March 29, 2005
I spent two weeks back in my home town of New Denver, the population 500 community situated on a lake in eastern British Columbia - not Colorado.
The Balinese computers were horribly out of date and so I coudn't load too many photos from there. Here's a few to ponder...
Mount Merpati in the distance.
Stuppas at the summit of Borobudur.
I neglected to inform those following of my travels of my reintegration into Canadian society.
Yes I'm home, safe and sound. Medical insurance paperwork has been submitted, the last Indonesian postcards have arrived, and I've been to the dentist. Life is, for all intents and purposes, back to normal.
Except that I still live out of a backpack and am sleeping on peoples couches...
My last four days in Tokyo were awesome. I touched down in the chilly city to a sunny reception. I pulled my single pair of pants over my Balinese Billabongs and slipped into a pull over. Immigration was clear at 7am and I whicked thourgh with no difficulty. Customs threatened to reveal my overage of alcohol (gifts, some of which would be unloaded in Tokyo) but they dismissed a thorough search upon my partial confession.
With no one to meet me at Narita, I headed over to the currency exchange and unloaded my remaining Rupiahs for Yen. (PS. There is a huge airport tax, 100 000Rp, at Depansar airport - be prepared for that if you go). I found my way back down to the subway system and bought a 1400Y ticket to Shibuya. After a few transfers I found myself standing amidst a mass of Japanese businessmen outside of the Hachiko exit of Shibuya station; one of the busiest stations in Tokyo. I stood in my summery clothes with my backpack along the sidelines until my friend Ryan appeared from the bowels of the Denentoshi Line. Hungry from my minimeal aboard JAL, we set off across the street to a favourite sushi bar for a spot of lunch. My sense of value since I was in Japan the first time was vastly different and so I had trouble digesting the hefty price of 106Y per plate of sushi. I only ate 7 plates, Ryan more like 11.
The next few days I spend living the high life, artificially for me, less so for Ryan. Big nights out at the small bars in Kawasaki, Isakayas here and there, always good food. I wandered out to my Japanese family in Machida for a magnificent visit with Akiko. For the first time in awhile I stopped being a tourist...
Then came the 24th of February - the day I was due to leave. I bid Ryan farewell and set off to the New Tokyo Airport with Akiko. 1600Y later we arrived and I checked in. Something was wrong though. Somehow an error was made. Or rather, somehow I made an error. It turns out that I had become disillusioned about the date of my departure and arrived a day late. Today's flight was full. Shit! Bugger. Now what? I was very pleasant and so were the airline agents, and somehow they were able to SQUEEZE me in. No choice of aisle or window seat; no emergency exits, but I was on the flight!
The flight was wonderful. Shorter than it seemed to be on the way over, but not really. I sat next to a Canadian who thought she was Indian and a Mexican who thought he was Australian. On a Thursday morning before we left we saw the sun rise over Vancouver Island, then set down in the sunny city of Vancouver. When I left Vancouver had been the megametropolis; the British Columbian epitome of busy urban life. The centre of activity.
Upon landing it was clear that Vancouver is a beautiful and quiet minimetropolis; the 2.5 million occupants spreading out thinly over the vast floodplains of the Fraser River. On the ride back from the airport to my old apartment in Burnaby revealed just how this city slumbers when compared to Tokyo, Jakarta, Singapore, Manila, or Bangkok. It sure is a gorgeous place, though.
February 22, 2005
It`s really really cold.
I had a super duper flight, in which I was seated upstairs in the nice economy seating area, had a huge emergency exit seat to stretch out in, and a bench seat behind to sleep on later in the flight.
Took advantage of the free plum wine.
Enjoyed a movie or two.
Then I stepped off the plane.
In surfing shorts and sandals.
Cold.
Brr!!
Man, I love Tokyo.
February 20, 2005
Yes the time had come. At some point time equals zero. My time remaining in the tropics amounts to about 10hours, right now. Tick tick tick.
Bali has been great, but I admit my backpacker curiosity died out in Lombok, sometime after I arrived on the Gili Islands.
