mention great, cheap seafood. I once ordered a marlin steak, scallops, vegetables on the side, with three beers…all for $6.  You can’t beat that!  Sihanoukville was the first time I had been on a “tropical” beach in 7 months, so you know I spent essentially all of my time on it!

Kuta Kinabalu, Malaysia (October 2014)

  There really isn’t much to say about Kuta Kinabalu.  There is nothing that special about it.  Uh…it’s a port city? 

It’s not a BAD city per se, but there is just nothing to do or see, really. Nothing special about it. To be fair, I came to Kuta Kinabalu with the intention of not doing anything. There were some boating activities that were available, but they didn't appeal to me enough to take me away from straight up chilling. So, I spent my two full days there pretty much just hanging around the hostel, because by this point in the trip, I really just needed some time to recharge.  I do, however, want to give big kudos to the restaurant around the corner from my hostel.  The manager was an exceedingly genial elderly man who kept me fed for those two days.  Thanks, genial elderly man. You were so nice and your restaurant’s food was so good!  

Semniyak, Bali, Indonesia (October 2014)

 The trip from Probolinggo to Semniyak was quite possibly the worst part of my 3.5 months of travel. 

Have you ever seen "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles" with John Candy and Steve Martin? It was kind of like that, but a lot less funny.

I took a train from Probolinggo to Banyuwangi, which is on the east coast of Java island in Indonesia. From the train station, a five minute walk brought me to the harbor where I took a ferry. From the western harbor of Bali island, I took a small van to Denpasar City. From Denspasar I took a motorcycle cab to Semniyak. I literally used four different forms of transportation in less than 24 hours for the same journey.

But that's not all, so please allow me to elaborate. The train was fine; I had absolutely no problems. A conductor on the train asked me if I was headed to Bali, and I replied in the affirmative. He said I should talk to a friend of his who worked as a travel agent. I got the impression that whoever this "friend" was was probably going to charge me an exorbitant price for whatever services he was going to offer, so I politely took the card, but I already knew exactly what I had to do and how much everything should hypothetically cost. Out of curiosity, I asked what his friend charged for transportation, and he gave me a price that was much higher than I had read on-line. I smiled and said, "Thanks."

After disembarking the train, I went to office of the train station and spoke with the sole employee working there. I asked him where I had to go to get transportation across the strait to Bali, and then to Semniyak. He told me the harbor was just a five minute walk away, but the price he gave was still quite a bit higher than the one I had read on-line. I told him as much and he made some excuse. So, I walked to the harbor and was called over by two guys standing by the entrance of the ferry terminal. Neither of them were dressed in any sort of formal work attire as one might expect, but they said I should wait for a bus there that would be loaded onto the ferry and then take me all the way to Semniyak. They gave me the same price as the officer inside. It sounded fishy, so I went over to a parking attendant for the ferry terminal. When I told her what I was trying to do and what the two guys and officer had said, she rolled her eyes. She said that they basically had a scam going with the long distance buses, and that I should just buy a normal ticket for the ferry, and there would be transport just outside of the ferry terminal in Bali. I could see as I was talking to her that the two men in front of the entrance to the terminal were shamefully walking away. Caught in the act!

I bought my ferry ticket and boarded. 

The ferry was supposed to take 20 minutes, but if I remember correctly, it took about an hour. This was because boat and ship traffic was backed up at the harbor.

After eventually disembarking from the ferry I walked outside and was soon met by two more guys trying to get me to pay the same exorbitant price that the two other guys from before. I brushed them off and found the transportation that the parking attendant had been talking about. When I walked up to the van, there was an older French woman who was clearly irked. I asked when the van was leaving for Denspasar, and an attendant said, "When this van is full." I looked around, and there were only a few other people waiting. After about an hour and a half, another couple of ferries had arrived, and enough people had come so that we could take off. In the hour and a half we had to wait, I befriended an Indonesian businessman who got me a lower price on the ticket for the van ride (foreigners are charged more...), for which I was very thankful! Because most of Bali's islands only have 2 lane highways, traffic was pretty terrible, so it took us a few hours in slow moving traffic to get to Denpasar, which is the main city on Bali. At this point in the journey, I was about ready to crack and break out in a fit of screams. Luckily, I held it together until we were let out in a transportation hub in the middle of Denpasar. However, I needed to get to Semniyak Beach, so I asked a motorcycle cabby to take me and negotiated a price that I thought was still too high. Seeing no cheaper option, he took me right to the front of my hostel.

