Yellow After the Rain

Praise the Lord, Yahweh, Allah, Buddha, Krishna, Thor, Zeus, and Isis that that bus trip is over. I was so wrong about the bus ride coming into Bukittinggi; compared to this, that ride was like floating slowly down a lazy, placid river in an inner tube. This ride was like taking that same inner tube over the Niagara Falls.  It put me in a pretty bad mood, but I feel absolutely no need to apologize for causing them so much trouble. 

But in the end, I can be grateful that the terrible ordeal has led me to this beautiful place: Danau Toba.  A beautiful lake in northern Sumatra, the four of us--we met two Dutch guys on the bus, smokers with full-price seats, so they felt fine--took a ferry across the lake to a small peninsula that is the paradise called Tuk Tuk.  Despite explaining how I reacted to cigarette smoke, everyone on the deck except Elias was chain-smoking and I was in a bad enough mood that I let one of the Dutch guys goad me into an argument about smoking in public ("Stop being a quiet, PC American and just tell me how you really feel").  I'm pretty sure I said he was stupid, rude and going to die by 50, but I was really tired and sick so it's all a bit fuzzy.  His response was something like why deny yourself something you enjoy now because you could die tomorrow?  Sounds like a good plan to be fat and broke in ten years, if you ask me, which he did, so there.

Ulrich had recommended a hotel to us ("cheap and clean with good food") that the Dutch guys thankfully weren't interested in.  Thank you Ulrich, you didn't let us down!  Hotel Ramlan had a great price, looked great and served us a delicious lunch, although to be honest anyplace with even a mattress and cookies would have received a similar review.  Elias and I hit our bed hard after lunch and woke up about five hours later, just in time for dinner.  We strolled down the quiet street for about a half kilometer and found a small library as well as a restaurant that offered cooking classes.  And just like that we have plans for tomorrow!  We probably would have kept walking if we hadn't been literally dive-bombed by mosquitos the size of gerbils.  I AM NOT KIDDING!  THEY WERE RIDICULOUS!  I was afraid to swat them because I thought the explosion would spray bug goo across the room.  No joke.

So we just went back to our hotel (owned by Germans, of course), swaddled up like babies, and had a dinner at the restaurant that was really quite delicious: vanilla honey milkshake, fresh tomato soup, veggie pasta that they had just picked the ingredients for, and some German doughnut thing for dessert.  Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. 

For such a terrible beginning, the day ended ridiculously well.  We weren't arguing about politics, we were eating delicious food while sitting in the breeze on a veranda looking out at the millions of stars, listening to the waves lap against the docks.  I don't think we said two words until we got back to our room because nothing needed to be said.  I foresee very good things for my time on Danau Toba, starting now with bed.  Goodnight.

Leia Mais…

Guess who found out how to add videos to her blog? :)

Here are some that I've taken in Melaka and Indonesia already.  Enjoy!

This video was taken on Jonker Walk, the street in Melaka where the night life gets off the chain!!  Worst karaoke I've ever seen in my life, and I'm a girl who has seen a lot of bad karaoke. I mean, I do live in Asia, after all.

Ah, this was a lovely morning.  This is how I was woken up at about 5am by the MANY mosques of Bukittinggi singing the call to prayer at 5am.  I had a hard enough time making it to church at 9:30, so this is just another reason I'm not a Muslim.  And of course it features my ridiculously insightful, half-asleep commentary at the end.

Another video from Bukittinggi, from a much more enjoyable time than the first one.  This is part of our ride to Danau Maninjau (Lake Maninjau) and the Indian Ocean, although it's not overly imressive because this was one of the rather tame stretches of road.  This is most definitely not where I crashed; I at least saved that for a genuinely difficult/dangerous road. 

And finally, one little taste of the videos I just added to my India blog.  I didn't know how to add videos back in December, but since I do now, they're ready for you!  This one is a little taste of the show at the India/Pakistan border, where the guards of the two countries try to out-swagger one another.  It's a good thing I went when I did, though, because the guards are now complaining of knee problems so they're going to tone the show down!  Read more here if you're interested.