I now anticipate a great whoosh of cold, instead of the heat I spoke about earlier. When I land in Narita and collect my bag in the heated arrivals lounge, I will step out into brisk 3 degree heat. Makes me wish I brought winter clothes, and wonder why I scheduled four days in Tokyo. Can't even begin to afford it, either.
Please look forward to more entries to come; I have tonnes of photos to put up, and a few more things to say.
From beautiful, bustling Bali...
February 18, 2005
I bailed on plans to visit Bali's respected clubscene and instead tucked myself into my hotel, hidden in the quiet back alleys.
The next day, Thursday as it would be, I was up early. Though not cured by sleed, I was feeling a bit better than the days before. I enjoyed my two slices of toast and my Javanese coffee (filter through your teeth!), which were free (!), and lazed about for an hour or so before L came back from his morning errands. Not long after I was on the back of his rented motorcycle (18,000rp/day) whizzing towards the airport. Back in the bowels of Denpasar International I decided to knock on the firmly sealed JAL door. Incredibly (or perhaps not so) someone opened the locked door. The woman at this office, which was not the place I thought it was, happily changed my ticket, bringing me home earlier than before. Earlier you say! Yes. While I am in a veritable paradise I am ready to head back to familiar (though now unfamiliar) turf.
L changed his AirAsia ticket to KL and we were off.
Given enough time and effort you can find cheap (inexpensive, rather) places to eat and sleep. L and I ate 7000rp noodles at a dandy restaurant not far from Poppies 2, then returned to the Bali Duta Wisata, our hotel.
(I just found a Verve album hidden on my iRiver. Horay!)
***
Bali's daytime heat is almost unbearable. Today I went to the beach to read. I left after 15 minutes. That's about how long it takes to burn, consequently. Also enough time to allow 10 beachside vendors to disturb your pleasant meditative beach slumber. Luckily i know this already, unlike so many other freshly landed holidayers. Red like lobsters. Painful. some beginning to peel in sheets.
The noon sun in Indonesia can be related to the heat felt when opening a hot oven. Whoosh! Your eyelashes curl a little with the intensity. The heat is compounded by the frequent power outages in Bali. Or maybe it's just Kuta. Fans aren't much good, just have to hunker down and bear it. A cold fruit juice can do wonders though.
The beach in Bali is not as bad as was first impressed upon me. At low tide the water receeds past the steep dirty sand to reveal a grey sand flat. The waves break rhythmically about 200m from the shore, and in, on, and under the front most waves are dozens, if not hundreds, of struggling would-be surfers. Wannabe's. Occasionally one of the girls lying on the beach refastens her bikini and dips her red body into the brown, turbulent water. While the warmest in Asia (that I have experienced), Bali's water still refreshes and offers a refuge from the hot, baking sand. Watch out for those renegade surfboards, though!
Across the street from the beach, but still within sight of the heat-dreary vendors, masseuses and touts hiding uder the fringe of palms on the upper reaches of the beach, are incredibly developed establishments. Glamourous McDonalds, Huge Hard Rock Cafe, not far off, the Collosal Planet Hollywood. In the streets behind these are hundreds of surf shops, designer clothing stores, craft shops, and an incredible number of t-shirt and DVD shops. This is Bali.
This, and loads of big, red, hairy bellies on aged shirtless men. Aussie accents aplenty.
Chapter 1: Rendez vous with Rudy, the Oregonian
Wearily I stepped out of the bemo onto a street in a lesser-known district of Kuta. The South African and I hailed a taxi, or rather the taxi hailed us, and I negotiated a reasonably fair price to Poppies 2. I had planned to go back to the recommended Suka Beach Inn, but L (the S.African's name is a whopper!) was paying half what I was in the hotel across the lane. I suggested we split the 25,-rp room charge, but a slightly hesitant yes meant he really didn't want to share - no problem. $4.50 is cheap for these large 2-bed rooms anyways. As I signed a big "X" in the register I recognised an old aquaintence. Desperate to get his attention as he walked away I yelled "Jakarta!" (that's where we met) and then quickly remembered and followed with, "Rudy!".
Strange how you bump into people here and there. They say all roads lead to Bangkok, and indeed that is true, but I would suggest the same be said of Bali. I followed Rudy and his friend, who turned out to be Georges from Greece, upstairs, then had a quick shower. What a relief. Without an opportunity to shower before I left Gili I had relied on a baseball cap to hide my matted, salty hair.