Needless to say, after that journey I was both done with traveling across land in Indonesia and done with their multi-leveled corruption within the tourist industry.


Huay Xai, Laos (September 2014)

Huay Xai was simply the destination of our two-day boat that started in Luang Prabang. We just spent the night here before taking a bus to Chiang Mai, Thailand. The highlight of the night was the owner of our hostel, who also doubled as its manager and front desk employee. She was probably in her 70s and spoke English really well, and boy was she sassy! Our Russian friend, Roma, could be a bit cheeky at times, and this old lady showed him what's what with her sarcasm. She made us laugh a lot and asked us to refer to her as "Mother". She said her child (can't remember if it was a son or daughter) married an Australian national and lives there, so if I remember correctly, one reason she learned English was so she could communicate with her grandchildren. So cool!
 

Ko Samui, Thailand (October 2014)

I really only spent one day on Ko Samui. It's an island that's basically just one big holiday resort. There were a lot of families and couples from mostly Europe, Russia, and Australia. The beach was beautiful, don't get me wrong. But nothing special about Ko Samui besides that.

Ko Pha Ngan and Ko Tao were two islands just north of Ko Samui, and in my opinion, they were much more suited to a young backpacker such as myself. I'll write about my experiences there in the near future.


Phuket, Thailand (October 2014)

Phuket is the largest island belonging to Thailand. We had been told to, at all costs, avoid the dirty, seedy Phuket City, and make our way elsewhere. We went to a small coastal resort area in the northwest corner of the island. There was no traffic and practically no noise at all except for the waves hitting the beach. We went swimming and ate some yummy seafood, and that's about it! From Phuket, I flew to Malaysia.

Laos: Vientiane (September 2014)

        If Kampot, Cambodia was the surprise hit town of my travels, then Laos was certainly the surprise hit country of my travels.  When I was traveling around China five years ago, I had heard a fellow traveler laud Vang Vieng, Laos as the Holy Grail of SE Asia Party Capitals (more on that later), I knew that I was eventually somehow going to make my way to Laos.

Five years later, it became a reality.

Visualize and actualize! That should be my motto, as it has become a recurring theme of my life for the past five or so years.

Anyway, after traveling through Cambodia on my own, and having only a couple of “hostel buddies” in the last couple weeks, I was more than ready to meet my travel buddy for the next few weeks, the wonderful and wild Mary!  I taught English with Mary in Daejeon for two years.  We arrived in Korea at the same time and had the same orientation.  Mary and I had been acquaintances for a while, but developed more of a friendship during our second year in Korea.

After collecting my luggage in the spookily-close-to-being empty airport I found one lonely tuk tuk driver just outside the terminal’s parking lot. At every other airport I’ve been to, a flank of taxi drivers is available to take me anywhere I please (within reason, of course). It wasn’t as though I had taken a red eye flight and arrived in the middle of the night. No, this was 7 p.m.

If it had not been for that lone tuk tuk driver I don’t know what I would have done!

Mary was waiting in the foyer of the hostel when I arrived, and we were, of course, super excited to see each other. We went out to dinner and had some beers to commence our 3 or so weeks of travel together.

The next day we rented bicycles to take in Vientiane. The central part of Vientiane has retained some of the aspects of its French colonial period. This includes, most visibly, the architecture. Colorful French apartments and mansions line the streets. There are also some cafes and restaurants that style themselves (atmospherically and gastronomically!) after the traditionally haughty French equivalents.

Among the highlights of our bike riding was Vientiane’s very own Arc de Triomphe, Patuxai. Ironically, the Patuxai was built to memorialize the Laotians who fought for independence from the French. We climbed up to the top to get a panoramic view of the city.