Leia Mais…

I think I might be getting a little tired...

Why do I get into these conversations with people?!? Went to breakfast with Elias, went back to Bedudal Cafe, the weather was perfect (about 65), my "shower" felt really good, my bug bites weren't bothering me at the moment, all was good...and then we started talking about politics and religion and other issues that always mean the conversation will lead to a frustrating and unresolved end. Two hours later we were still debating--much more heatedly than before--the legitimacy of shariya law and the feasibility of religion in general. Let's just say we don't agree on a few, or any, aspects of the situation.

Now to be fair we discussed other things, including our backgrounds as an American with a stereotypical, conservative, suburban childhood and a German from an unconventional, liberal, global upbringing. This probably explains a lot of the differences in our values and views. It was kind of a trade-off in the end: to learn some interesting things about one another and get to know each other better we had to put up with getting a little worked up and pissed off. Sounds like every other friendship ever. 

I just don't understand how I keep getting into these arguments in the first place.  And why is it so hard for someone to concede that you could at least be a little bit right???  Phew.  Anyway.

Not much to report for today, really.  After a leisurely breakfast we packed up (Elias took forever; what a Sally), said goodbye to the ridiculous bathroom that I tried not to use, had one last lunch at Turret, one last walk around town, and one last chat with Rajawali's owner, Ulrich.  He's an odd one, that Ulrich.  He was traveling through SEA and decided to move to Bukittinggi for good about seven years ago.  He's married to an Indonesian woman who I think already had children because he said he's a new grandfather.  He helps his kids run the hotel and in his spare time treks around Indonesia trying to create the most accurate map of the country everyone has ever made.  He's sweet, but once you get him chatting get comfortable because you're going to be there for a while.

Around 6 Elias and I boarded our bus to Danau Toba, a twelve-hour drive away over roads that made the 44 Hairpin Road seem straight and smooth.  We had paid for a non-smoking, non-air con bus (cheaper), but the one that arrived had AC and a smoking section in back.  We were told they didn't have seats for us so we would have to sit in back; they didn't know what happened to our bus (yeah, right), so we should just get on this one. 

(Quick note about buses: they are never on time, but as soon as they pull in you had better be standing on the curb ready to go or you will get an earful from the driver: "Let's go! Let's go! Hurry! Must leave NOW!" Sometimes they would grab my bag, to which my response would be to yank it back and move even slower. Seriously, dude, chill the hell out. It's not like I'm packing on the platform, just give me a minute.)

And so we got on. What a mistake.

Not only were they non-reclining seats right next to the pit toilet (don't ever touch an Indonesian road with your bare hands), but three men promptly came back there and lit up.  No, there was no ventilation or open windows.  I immediately felt nauseous and said I HAD to sit somewhere else.  They gave me the very back row of the bus next to the door to the smoking cabin, which may have actually been a step down in comfort and quality.  Again, seats didn't recline; instead, they rocked back and forth because they weren't actually fastened to the floor.  Also, after the man in front of me laid back, I had exactly 20" of space for me and my stuff.  Elias had joined me after about half an hour because he couldn't take the smoke either

For all of you smokers out there, Indonesia is the place for you.  The smoking cabin was really something for them to put on the brochure, because the whole bus became the smoking section.  I was able to catch a few guys (the only women that smoke are prositutes) and ask them to move to the back, but they definitely thought I was crazy and a pain in the ass.  At one point they tied the door to the smoking cabin open; I very nearly got into a fist-fight with one of the drivers because I kept untying it and pushing it closed and he would keep trying to push it back open.  It got so ridiculous that at one point I was leaning my whole body against the door and yelling repeatedly, "I will throw up!  Smoke makes me sick!  I vomit!".  Ridiculous, right?  Well, thank god Elias was there because as soon as "my man" stood up and spoke to them, all was well and the smoking cabin stayed shut. 