When I came out I found Rudy and Georges talking with a pretty girl who looked oddly familiar. Seen her somewhere, perhaps? Christina turned out to be a fellow Vancouverite; I may have seen her at the irish pub near my home, where she worked. Pretty wild.
L was indisposed when Rudy et al left, so I left a note and tagged along.
Chapter 2: Debbie the Sugar Momma
Christina was late for an 'appointment' with a 45 year old Aussie. I hesitate to call it a date, as everyone else did. Something strange about that... charity for poor, single (female) backpackers...
Rudy, Georges and I continued to their hotel on Legian Street, meeting up with another American girl whom they both knew. We walked past the massive memorial for the October 12th, 2002 bombing, then found their hotel, an upscale 100,000rp/night joint with a pool surrounded by jungle flora. In the hotels Warung (restaurant) we ordered a few Bintangs and some food - I was simply starving!
After dinner, which was blah, we headed to the nearby CircleK (Indonesia is the only country so far that doesn't have 7-11s) and bought a few cold drinks to enjoy back at the hotel.
Enter Debbie, an old, sun-aged, weathered woman in her late fourties. She had just arrived from Santa Monica and desperately needed a Bintang. We joked that she should supersize to the 620mL version, and she heartily agreed.
"You boys Brasilian?," she asked after a brief discussion.
Now I have been called Dutch, Swedish, Aussie, British, American, and, of course, Canadian, but never Brasilian. Me, a tall white Canuck; Rudy, a 20 year old Yankee with spiked dirty-blonde hair and slightly burnt skin; and Georges, a 23 year old Greek who looked very greek.
We had a good laugh at the proposterousness. Debbie was thrilled to meet another American and invited us all to her hotel across the street, which she had been frequenting every winter for the past 18 years. We would be treated like kings... She had a pool....
Later, up at Rudy's hotel veranda we joked about being Barsilian. I had yet to meet someone from there after 5 1/2 months.
Not long after we opened our first beers, two Brasilans walked past us on the way to their room. Go figure.
February 17, 2005
Gili Trawangan. ahhh. How nice.
Compared with it's shy and lonely twin, Gili Meno, Trawangan is a rebel. I might suggest that Trawangan adores it's older cousin, Bali, and tries to emulate it in every respect, especially with costs. The 5000rp Mie Goreng on Meno was a whopping 21000rp in an equivalent establishment. Beer were edging on 15,000+, accomodation not cheaper than 30,000. My hotel, a nice "homestay" allowed me to bargain hard and finally settled on 25,-/night.
I eagerly departed from the American girl, who I had discovered was a pathological liar and hated Americans (more than several times I heard her say she was Canadian).
Trawangan's dive culture drove the high prices and reminded me a great deal of Koh Tao in Thailand; dive culture is always an interesting one.
The first day I walked around the island, discovering beautiful hotels and resorts on the western coast, exposed to the sea. Mostly shut down this time of year, though. I wanted to try and dicker a bargain price for a room, but hesitated long enough to find I had walked past. Most of the walk, which lasted for probably 2 hours, my eyes were peeled to the beach, searching for the perfect seashell. Hard to find, that one is.
Later that night I found a local food stall that charged 5000 for Bakso, a noodle and meatball soup. I topped up with Nasi Campur for another 5000 from a lady behind the lean-to off the main drag. Suspicious? No, that's where the locals ate.
I spent Valentines Day relaxing on the beach, finished with a similar set of meals, then an early night. The disco beats of the "huge party" pumped until early morning, but I felt no desire to join in.
The next day began as most in Indonesia. I ate two banana pancakes and drank a coconut shake. the rest of the day, however, was not so hum-drum. A fever set in and I was soon bundled up in my sleeping bag in the midday heat of my room. I tossed and turned all day, my door wide open to let air in. Around 5pm I became very ill. Whatever was in those banana pancakes was not agreeing with me one bit. finally, after a very long night of being ill, I stumbled out into the darkness of 1am. Luckily there was a stall open, surrounded by local kids hanging out smoking. I bought a sprite, desperate for sugar, and a large water. I made my way back to my room and passed out until morning.