Besides that, we biked around a temple complex. Because Mary was wearing shorts, she had to wear a sort of improvised dress: I can’t for the life of me remember what they are called, but they are essentially very large, rectangular pieces of patterned cloth. Many of the temples in SE Asia provide them; sometimes they are of a lighter material, sometimes a heavier material. Unfortunately, they were made of wool at this particular temple, so Mary felt quite uncomfortable with it around her lower body in 80-degree weather.

By far the best part of our time in Vientiane was visiting the COPE (Cooperative Orthotic & Prosthetic Enterprise) Center.

Before I explain what the COPE Center actually does, it might help to provide a little background information. The following is an excerpt from the Lao Rehabilitation Foundation:

From 1964 to 1973 more than 580,000 bombing missions were launched over Laos by the U.S. Air Force, in a war that most of the Western world didn’t know about. As a result, more than two million tons of ordnance fell on Laos. The most widely used types of bombs were anti-personnel cluster bombs filled with 670 bomblets that were intended to explode on or shortly after impact. These bomblets, about the size of a tennis ball, are known as “bombies” in Laos. Each bombie contains around 250 steel pellets, which were meant to fire in a 2 to 4-meter radius when detonated, thus crippling but not killing enemy soldiers. The theory was that an injured soldier cost the enemy more than a dead one.

The biggest issue is not only are people accidentally stepping on some of these unexploded bombs and thereby getting severely injured or dying as a result, but some people (including children) actually seek out these unexploded bombs and “bombies” because they are worth quite a bit in scrap metal.

The primary mission of COPE is to provide prosthetic limbs, as well as medical supplies like braces and slints, to victims of these latent bombs. The other main thing is that they have direct involvement with teams made up of primarily Laotians being trained by bomb experts from Australia and elsewhere to find these bombs and disarm them.

If you feel inclined to donate to their cause, go here to do so!

Laos: Vang Vieng (September 2014)

Ah, Vang Vieng (VV). The number one reason I came to Laos in the first place. Also arguably the most bacchanalian spot on anyone’s SE Asian adventure. It being SE Asia and all, that certainly is saying a lot. One has to consider Bangkok, Ko Phi Phi, and Ko Pha Ngan in Thailand, Boracay in Philippines, and Seminyak, Bali in Indonesia, amongst others. So basically, you know there are some serious contenders for that title.

I only wish I had gone to Vang Vieng five to seven years ago. I would have been more apt to party harder, and therefore, to take more of an advantage of what VV has to offer, in my early to mid twenties. There also would have been more bars along the river for tubing (they were, ahem, “federally downsized” a couple years ago…basically, as a result of some accidental deaths, the government came in and shuttered quite a few of the bars along the river).  Despite these impossible-to-rectify complaints, Vang Vieng is now undoubtedly one of my favorite places that I’ve visited.  Better late than never, right?

Mary and I had somewhat of a bizarre start commencement to our bus trip from Vientiane to Vang Vieng. The bus left about an hour later than it was supposed to (which, to be honest, isn’t all that bizarre in SE Asia), but once we got going, we stopped just outside of town on the side of a road. Having received no explanation for this, I assumed the worst (I’m great at that) and thought something was wrong with our bus. Unfortunately, my spidey sense was correct. Our driver then made a call, and it wasn’t 20 minutes later that another bus came and picked us up. This bus had come long distance from Thailand and was also transporting like-minded backpackers to this hedonistic capital. We hopped on and met two British girls that were traveling together, Bex and Michelle. I’ll mention it here, but strangely, although not too surprisingly, I would randomly run into Michelle and her boyfriend in Thailand on the Koh Tao Pub Crawl.

Mary and I were lucky enough not to have booked accommodation ahead of time (maybe there was some reason we didn’t, I don’t know), yet to have been able to book a private twin bed as soon as we arrived at a hostel that was recommend to us.

Mary, being the more extraverted one between us, quickly befriended some British backpackers. The group included Bex and Michelle from our bus ride. I can’t for the life of me remember the others’ names. I know this sounds haughty of me, but I found that that group got on my nerves quite quickly. I’m not sure if this is because my introverted patience and energy for other people was being tried, or if it was something to do specifically with their personalities, but I suspect the former. But, as you will see, there were a couple episodes that might give more credence to the latter.