SOMETIMES I REALLY HATE BEING A FEMALE.  FREAKING MYSOGINISTS.  On a side note, I wonder how many cigarettes I will have effectively smoked this vacation.  I really feel sorry for the kids who grow up in these conditions and the wives who have to kiss these men.  Ick.

Anyway, between the rocking seats, cigarette smoke, and the bumpy winding road I was feeling horribly sick.  But Elias rescued me again, giving me water and telling me to look at the back of somebody's head in the front of the bus.  Worked like a charm.  After about 30 minutes I just felt tired, which presented the final challenge of the trip: how the hell were we going to get some sleep?  Leaning on the row ahead or the window was out because the bouncing smacked your head around.  Leaning back was out because there was a wall and we were sitting at 90 degrees already.  The only arrangement that worked was when I bent over and laid my head in his lap and he kind of folded over me.  And that was how we--sort of--got some sleep!  I woke up in the morning with cankles and a fire in my back, but thankfully the bus had started showing bad music videos again, so I had at least had something to direct my venom at.

Stupid crappy stupid pop music in stupid Bahasa.  Stupid.

Leia Mais…

Crash #1: Bukittinggi

5:05am--This is me trying VERY HARD not to get upset about a cultural difference between me and Indonesia. This is me being UNDERSTANDING and APPRECIATIVE of a chance to see what life is like for average Indonesians. This is me BEING WOKEN UP WAY BEFORE GOD DAMN DAWN BY TEN DIFFERENT MOSQUES ALL BROADCASTING THE CALL TO PRAYER. This is me, the girl currently known as NOT AMUSED.

8am—Okay, much better. Elias and I are headed to breakfast before getting our motorbikes and hitting the road for Lake Maninjau. I’m hoping there will also be time to see something east of Bukittinggi, like this cool network of caves, but with a group of five (some other German guy turned up—Otto?), I think it’s best I just stay with the boys. And if breakfast is any sign of what’s to come, it will be a good day. We got some longtong, a delicious soup-like dish that has potatoes, veggies, a hard-boiled egg, and rice pressed into chewy wedges in a spicy, coconut broth. And of course it’s served with strong Sumatran coffee with plenty of grounds and condensed milk. I loved it all!

It took us longer than I would have liked to get ready to go; it was at least 10am before we all got our bikes ready and another half-hour to get petrol and get our directions sorted.  But once we had hit the road it was wonderful.  I don't know how to describe the freedom and exhilaration you get from riding, but it's at least partially made up from the thrill of the danger, the wind in your face, the connection you feel to the road and the scenery around you, and the knowledge that you could go pretty much anywhere you want to.  The only other time I have felt like this was when I jumped out of an airplane.  I really want a motorcycle of my own at some point!  Okay, dad, I get it now.

As we left Bukittinggi, we made our way through Sianok Canyon, which draws many hikers to this city.  It didn't look as if the water level of the river was very high, though, so I guess we don't have to worry about our hotel flooding (not a big surprise when the name of the city means 'high hill').  The volcanos in the background, Merapi and Singgalang, were beautiful and the sky was so clear you could see all the way up to the summit.  And there were plenty of the same quietly stunning vistas as before: thick jungle that only gives way to terraced rice paddies and clusters of houses desperately clinging to the hillside.

We made our way up the hills and around the villages until we came to a lookout over the lake.  I think for about ten minutes the only thing any of us could say was "wow" and the only noises were the cows eating grass and five different cameras clicking away.  The misty clouds swirled over the lake and played hide and seek with us: now you saw the water, now you didn't.  But when you could see it, you were shocked at how clear it was for being so far down the mountain: the water looked smooth as satin and you could even see across a valley on the opposite side of the lake all the way out to the Indian Ocean.  The rice paddies looked like stripes running down the hill and the docks looked like they weren't even attached to anything.  But most of all it was quiet--so wonderfully quiet.