Damn food poisoning!
Around 7:30 I was up. Something had initiated a strong desire to move on, so I packed my things, paid my bill, and hurried off to the boat, just catching it in time. I looked like hell, felt worse. Not sure I was ready for the long trip back to Bali...
And long it was. Most minivans are ultra quick - too quick, some might argue. The minivan I hopped in to was not in such a hurry. It was, in fact, one of the slowest bus rides I have ever experienced. The South African travelling with me was just as annoyed. We arrived in Lembar some 3 hours after leaving Bangsal, after several lengthy stops. I ate a quick Bakso, the first food to stay down in 24hours, then boarded the most decrepid looking ferry I've ever seen. It looked half-sunk! I climbed up to the passenger deck to find only ridgid, uncomfortable seats. I picked a good one and planted myself down. An unbelievable 5hours later we arrived in Padangbai. Lombok is only 22-or-so kilometres from Bali! What's the hold up!
I half wanted to stay in Padangbai again, but another feeling urged me onwards. I sought out a minivan bound for Kuta, ended up arguing with several drivers not bound for Kuta (my foul mood was not helping) and finally found one who accepted my 25,000rp cash, up front, no questions asked. No ticket? No problem - just flash your cash.
Back in Kuta I find myself.
February 13, 2005
Hmm. Four days in the stone ages has meant no internet, perhaps a good thing?
I awoke in Kuta around 10, confused for a moment about the time change from Bali, which none of the locals will admit to. I had my complimentary breakfast, though was apparently one of the last to eat and so they had run out of fruit salad and toast. Great. I drank my Balinese coffee (which is virtually indistinguishable from Javanese, but each of these islands is very independant and proud) then set out to accomplish some things. Being especially shoestring'ed at the current moment I didn't eat breakfast today and instead opted to check out the beach. A wander through a maze of back alleys filled with vendors selling tshirts and jewellry brought me to a busy street, across from which was the beach. Surfers were already out in droves, and some people were frolicking in the wavy waters. Something was wrong though; this beach was crap! Bali has a global reputation for phenomenal beaches, where were they? The sand was coarse, the beach steeply angled into the sea, which was rough and windy. Perfect, indeed, for surfing, as Bali is also very reputable for. But. Not so good for sun seekers. I have decided I am too poor to afford surf lessons, and so will likely not hang out down here on Kuta beach.
I headed up and bought a ticket to Padangbai, the eastern port town where the ferry to Lombok departs. 1pm. Still time. I know that taxis to the airport in any city are more expensive than the should be, so I approached a local sititng on his motorcycle and offered 15,000rp to take me to the airport not far away. Standard fare is usually 20,-. Off we zipped. I arrived at the toll booth and set off on foot, running to the international terminal. Where's JAL? Over there. I found the office in the bowels of the airport's administration offices, but the door was sealed and the office empty. No flights with JAL today. Guess I can't change my ticket...
I ran out to the drop off area and approached a crowd of porters gathered in the midmorning sun. I offered the same for a ride back to Poppies 2, the street on which my hotel was located. Off we sped. I arrived just in time to collect my bag from the hotel and catch my bus.
The bus to Padangbai was also taking passengers to Ubud, a popular place for people with money to buy local wares. I ate lunch with an american doctor who had just returned from Aceh. He had chilling stories to tell, which startled me in their severity. He said that the coastal areas reminded him of photos of Hiroshima; everything flattened, nothing remaining. The experience, though only two weeks in duration, had changed his life.
Our food was late, and the bus leaving, so we struggled to hurry the fried chicken and Gado-gado salad with shoddy Indonesian. We hurried out with our food in boxes just as the bus was leaving with our bags on board. Phewf!
About two hours later we arrived in the port town of Padangbai and sat down in the nearby restaurant to wait until the hotel-floggers disipated. My avocado shake, which are generally unbelievably delicious here in Indo, tasted bitter, and when I finished I had a numb taste in my mouth and a dull ache in my tummy. Suspicious... Luckily I had a doctor in my company. Nothing came of this, however. Along with another American girl, an interesting individual to say the least, we checked into a nice hotel nearby for a nice price.