On the first day we wanted to go tubing, it was canceled because the previous day had been full of rain. So, since there was more rain, the water level of the river had subsequently risen and its current had become fiercer.

Having had our plans put on hold, we decided to just hang out until night befell us. After some drinks at the hostel, we made our way to one of the local watering holes. As soon as we arrived, we noticed one guy from the group I mentioned earlier absolutely off of his rocker on a chair just outside of the bar. He was drooling was practically incoherent. We asked if he was OK, and tried to help him up in order to bring him back to the hostel. Instead, he suddenly went “berserker” and started destroying public property around us. One of the other guys in our group thankfully got him under control and led him back to the hostel before some locals that were watching called the cops.

“This is why people hate backpackers,” I thought. We have the privilege of coming to a developing country, feeling like we’re entitled to five-star service, all the while getting completely fucked up, creating problems, and usually not facing any dire consequences. This is something I’ll write about in a later entry, because I often had conflicting experiences regarding this while I was traveling SE Asia.

So, the next day we tried again. We were hanging out in the hostel waiting for the Brits to get organized, and I communicated to Mary how badly I wanted to leave and get the show on the road (I mean, c’mon, I had been waiting 5 years for this). After some haranguing, she finally acquiesced.

We arrived at the first bar, and a skinny British guy with shaggy black hair, and silver glitter surrounding his eyes greeted us with shots and wristbands.

There weren’t too many people there when we showed up. There were some people (EVEN OTHER AMERICANS!!!) playing beer pong, but Mary and I befriended a couple that was off to the side, Roma and Aiyana. Roma was a Russian guy who was backpacking and Aiyana was a German girl who was backpacking. We talked to them and drank with them for a while. Finally, we wanted to get a flippy cup game together, so we recruited three nice, but hilariously awkward, Thai guys. One of them could speak English really well, and I guess had lived and worked in the US for a while.

We stayed at the first bar for probably two hours, and just as we were about to leave, guess who shows up? The Brits we had left at the hostel. I’m so glad we didn’t wait for them!

From the first bar we start the actual tubing journey. We obviously had to take some roadies with us, but then we were down one hand when it came time to paddle ourselves over to one side of the river. The men manning the “dock” threw us the ropes and we grabbed on. I forgot who it was, probably Aiyana, but she ended up missing the rope, or not being to hold on to it, so I think one of the men swam after her and brought her over.

At the next bar there was a free shot AND a free wristband with every drink ordered. One of the bartenders was a very tiny Laotian girl with a constant smile on her face. After she served us drinks, she eventually moved to the top of a picnic table where she showed off her absolutely amazing hoola-hoop skills. I think I had a little crush on her…but it could have also been the alcohol talking.

At the third bar I took out my cigarettes from my “dry” bag, and they were soaked, as was my cash. Luckily, the bartenders accepted the soggy bills (I’m sure they were used to it by now). I’m still very glad to this day that I decided NOT to bring my phone to take pictures.

The third bar had mud volleyball. As I am always reluctant to get involved with games before observing, I had a beer or two before being harassed to join. All of us were slipping and sliding in the mud and quickly becoming the fabled “mud people”.

When we finally got to the last bar, and by this point, we were all feeling just a little drunk. Just a teeny weency bit.

The final bar had a basketball court that featured various waterspouts spraying down on the players below. It started to rain again, and everyone was wet anyway from tubing, so it didn’t really matter. I talked to that shaggy-haired British guy about Metal for a while since he was wearing a Dying Fetus shirt. I can’t for the life of me remember any part of that conversation except that someone had given him the shirt as a joke gift.

As it was getting close to sunset, we decided we better leave ASAP. We made it back just before the sun descended completely. I had to Aiyana’s hand to help guide her and her tube back to shore, as she was quite drunk and was afraid that she wouldn’t be able to guide herself. Mary ended up going out to the bars with Roma and Aiyana, but I took the responsible path and stayed in. I could tell Mary wasn’t happy with my decision, but I knew it was for the best if I stayed in after that day!