It was gorgeous, and after sitting in silence for almost half an hour we were finally ready to go down and see it close up.  As we made our way back down the mountain, someone noticed a small cafe wedged along the shoulder of the road, butting right up against a cliff that dropped down about a hundred feet.  Although I would have preferred to keep going and have more time down by the lake, someone made the executive decision to stop and have some coffee and cake, and looking back I have to say it was probably the right decision.  Good food, an amazing view, a final chance to relax before we hit the only way down to Maninjau: the 44 Hairpin Turn Road.  Oh, and right before we left, George was nice enough to point out that I had about 10 mosquito bites on my neck that I hadn't been aware of until then (see photo for the full disgustingness).  I swear, the mosquitos in this country are vicious; it's like they know I'm coming from Singapore, where mossies basically don't exist, and they're making up for lost time. 

As nice as our pitstop was, I hope no one was looking for a quiet ride with peaceful, uninterrupted coffee breaks.  Every time we stopped George and Elvis had a whole crowd of Indonesian fans gathered around their gigantic bikes.  I'm sure some of those men would have handed over a couple of their daughters and maybe even their wife to get their hands on one of those things so they could gloat over all of their neighbors.  Every man wanted to touch the handlebars or rub the seat, and it was pretty clear that the women hanging around in the background would have liked to have done the same thing.

The 44 Hairpin Turn Road sure lived up to its name; it even had the turns numbered with signs in case you doubted their honesty.  I have to admit, I started down the mountain with quite a bit of bravado for someone who hadn't ridden a motorbike in 7 months and who crashed it the last time she did (just a little crash, but I guess it still counts).  And of course I wanted to be able to keep up with the boys and not come off as just another girl who can't handle the power of a motorcycle or something like that.  So maybe I was going a little fast on a bike of questionable quailty when I got to turn 35 and maybe I braked too hard, but there's no doubt I skidded out, rolled off my bike, slid a few feet down the road, and wrecked my white shirt.  However, it is also true that I was totally fine, nothing in my backpack was broken, George was able to bend the handlebar back into shape, I had a spare shirt to change into, and we just kept going without any more accidents.  The only real damage was that I did not manage to reach my goal of being a girl who could handle a motorbike on her own without any help from the boys.

But we made it to the lake soon enough, alive and intact, and, as it turned out, anxious to keep going.  After we had spent a few minutes taking photos of the lake, someone suggested just going on to the ocean.  It would only take a few hours and we could still be home before dark (famous last words, right?).  Why not?  How often do you get the chance to ride a motorbike to the Indian Ocean?  The road around the lake was a great ride, too: flat, smooth and well-maintained, it allowed us to enjoy the scenery as it passed rather than having to worry about dodging potholes or rocks or something (although I did fidget with my helmet a lot as it threatened to blow off everytime I hit 60km or faster).  And once we got close to ocean, George and Elvis led us splashing through this marshy area full of invisible pits and deep sand.  How Elias and I made it through on scooters without falling, God only knows.  If only I could say it was sheer skill...

Oh, the sea, the sea!!  Enchanting!  It was about 90 minutes to sunset so the water was a frothy grey and the sun reflected off to create a path of light straight to your feet.  Warm water, strong breezes, little crabs running around your feet, coral washed up on the beach, colorful fishing boats, and of course a crowd all jostling to see George's and Elvis's motorcycles.  Don't you love how the ocean puts you in a trance?  Somehow it demands every iota of your attention and you spend hours just staring at the horizon.  But every minute spent on the beach is a minute longer after dark we'll arrive home.  Somehow, during our break and conversations with the fishermen, Otto disappears on us.  After a half-hour search we're on the road, but Otto is a very timid driver and Elias and I accidentally leave him behind on the road back to Bukittinggi.  So there's another search and by the time we reach the half-way point we have to turn our lights on for safety.  Elias leads and I'm the caboose behind Otto, and all I can do is pray Elias knows where he's going because I'm turned around by all of the curves and a bit distracted by buses coming towards me that don't have lights on and force me onto the shoulder.  Assholes.

Did I mention that there were bugs the size of half-dollars bouncing off my face as we rode?  Just wanted to point that out. 