Padangbai is a cool fishing town in a gorgeous bay. Sand is very peculiar, like mustard seeds. Makes walking along the beach very difficult.
Dinner and drinks on the beach were pleasant with a nice sunset, and later I would speak to the doctor for hours. Very interesting guy. At the bar on the beach we would hang out with a gang of local guys, all very friendly. Arak shots would be passed around for free, a rare treat, something for free, I mean. We all seemed to be making fun of the Indonesian guy who had managed to charm the only western girl here, french, I think. All of his friends cheered as he left, stumbling as he escorted the girl home.
We woke up early in room number 7. The doctor stirred as I dressed then packed. He was staying in Padangbai while I was heading on over to a place in the south of Lombok called Kuta, lombok. With Alexi, the american acupunturist-hippy-who-had-done-too many drugs, I gobbled down a banana Jaffle (Aussie toast-waffle-thing) and rushed off to the ferry. The night before I had wandered over with doctor-Mike to the only ATM, perhaps the last for a long time, and withdrew as much cash as I could. The maximum available in the machine was 400,-. Now, Alexi needed cash. I lent here enough to get to Mataram, where there were hopefully more ATMs. The passenger ferry was slow to cross the 15 mile gap between Bali and Lombok.
This gap is important for several reasons.
It is wide and deep.
Therefore is a primary shipping route from Australia, and the ships will likely carry on to Singapore or north through the Malacca Strait to India.
It is also a VERY important gap in biological terms...
The Wallace line, named for Alfred Wallace, is drawn roughly between Borneo and Celebes (sulawesi) and extends southwards between Bali and Lombok. The flora and fauna from Bali westwards is very Asian in origin; the flora and fauna from Lombok eastwards is very Australian in origin. More than a hundred years ago, Wallace wrote a narrative of his travels in this region, The Malay Archipelago. Very interesting. Lombok and the eastern indonesian islands do not have much in common with Bali and the western indonesian islands, nor the Malay peninsula or mainland SE Asia. Birds are different, mammals are almost absent, plants are of a more arid type. It is obvious (if only because I know to look for it) that the trees are different - more conifers...
Enough.
I urge you to read his book.
I landed in Lembar and caught a bus to Mataram, a largish city on the western coast. Alexi and I found an ATM and stocked up on rupiahs. Then our bus sailed off south, we being the only passengers bound for Kuta.
Kuta Lombok is nice. Tourism is virtually nonexistent here this time of year, except for the dozen surfers who come here and live for the season. For the most part the locals live their lives as if tourism didn't exist here. The tourists come here because it's peaceful and pleasant. Perfect surf. I was hoping that the beach, proclaimed by LP as being a lengthy stretch of white sand, would be better. Instead it was pebbly and brown. The water wasn't so good for swimming. Oh well. The entire beach area was framed by lovely green hills, terraced with agriculture. I wandered up and down the beach, which was also strangly like mustard seeds, and then hunkered down in the restaurant of our resort to watch some movies; a treat I've not had for some time. I went to bed soon after, sweating under my mosquito net until I found sleep.
The next day Alexi and I decided to head north to the famed Gili islands off the west coast. This had been my ultimate destination, Kuta being a diversion out of interest. We bought tickets for more than we should have paid (110,- each) and soon the minivan appeared and we loaded our bags.
Two hours later, after driving past hundred of people walking along the raodways in each community. All well dressed, all returning from prayer. Lombok, unlike Bali, is predominantly Muslim. Today was Friday; day of prayer.
We arrived at the port to which boats coming from Gili Air, Gili Meno, and Gili Truwangen docked. We were the only two there. Allegedly we had to wait until 23 others arrived before the boat would leave... Yeah right. They insisted. Bugger.
I refused to pay more for a charter, which is a good scam the locals set up. I had already paid for a ferry, though, and so on principle I refused. I headed over to a restaurant, which only served Mie and Nasi Goreng, and was surprised to see Flo and Harry, the Austrians from Yogya and Bromo. They were also waiting, but to go to a different island. Alexi and I decided to go with them to Meno, hoping it would leave faster with 4 of us, rather than 2.