On our final full day in VV, we went kayaking. We started several miles down river from VV at a small village. While we were getting ready, a cow had wandered into what looked to be a Buddhist monastery and/or shrine to eat some grass. This was apparently very bad, because the presumed owner of the cow started yelling and hitting it with a rather large stick as the cow ran out of the shrine and far down the dirt road. While this was happening, Bex started running after the man while screaming, “HEY! HEY! Don’t do that!!!” I don’t think that the man, nor the local onlookers, knew exactly what to think. I just put my head in my hands, embarrassed. Embarrassed for Bex, embarrassed for us.

I’m not a vegan or vegetarian, but I’m against the inhumane treatment of animals (OK, a bit contradictory, I know). However, I feel as though it is presumptuous to react the way that Bex did. What right did she have to react that way to a poor Laotian farmer’s behavior? This man, who most likely doesn’t have much to begin with, much less a steady income, is being told how to treat his cow by a privileged foreigner who is only visiting. A relatively affluent young person was telling this man, who probably depends on that cow for a number of reasons, how to treat his “property”.

This was another time in which I felt a surge of conflicting thoughts and emotions, which I will more than likely dedicate an entire post to in the future.

Besides that little episode, kayaking was really nice and relaxing (except for when we hit the rapids!). Unlike the others, Mary and I never got flipped over ONCE in our kayaks.

Cambodia: Kampot (September 2014)

       Kampot was the surprise hit of my 3.5 months of travel.  My guidebook had a relatively short entry for the town, but with a phrase that particularly stood out: “Kampot is a place you ‘feel’ rather than ‘experience’.  After my experience in Battambang, I knew that I was taking another chance on Kampot, but it was either Kampot or Ket, and Ket seemed to be even less special and exciting than Kampot. 

My hostel was just outside of the main part of town.  This combined with the fact that it was a brand new building with a swimming pool to boot made it seem slightly resort-ish, which I certainly wasn’t complaining about. 

My first half day in Kampot, I just wondered around town.  Really, there wasn’t TOO much to this place, but the downtown area reminded me of a liberal and quirky small American Mid-Western town – not unlike my own hometown.  A mix of Cambodians and foreigners ran the shops and restaurants. 

Beyond the downtown area, many of the buildings (which had actually been turned into guesthouses) had retained the color and architecture of their former occupants: French colonialists. 

Kampot also had an absolutely lovely walkway next to the river that looks like it had just been developed in the last couple of years.  The walkway afforded amazing views of the river and the mountains decorating the horizon on the other side of the river.

On my second day in Kampot, I took a tour to Bokor Mountain, which sounded too much like Bokononism, the hilarious Dada-inspired religion made up by author Kurt Vonnegut, to let me think about anything else. I was on the tour with a British couple, a couple of British girls, a surly old American man, and one American girl. As we ascended the mountain in our small van, it became increasingly foggy and eerie.

For a little background information, Bokor Mountain was used as a retreat for the occupying French soldiers trying to escape the heat and humidity of the plains below. As such, there were various buildings built on top of the mountain, including Bokor Hill Station and Bokor Palace Hotel and Casino. These buildings, while long abandoned, are still standing mostly for tourism (as far as I could ascertain).

As we reached the zenith of the mountain, the fog was close to all-encompassing. So, while on one hand we were missing out on some (supposedly) amazing views from the mountaintop, we were treated to a somewhat unsettling and creepy atmosphere. Exploring the Bokor Hill Station and Bokor Palace Hotel and Casino in this foggy silence was like being in a real-life horror movie. The gutted greyness and lifelessness of these buildings betrayed the privileged colonial lives that they once entertained and maintained. We kept half-suspecting that some ghost or undead creature would be around the next corner to kills us, but thankfully we were spared such a supernatural demise.

At lunch, I talked to the British couple for a while. They had been living and teaching abroad for years. They had started their careers in Botswana, and then moved to New Zealand, and then to Switzerland, where they had remained for the last six years. I picked their brains for a while about their experiences working at international schools and how one gets “into” working at those schools, since I’m considering the possibility in the future.