But we made it!  We returned our bikes, got dinner, typed up our journals, and said goodnight.  I'm a bit disappointed that we weren't able to see more of the area, but riding with the guys forced me to take breaks to enjoy the scenery and I wouldn't have attempted the ocean on my own.  I definitely would have ridden right past the coffee stand that turned out to be such a nice pit stop and I probably would have gotten lost trying to backtrack all that way and find the caves.  I guess it means I'm just going to have to go back and explore the area again at some point.  Bummer.

Leia Mais…

The German Side of Indonesia

Today I woke up feeling fairly well-rested, but I have a feeling I could have slept for a few more hours if I had the chance. Immediately, I was debating if I really wanted to do anything before leaving for Bukittinggi: my head felt heavy and I wasn’t really thinking clearly. I just felt slow and a bit uninspired.

One thing I told myself about this trip was that I wasn’t just going to go out and do something because the travel guide says to. I will try to make it to their recommended sites and restaurants and such, but I just don’t see the good in dashing out to see every little thing when I’m not really that interested. I keep thinking if I don’t see x, y, or z I might be missing 3 of the coolest things I will ever see and that later I’ll regret not making the effort. But let’s be honest, odds are good that it’s not going to be the most beautiful thing ever, and to regret not forcing myself to do something I’m not really excited about is just silly.

One thing I will get out of bed for is breakfast, especially if it’s free. Given the choice between fried rice and scrambled eggs on toast I take the former, and I’m glad that I did. It was a huge portion and really tasty, served with those curved rice chips that they love here. And then there it was: my first cup of REAL Sumatran coffee! You have to be a bit careful when you drink kopi, though, because it’s served very differently than in the US. The grounds are right there in the mug, ground extremely finely, and hot water is poured over them, so be sure to wait until they settle to the bottom before you drink. Most places leave out a sugar bowl and pretty much everyone adds a few heaping spoonfuls of it (including myself) because this is a strong brew. If you order kopi susu, you’ll get a sizeable serving of condensed, sweetened milk stirred in, which is how most locals do it, but I just can’t bring myself to drink that stuff. Blech.

However, I might have to do something: Iyeli is coming to meet me at 9 and she is really anxious to take me out to see and do things. But all I want to do is go back to bed for an hour and then sleep on the bus on the way to Bukittinggi. Well, I think I just decided what I’m going to do this morning: very little. I’m going to apologize to Iyeli, sleep for an hour or two, check-out, and be on my way.

**3 hours later**

Why do I insist on thinking things are going to be easier than they actually turn out to be? Why did I think that I’d be able to get a bus to Bukittinggi relatively quickly? Why did I think that it wouldn’t take nearly as long as it’s turning out to be taking? I either need to be richer or more pessimistic and only one of those is likely to actually happen...

Okay, I’m not thinking about it, instead thinking about how beautiful it is that in the distance you can see clouds wrapping around the mountains that are covered in jungle so dense that everything in sight looks greenish-grey. How sweet it’s been for people to comment on the shalwar khameez I’m wearing and compliment me for making the effort to “dress Muslim”. The waterfall we just passed. The amazing view over the enormous cliff just a few feet from the wheels below me...

But at least we’re making good time. I think I’ve got to hand it to this guy. I’ve been on a lot of shitty buses with a lot of shitty drivers, but this guy has to be the most lethal. Despite the small children on board and the evidence of recent mud and rock slides along the edge of the road, he drives through the rain at an excessive speed, swerving between lanes so severely that our heads are bobbing side to side like toys. He only alters from this practice when we come to a curve (which, on a 2-lane road going up and down hills in the jungle, is fairly frequently), at which point he is gracious enough to accelerate WHILE passing in the opposite lane. Love it.

But outside the window is where the best action is: this is one of the most beautiful views I’ve ever had in my life. The rain clouds have moved in, burying the top half of the mountains in mist and fog, teasing the viewer with occasional glimpses of foliage and bungalows. Sometimes the jungle comes right up to the edge of the road and you swear you see a shadow move through the trees. And then there’s the terrace farming, neat steps of green carved out of the hillside that almost make it seem like living in a village is relaxing and romantic.