We ate undelicious noodles, then waited some more. A fight broke out between two of the local kids selling necklaces with bone carvings. Finally we were able to leave. We were the only ones on the boat...
Gili Meno was dead. Nobody around except a few locals, who had not seen tourists in awhile, by the looks of it. We allowed Neil, a local, to escort us to a place where we could find cheap accomodations. Listed in the LP, Tao Kombo promised very cheap platform style beds. Open to the air, protected by a thatched roof and mossie net, the mattresses were going for 25,- each. Somehow I was in charge of negotiating, and in the end we only paid 10,- each. Nice to travel in low season (somehow I have been very lucky on my entire trip, and have followed low season, and therefore low prices, along my southbound route).
The beach here was delightfully white and fine, and utterly empty. Later I spotted two aged European men on holiday. Most of the resorts and hotels were shut down, though. An afternoon swim on the beach, and an evening in a hut overlooking the sand for dinner. Very nice.
A bit of rain threatened in the late evening, but disappeared to reveal a starlit sky.
I had hoped to leave Meno to head to Trawangen the next day, but the locals conspired to keep me, and the Austrians who had decided to join, from leaving. They had no source of income aside from tourism, and there were simply no tourists here. The same vendors approached us today as yesterday, trying desperately to sell some of their pearls or shells. Had to feel bad for them. Rain in the afternoon sealed the deal; we were here to stay. Torrential rains flooded the lowlying isle until it seemed the whole palce was under water. Not much of an island anymore. I enjoyed a freshwater shower (the water on the island is all very saline) and then headed back to the Jungle bar at our resort inland to read. The mossies were particularily bad. Even more so after the rain stopped.
I finished Eric Idle's book and began reading a book from Alexi about the massacre in Rwanda. Quite the shift. British humour to Quebecois-written history.
Tonight we avoided the Arak, which we practically bathed in last night (30,- per bottle of the local rice liquor), opting for an early night instead.
I write to you now from Gili Truwangen, reputable for having a night life to rival Kuta, Bali's. For that reason I chose to avoid this Gili at first, but the low tourist numbers means that I can enjoy all the best of the beach life. Over and out from this Gili, where internet is almost as expensive as in Tokyo. Only 12 days now. Tick-tick-tick...
February 09, 2005
I left beautiful Yogyakarta at 9am on Sunday, filling the front row of the minivan, while two guys (One Romanian, one Chinese) took the back. We spent the early part of the trip getting to know one another, made for an interesting conversation with such different perspectives. They had a two week vacation and had timed it together to take in as much of Bali and Java as possible - quite the whirlwind trip. After some time we all closed our eyes, me plugged into some delicious Cafe Del Mar tunes (thanks Reuben!) sprawled out in the front, them very comfortably cuddled up together in the cool aircon. Interesting.
I woke up briefly in Solo, the next large city from Yogya, usually warranting a stop for tourist reasons. Sadly we passed straight through. Ahhhhh Solo, I had to utter. Our driver and his partner kept driving, passing everyone and anyone in the way, blaring the horn in strange patterns. Some sort of Indonesian code? I saw the same in Sumatra, when our bus sent and recieved light and sound codes while on the deathly drive from Toba to Medan.
The roads in Java are vastly better than in Sumatra (people complain that the incredible wealth that Sumatra contributes is all spent in Java - not too far from the truth). But! But they are very narrow and windy. Take a large oval on a regular piece of paper, sprinkle several thousand dots on it, and draw lines between them all. To get from place to place, in this case Yogya to Gunung Bromo, involves traveling between countless villages interconnected by heavily trodden narrow roads. No highways...
For each of these communities, these roads are lifelines. Most of the towns resources are concentrated on them, and therefore they are filled with pedestrians, bicyclists, motorcyclists - and, when school gets out for lunch they fill with children. This causes problems when minivans carrying tourists (or anyone for that matter - even the massive busliners do it) come flying through honking their horn at anyone in front of them and passing precariously, sometimes passing deep into the oncoming lane. As long as the offending vehicle is larger than the oncoming vehicle, in the right, there is no problem; the lesser car is simply forced to pull onto the shoulder and stop. Sometimes the minvan will meet a massive truck, perhaps even carrying petroleum, and will honk continuously until it can duck back into its own lane, or pull off the other way. Veeeerrrrrrryyyyy dangerous! And it is for this reason that i must discourage anyone from renting a vehicle in Indonesia. Westerners, while being much 'better' drivers, could simply not cope with the spontaneity, nor predict the actions of their fellow drivers, and so in this respect Indonesians are far better drivers. Simply because they are able to avert disaster. No problem passing a lineup of cars and trucks uphill around a blind corner. Somehow there are not more traffic accidents. In fact, aside from a downed motorcylist that I saw last night in Kuta, I have not seen so much as a fender bender... Miraculous.