I can’t remember exactly, but I think that included in our Bokor Mountain tour was a boat ride along the river. It started raining just as soon as we entered the boat, but we made our way down the river anyhow. We spotted children playing along the riverbed, as well as probably at least 30 fishing boats all coming down the opposite way, and behind them, the mountains and sunset. A wonderful way to end the day.

One of my favorite days of my 3.5 months of travel was my final day in Kampot. The American girl (let’s call her Lauren) I befriended on the tour the day before and I decided to rent bikes and ride around. We started off rough when Lauren’s bike chain fell off and it was impossible (without tools) to fix it. After going back and getting another bike, we stopped at a little café known for its pie (how long had it been since I had good pie?!  I have no idea), and it was indeed scrumptious.  Then we went across the river to another hostel called Bodhi Villa. Lauren wanted to go here because she wanted to switch to this hostel. I had completely forgotten about it, but someone, either earlier in my travels (or my friend from Daejeon, Kim) had told me about this hostel.  As we made our way towards the hostel, it started pouring down rain. We stopped under a roadside store’s small awning, much to the chagrin of some small children who had the same idea. Lauren had put her backpack underneath her rain poncho and on her front side, so it looked like she was pregnant. I vaguely remember her making exaggerated poses in front of the children to accentuate her “pregnancy”, much to their chagrin. The rain let up momentarily, so we went on our merry way.

 The hostel had an opening towards the river, with chairs and tables. We sat down to wait out the rain, which had become torrential.  In our presence were a scruffy looking American man and two Israeli sisters. The five of us chatted and hung out for probably 30 or 45 minutes. A lot of the conversation focused on life in Israel. I’m not sure what made this one of my favorite experiences of my travels, but I do remember the conversation having long pauses, but the pauses were not awkward. We didn’t feel the need to fill up the space with pointless prattle. Perhaps it was because the empty spaces of our conversation were filled with the rain pounding on the river. The river lazily building up its mass.

And to briefly address a theme of this blog, I think this was also one of the only times in my 3.5 months of traveling that I felt 100% wholly in the present.

Indonesia: Probolinggo/Mt. Bromo (October 2014)

Probolinggo is a small town with not much to it.  HOWEVER, an hour or two away from Probolinggo is Mt. Bromo, which is a famous active volcano in Indonesia. Probolinggo was probably the only time on my trip where I got even somewhat upset.  It was partially my mistake, because it was about the only time on the entire trip where I hadn’t reserved a place to stay prior to arriving.  Without boring you to explain why, it was mostly to do with logistics and not my own laziness or stupidity.

Anyway, I had taken a bus from Yogyakarta to Surabaya, which had taken about 6 hours, and I had immediately boarded another bus in Surabaya to Probolinggo for another 4 hours.  The bus conductor on the latter bus had asked me if I was going to Mt. Bromo from Probolinggo, and I had replied in the affirmative.  When he told me, and a foreigner couple to get off the bus for Mt. Bromo, I gladly obliged, but I noticed that the couple seemed to be discussing something with him, perhaps even refusing to disembark.  Once I got off the bus, I started talking to the couple, who were from Russia.

The Russian woman was noticeably irritated (not with me, thankfully) while she explained to me that it’s a scam put on by the bus drivers and conductors and the tour company.  She had read about it before taking the trip. The bus drops you off in front of a specific tour company’s offices instead of taking you to the bus station, which is where I had wanted to go.  The Russian couple had been arguing with the bus conductor, telling him that they wanted to go to the bus station, but he insisted that they get off.

Just a little note here: I had heard that Indonesia has some terrible problems with corruption, and while I was there I could tell that it was systemic and occurs at every level – even in the tourism business.  This was unfortunately not the last time that I would experience it first–handedly.  You can’t blame people of a poor country for trying to make some extra cash, but it was frightfully annoying to be on the wrong end of it.

Anyway, the Russian couple decided after all to at least look at the prices at the tour company and all I wanted to do was find a place to stay for the night, as it was already well past sunset.  I had a motorcycle taxi take me to the nearest and cheapest motel.  It was not spectacular, but for last minute accommodation was not too bad.