Buses offer odd glimpses into other people’s lives and sometimes I find myself very annoyed by it. There are a million pictures I couldn’t take today because we were going too fast and I couldn’t get my camera out or it wasn’t in focus or whatever. And even beyond that I want to stop and investigate some of these places and talk to the people. No, I take that back. Mostly I just want to take out my camera, sit in the background, observe what’s happening and take photos. I’m not like some people, who want to get to know the locals and stay with them and that sort of thing. I enjoy the occasional conversation, but mostly I want to sit back and soak things in.

So I am now in Bukittinggi. Maybe it’s that it’s raining (and I lurvs the rain), maybe it’s the view (heavenly), maybe it’s the fact that there aren’t people shouting at me as I walk down the street, maybe it’s the fact that other westerners are staying in my hotel... something about Bukittinggi is immediately relaxing and I can tell that I’m not going to be in any kind of a hurry while I’m here. All I have to do is decide if I’m interested in a tour or not, where to go on my motorbike tomorrow, and how many hot, chocolate-cinnamon pancakes are a good idea for me to have (do yourself a favor and have one at the Turret Cafe when you come to Bukittinggi next time).

I ask Ulrich, the German who owns Rajawali, the hotel I’m staying in, if he knows anything about renting motorbikes, and he tells me I should talk to another young man interested in renting one. He’s staying upstairs, near the rooftop garden. Enter: Elias, a 25 year-old German guy who is traveling the world for a few years. We decide to walk around town a bit together and spend a few pleasant hours getting to know each other while checking out the zoo, the market, a game of some kind of football/volleyball hybrid, and a quick dinner. When we return to Rajawali we meet George and Elvis, a Brit and Norwegian riding motorcycles around the world for a few years, and it doesn’t take long to decide we’ll all hit the road together tomorrow for my first motorbike ride in Indonesia. I give myself until lunch to crash/fall over, but right now I’m just interested in falling into bed. So goodnight.

Leia Mais…

And so it begins!

How is it that the first day of traveling is always the most jam-packed and eventful?

Last night, actually this morning, I ended up finding a cozy spot on a tucked-away staircase and managed to sleep for about half an hour before they started letting people into the airport. As soon as I checked my bag, though, I was hit by my next big expense (after the Rp250,000 visa at arrival): Rp40,000 exit fee from the airport! I’m not even sure what I’m ‘exiting’ because I’m just going from the check-in desk to the terminal and my flight is domestic. Even the locals have to pay it, though, which seems like it would be quite a stiff price hike for them.

Finally!! After sleeping on a row of benches at the gate for another few hours I hear what I think is good news: “Blah blah Indonesian blah blah PADANG blah blah Indonesian blah.” (BTW: It’s pronounced Pah-dahng) I assumed this was a boarding call, which fortunately turned out to be true, and so made my way down to the tarmac to the plane. An hour or two later I’m looking out the window at mountains blanketed in lush jungle that covers everything from the tips of the mountains straight down to a thin strip of clear, sandy beach. Tiny waves crash on even tinier rocks and the newly-risen sun reflects off of the ocean in a million and one sparkles. Trust me, I would jump out of this plane if I thought I could survive the impact.

And then I’m on the ground, ready for my first up-close look at Indonesia. The first thing you notice is that it’s green EVERYWHERE (sorry, but there was no, great show-stopping gift has lear and we remembered).. The jungle is omnipresent, only giving way to rice fields, small colorful houses, and roads. Children scatter like (and among) chickens outside wooden houses raised on stilts. Fat old men sit and yell at fit young men as they spar in a decaying outdoor boxing ring. Small mosques with steel minarets poke through the trees. Tricked-out opelets, public mini-buses, go screaming by with massive plastic grills and stickers showing Mickey Mouse, Avril Lavigne and gang signs, announcing their presence by blaring Michael Jackson.