We stopped for lunch somewhere about halfway to Probolinggo. We ordered off the English menu, which bothered me to no end. I have recently become very tired with the tourist treatment I had recently been recieving. I can and prefer to order the food that the Indonesians order. I also prefer to pay half the price, as the Indonesians do. I almost insisted on seeing the Indo menu and paying thier prices, but I thought better of it - against my character. Next time, I thought. Food was ok. Nothing to write home about.
Several hours later, sometime after the first bar disappeared from the battery indicator on my iRiver, we found ourselves in the middle of a traffic jam. The road was filled with traffic, backed up for kilometres. Seems there was a train up ahead somewhere; so much for overpasses. We turned off the aircon and opened the windows, but the heat of midday was relentless. The goats filling the back of the truck ahead of us were bearing the brunt of the 30+ heat...
Sometime after the sun had set I awoke again. We were in another traffic jam, this time we would crawl along sluggishly for several hours. Finally we came across the disturbance; a truck had lost it's load (not a surprise since all the trucks rely on thin rope and/or a tarp to control their cargo, which often looms precariously high into the sky. We sailed past and then were back to regular pace. Signs for Bromo began to become more frequent, then we drove through Probolinggo; the gateway town. Up and up we went. In the dark we could see only evidence of agriculture lining the roadway, nothing more. Eventually a dark silhoutte of a mountain was visible against the starlit sky. We reached our hotel, a Swiss-style moutain lodge with gorgeous tiled rooms full of character. Yoschis would normally cost 60,-100,000, but tonight, for us, it was included in the combo ticket (for which I paid 200,000rp). I bid goodnight to the driver and partner, who were sleeping in the minivan tonight, then to Romania and Beijing. I settled well into my room, filled with a nice double bed, then proceeded to have the coldest shower of my trip thus far. The 2000+m elevation had a chilling effect on the wells. (Interestingly the second coldest shower of my trip was also in Indonesia, in Parapat)
Around 2:50am my alarm presumably went off, but as in so many nightmares dating back to the days I worked at 4am back in Vancouver, I did not wake up. A knock on my door at 3:27 shook me from my confused state of slumber. I hurried to dress myself a la Kinabalu (layering every articly of clothing that I owned) then jogged through the cold morning mountain air to enjoy a hot Javanese coffee (muddy with grinds and all) before boarding the Jeep we had hired the night before. I had expected to hike a bit today, but our Jeep took us straight up to the Gunung Bromo look out point around 2800m up in the sky. After an hours drive we arrived at the parking area, walked past a few very groggy vendors, then proceeded to the summit of the lookout to wait for dawn. I do not terribly enjoy the Asian dawn experience that is involved in seeing many of the landmarks, but this morning would promise a phenomenal sunrise. The orange glow filled the sky slowly, then pinks and yellows overtook and teh sky was alight. The glow revealed the highest peak in Java in the distance; a smoking volcano. In the forefront an eery moonscape of volcano craters and volcanic dust flats. After our hearts were filled to their content, we headed down to find our Jeep, then drove down onto the sand flats to endure a short hike to the short, but still active, Mount Bromo. Dozens of horses had converged here, at an invisible point some distance from the edge of the crater; designed to be an ideal distance to encourage tourists to choose to lazily ride the 1km. The Jeep could go no further. I was eager for a bit of brisk hiking and shed my 4 layers to reveal my green t-shirt. Romania and Beijing did the same, but not for the exersize, rather out of thrift. The horses became cheaper and cheaper (down to 10,000rp; slightly more than a dollar fifty CDN) as we reached the final approach to the summit. The "Stairway to Heaven" was not quite as spectacular as its name implies, and soon we reached the rim of the wide crater - quite nice. Very sulpher-y. A quick stop outside the Hinu temple built below Bromo, then back in the Jeep.