The next morning I had one of the local “buses” (more like pick-up trucks with covers on the back) take me to the bus station to see what I could figure out.  I knew that one had to take a bus to Mt. Bromo from Probolinggo at the bus station.  When I got there, a manager of some sort was offering a minibus ride there for an extravagant price, and I realized that the official buses would have to be full of people before they would leave for Mt. Bromo.  Who knows how long that would have taken.  I started to become more upset than I was the night before, so I found a motorcycle taxi to take me to a different hotel, which was pricier than the one from the night before, but it was a lot nicer, and the staff was super helpful.  I told them my predicament – that I was trying to get to Mt. Bromo, but didn’t have accommodation or a way of getting there.  The front desk worker said, “I think I have a friend that could help…” Although it sounded a bit fishy, this guy worked for what appeared to be a reputable hotel and he seemed genuine.  An hour later his friend walked in and told me that he was already busy that day, but that HE had a friend with a motorcycle that could drive me to Mt. Bromo for the day for just $20.  I agreed, but said I would pay nothing in advance.  He said that was fine. 

A few minutes later, who walks into the hotel?  The motorcycle taxi driver who had taken me to the hotel from the bus station that morning.  We had a good laugh about that, and soon after we set off.

Before getting to the main highway to Mt. Bromo, we had to get through the town center, which was having its weekly market.  On our motorbike we had to dodge goats, other motorbikes carrying oversized loads of bamboo and hay, and mobile food carts.  It was a hilariously chaotic scene and I really wish I would have had the mind to take out my camera and start filming.  At one point, my driver maneuvered around another motorcyclist who was carrying tons of bamboo, and as we passed him my driver turned to him and said something that could have only been insulting.  My guess is that he was angry that the other driver had been blocking the road.

Anyway, the drive to Mt. Bromo was beautiful.  Hard to describe what it looked like, though it reminded me of the jutting hills I used to hike in surrounding Santiago, Chile. Very arid with a limited variety of vegetation, but kind of beautiful in a desolate sort of way.

Our first stop was an observation point, which provides a great view below of Mt. Bromo. It was here that my guide and driver tried to communicate something to me that at first sounded kind of scammy. From what I could gather, he wanted more money than had been agreed upon originally. I wasn’t angry, because I wasn’t sure if that’s exactly what he was trying to communicate, but I motioned for him to call his boss, who was the one I had talked to in order to arrange this trip. After some handing the phone back and forth a few times, the boss told me that I could get a ticket into Mt. Bromo at a discounted price if I would pay the driver a certain amount first. I clarified how much I would pay him and how much I would then have to pay to enter Mt. Bromo, and total, it would be a lot less than originally planned. Still feeling a little suspicious, I agreed.

I thought it strange, but after leaving the observation point, we descended again and then took a backway to get in the valley, which surrounds Mt. Bromo.

Then it dawned on me.

The driver was sneaking me into Mt. Bromo.

For a split second, I had a sudden surge of anger, because I had given my guide so much money for just sneaking us in. But then I realized, “Hey, it’s still much cheaper than paying for a ticket!”

Once we got down in the valley, we found it very difficult to tread among the ash. Some parts were so thick with it that we got stuck, and I had to get off the bike so the driver could push.

We got to the monastery after some more stops and starts, which was confoundingly at the base of the volcano. Surrounding the monastery were other motorcycles and jeeps, as well as some barely-standing tents and…you guessed it…hawkers. As soon as I got off of the back of the motorbike, I was accosted by multiple men trying to sell me a surgeon’s mask, which is often used in places where there is bad pollution. I declined, but I almost wished I had, because by the time that I reached the top of the ash-piled volcano, the wind was a gale. In the 10-15 minutes that I could actually stand being on the top and looking into the volcano while taking pictures, I probably inhaled pounds of sulfuric ash (OK, obviously I’m exaggerating).

One we got back to the hotel, I went to my room and looked into the mirror. I was covered with that dusty ash from head to toe. I looked like a chimneysweeper after a full day’s work.

It was definitely time for a shower.

Indonesia: Jakarta (October 2014)

One of my friends from university was born and raised in Indonesia by his Polish parents.  He has lived all but maybe seven years of his life in Jakarta.  We had arranged to have him pick me up from the international airport in Jakarta.