After a ridiculous fiasco with the bus that involved a lot of me yelling, “No, you take me here or give me back money”, I finally get to my place, Hotel Imanuel, and get a tiny room located in a small outdoor courtyard where the staff do laundry and eat lunch. The price is an outrageous Rp150,000, but after doing some research I found it was about average. Hungry, I walk out along the street looking for a restaurant that I would never end up finding, but as I’m checking the addresses on the buildings and waiting to cross the street a red van pulls up. Enter: Iyeli, a native Padangian girl about my age.

Over a really good lunch of blackened honey chicken and fresh apple juice, Iyeli says that she likes to help tourists as much as she can, and she certainly provides a lot of good information and speaks English very well. She says her boyfriend is an Australian surfer (not that her parents know about this because he’s not Muslim), and he just goes around SEA looking for the perfect wave. In typical fashion for this part of the world, he’s 45. We chat about boys for a while, but she’s got to get to check on her store (she sells mobile phones as well as works as a tourism consultant and civil engineer, for which she’s also finishing her thesis) and exhaustion from my early-morning adventures has set in so we make plans to meet for dinner later and she drops me at my room.

After an hour’s sleep in what had become quite a warm room, I felt ready to go see the sights. The cultural museum was only a few minutes away and had beautiful traditional architecture. I love how the ends of the roof slope upward so dramatically and gracefully. The best exhibit had mannequins dressed in the traditional clothes of the various peoples of Indonesia, but there were also models of traditional homes and the standard displays of traditional food agriculture. I’d have taken more photos, but I didn’t want to stop walking because I was being stalked by a small group of schoolboys. Just the first awkward moment of many, I’m sure.

There isn’t a ton to see in Padang, but where I went next was what I most interested in: the Indian Ocean. The beach and water weren’t overly clean, unfortunately, and there was a fair amount of detritus washed onto shore, but the water was warm and from time to time huge waves would crash against each other. It felt good to stand a while and just watch Along the beach, tired-looking men and women watch TV in squalid stalls as they wait for someone to come along and buy water, juice or boiled turtle eggs in shades of ivory and pale blue. The eggs sit inside clear plastic bags, making what look like thick columns of ping pong balls.

Next, I walk southeast to the harbor, where colorful boats are moored and across the river small houses cling to the edges of the hill. The area is a bit ramshackle; you can still see signso f the earthquake and tsunami of 2004 in the cracked roads and ruined buildings. Reconstruction seems to be going very slowly here, although there are some surprisingly nice and new places, one of which I step into for a snack while I wait for a sudden rainstorm to end. My young waiter, like most Indonesians, speaks decent English and assumes that by coming into his restaurant I have just given him permission to practice with me. He’s endlessly curious, with questions about the US, my work, my tattoos, and, of course, why I’m single. He just keeps coming back to how he “thinks it’s better for [me] that [I] have man and a family”. Thanks, kid, I will go to Singapore right now and take care of that. It goes without saying he asks to be friends on Facebook.

The rain finally ends and I meet Iyeli to go for a quick driving tour. We start across the river, and since the sun has gone down you can see into the colorful homes—everyone is watching TV, it seems—and along the docks where wooden boats seemingly too small and fragile for such a powerful ocean bob lazily in shallow water. Our next stop is further north at the official Padang Beach, which I think should be renamed Umbrella Beach for the hundreds of them stuck in the sand. They’re anchored very low to the ground in order to almost totally conceal the two chairs beneath them, where young Muslim couples sit at night and do what they aren't supposed to even think about. Apparently, the police swing by from time to time to round up these unmarried law breakers.

Finally, we’re ready for dinner. After driving for quite a while looking for a place that serves good bakso and sio mai, the dishes I’ve been told to try, we settle into a side-of-the-road dive. I try not to think about where they get their drinking and dishwashing water from. Iyeli tries to teaches me some Indonesian while I try to choke down the mystery meat in front of me, and then she makes a really interesting comment that gets me thinking. She compared Indonesia and Malaysia, two countries that are about the same age, which are in the same region of the world, and have a similar language but which have vastly different economies and general levels of development. Iyeli thinks Malaysia is in a better situation because it used to be a British colony, whereas Indonesia was under Dutch control. According to her, Britain gave much more support to the nations that broke away from the empire in the 20th century than the Dutch did: “Look at Malaysia, Hong Kong and especially Singapore. The only place they screwed up was India, but that wasn’t Britain’s fault. Indian people are just impossible to work with.” I’m sorry to have to admit that a tiny part of me wanted to agree with her after my trip there, but I just changed the subject instead.