By 7:30 we were back at Yoschis enjoying the complimentary breakfast. In Indonesia a complimentary breakfast will generally cost you 20,000rp; the slice of toast with jam will not satisfy most, and more will need to be ordered. Ahhh. Very clever. Entice the tourist with free food, but make sure you underfeed them sufficiently...
Around 10:30 we were back in Probolinggo and I was deposited in a tour office. My driver negotiated for a minute or so before handing the other tour guide a 50,000rp note. The agent wasn't happy, so an extra 10,000 was added to the pot. Then my old driver took the Romanian and the guy from Beijing both to Surabaya, some 4-5 hours away. I waited patiently, enjoying a sleep on the bamboo bench outside. Later a local guy would bother me, but turned out to be very nice. Nice guys usually want something. He wasn't a travel agent. Hmm. Oh of course! After awhile his interest in my became more evident and soon he was openly flirting with me. What the? Go away. Happily his duties took him away before things got too interesting.
My bus came soon, and jsut after the hatch closed with my pack within, he insisted that this was the Eksecutive Ekpress and that I had to pay more. Knowing I was being scammed, but feeling pressure from the bus driver who was very eager to get going again (he was parked such that he blocked much of the narrow road), I paid the agent 10,000 extra. He promised it would cut 4 hours off my travel time. Bullshit. I told him he was a thief.
The bus was not that great. It did, however, stop about an hour later at a canteen. I was given a blue coupon upon getting out and was subsequently treated to a free lunch. I took a conservative amount of food, though saw I could go back for more and so did. Best free lunch I've had in awhile. Worth the extra 10,--- that I had paid... Maybe not so free?
Around 3 we arrived at the eastern edge of Java and Bali floated on the ocean not far away. We boarded a large ferry and got out of the bus to enjoy the sea
air. I met a guy from Lovina, in northern Bali, who worked on the Alaskan cruise ships based out of Vancouver. Neat-o! I gave him my email addy, but will likely never hear from him. These foreign workers are mistreated even in pure and lovely Canada, where he rarely is allowed time off the ship.
For four hours we drove through Bali. Past fabulous Balinese temples and statues. It was immediately evident how different Bali was from mother Java. People, agriculture, architecture. Very unique in it's own style.
We arrived in Denpasar around 8. No, wait, it was nine. I guess Bali is one hour ahead of Java. None of the locals seemed to know. Think that they ought to have known... Oh well. I was accosted by taxi drivers waving fare charts and hotel recommendations. I waded through them as though they were water in a 5" pool and found a quiet spot at teh far end of the bus terminal to read and look at LP's maps. My plan to head straight to Lombok were dashed by the late hour, and it seemed stupid to pay 30,000rp for a hotel in downtown Denpasar, when I could pay a little more to stay on Bali's famed Kuta beach. I hopped in a taxi, argued for awhile about his turning the meter on, and after opening the door to get out (while moving), he gave in. He did, however, maximize the fare by going teh extreme long-way. The journey ought to have cost 20,000 or so, but he took me on such a route that we drove past Kuta, then pulled a U-ey and drove back along another road. Bastard. 36,000rp later I was on Poppies 2, an alleyway off of Jalan Legian (where the Bali bombing occured 2 1/2 years ago). I found the hotel that my friend Kiera had written on a napkin all the way back in Koh Phi Phi (the pink tissue was neatly tucked in my LP for nearly 3 1/2 months). Suka Beach Hotel was dandy, though expensive. Of course the economy singles were full, so I had to take the hot water double for 50,000rp. Worth the hot shower. No towel though, so I drip dried within the large room.
Bali Hai!
I wandered out on the narrow back lanes of Kuta beach in search of a cheap restaurant - something that barely exists here. I ate the standard Mie Goreng for 20,000 at one of the only open cafes (most were closed at 11pm, leaving only bars open), then headed home. After a day in a bus, and an early wake up, I was pretty darn tired.
PS. Gong Xi Fa Cai