After exiting the terminal, I found the pre-arranged meeting place (an A&W restaurant, hilariously enough), but I did not see my friend who should be sticking out like a sore thumb.  Not worrying too much at this point, I just put my stuff down and did some people watching.  After about 20 or 30 minutes, however, I started to get a little worried.  As I was contemplating leaving a message on his Facebook timeline asking one of his Indonesia-based friends to call him and remind him that he was supposed to pick me from the airport, I looked up and saw the only pasty white boy in eyeshot sauntering towards me, smoking a cigarette.  Piotr!

When I knew he saw me, I pointed at my imaginary watch.

“How long have you been waiting?” he probed.

“About half an hour,” I responded with a smirk.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said.

I was too happy to see him to roll my eyes.

Apparently he had been stuck in a meeting (on a Sunday evening…but it being Piotr, I believed him). But also, Sunday afternoon and evening is the worst time to try and either enter or exit the international airport in Jakarta, because that is its busiest time (according to Piotr J)

While at university, I never really considered Piotr a foreign exchange student.  I think this is mostly because his English was so unbelievably fluent. Besides only the slightest of accents, there was no way to really tell that English was not his first language.  (Additionally, having been raised by Polish parents in Indonesia, he can speak Polish and Indonesian (as well as a functional level of Japanese)). 

We eventually made our way out of the congested and bustling airport and on our way back to Piotr’s apartment. On the way back we stopped for gas. I could overhear Piotr speaking Indonesian to the clearly incredulous gas attendant.

“He sounded surprised you could speak Indonesian,” I said.

“They always are,” he smiled.

As we continued down the highway Piotr explained that I couldn’t have picked a better time to visit Indonesia, and specifically Jakarta. President Joko “Jokowi” Widodo was going to have his inauguration the next day. Jokowi came from a modest background and was touted as populist. The first Indonesian president who was a political outsider, meaning that he was not already a part of the political elite. He was elected with an overwhelming majority. The best thing about him: he’s a massive metalhead. I mean, this dude even listens to Napalm Death.

The next day, Piotr and I attended Jokowi’s massive inauguration rally, which ended up being at a square just a couple blocks away from Piotr’s apartment. There was a huge parade with different organizations being represented. One organization had instruments they were playing that were completely made out of bamboo. The instruments themselves didn’t have the best timbre, but they sure could play them!

Multiple times Indonesian people (especially teenaged girls) came up to take pictures with us, and especially Piotr. After one such instance, Piotr recounted a story to me: a gaggle of girls passed him on the sidewalk, and one of them said in Indonesian, “See him? He’s my boyfriend” as her friends giggled. Piotr replied, also in Indonesian, “Then how come I’ve never even met you before?” or something along those lines. Shocked, the girls embarrassingly scurried off.

Piotr, ever the brilliant photographer, brought his camera and took pictures of the festivities. There were musical groups playing on a small stage, small carts were selling all sorts of snacks and drinks, and everyone looked genuinely happy. Very happy.

I had only been in Indonesia for less than 24 hours, and knew very little about the country, but I could already tell that people KNEW (not thought, KNEW) that things are going to change for the better. In a country notorious for its endemic poverty and systemic corruption, things have to get better.

That night, Piotr and I, along with his girlfriend, Michelle, attended an absolutely humongous concert in celebration of Jokowi’s inauguration. The biggest band in Indonesia was playing (their name sadly escapes me), and people were clearly going crazy over the fact that they were playing. I’m not sure what the turnout of the concert was, but it was clearly in the tens of thousands. There were flags being waved, cheers, and again, smiles plastered on just about everyone.

I spent the next day or two wandering around the city as Piotr had to return to his office work. As odd as it sounds, the highlight of that wandering around was going to a puppet museum, the Wayang Museum. The Wayang Museum specialized in Javanese wayang puppetry, which is specific to the Java island (the island of Indonesia that contains Jakarta). An employee of the museum explained some basic information about the puppets to me, and how a lot of them have been passed down through generations of families. Other than that tidbit, I sadly don’t remember any other information about the puppets. But I would highly recommend the museum!