With my stomach full of delicious, albeit unidentifiable, Indonesian food, I was verklempt. It was time for bed so Iyeli drove me home with a tentative plan to meet tomorrow morning. I dragged myself to bed and drifted off cocooned in a scarf to keep the mosquitoes off. It didn’t work.

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Okay, it is technically June 3rd

OMFG I M 2 TIREDZZZZ

It’s 1:30am in Jakarta and over the last 3 nights I think I’ve gotten about ten hours of sleep.

Last night (if you can call it that): flew from Singapore to Jakarta and it just didn’t make any sense to go through the hassle of going to a hotel when I had to be back at the airport in 6 hours. Why, yes, I am a lazy and cheap bastard, thank you for noticing. My thanks go out to a very sweet couple who saw I looked a little lost and gave me a ride from the international to the domestic terminal, which turned out to be a few miles apart from each other. Looking back, though, I would have gotten a room if I’d known staying at the airport meant I’d have to sleep outside in 90% humidity on a bench already occupied by 3 other people and a clutch of cockroaches (attracted to the food and wrappers people stuffed between the slats of the bench) while the only food available to eat is Dunkin Donuts (Seriously? Here? WTH?). So now I find myself preparing to stand near a deserted ticket counter all night, but in one small way I’m lucky: the air con is still on in there and cool air is pouring out the hole in the window you talk through. It feels great...until I realize I can’t even get into the airport for another 4 hours.........................

Night before this: We had a goodbye dinner for Lauren Hammond on Arab Street from which I didn’t get home until 10, and of course my main objective was to set up the netbook I bought earlier that day. I set-up profiles, changed settings, learned about new programs, AND I even used Skype for the first time!! I did manage to pack, but only after I had checked on my favorite webcomics and updated my Facebook profile among other things. This was my own idiotic decision and I take full responsibility for the mere 3 hours of sleep I got. 

Night before the night before: Had a 6am flight from Kuala Lumpur to Singapore and got exactly 2 hours of sleep, including what I snuck in during the flight. I had taken the last shuttle bus to the airport at 10pm so I could skip paying for a hotel for a night or worrying about getting up at 3:45am and finding a taxi. I sat in the 24-hour Starbucks with a French guy from my guest house and I might have been able to doze off for a few hours, but he was sick so rather than trade off sleeping and watching our bags I just let him snooze. That lasted until about 3am when I couldn’t take it anymore and asked him just to let me be the one to sleep for an hour. Oh, and then I took the train straight in to work. Blechhhh.

The nights before these, though, I did quite well; I got to bed plenty early when I was staying in Melaka and KL and I even had the luxury of actual beds to sleep in. My plan for recovery: drop my bags at the hotel in Padang then sleep on the beach for a few hours before dragging myself down to the old harbor to eat fresh grilled fish while I watch the boats return from their day’s work then back to the beach to have drinks on the pier and watch the sun go down. Oh, my god, I’m drooling onto my new laptop.

But that will have to wait, since I’ve got 3 hours to go and I’m so tired I’m having periodic hallucinations. Grandma, if you’re reading this I’m sorry, but I would sell you for a 6’ square room with a dirty mattress on the floor. But as it is right now, you still couldn’t pay me enough to lay down with the cockroaches on those benches. Asia has helped me get over a lot of phobias, but nothing will get rid of the awful feeling of little legs scurrying all over you. So instead I’m going to bogard that little plastic stool over there and the patch of wall behind it and wrap my arms around my bags. Sweet dreams, I’m sure.

The toughest parts of traveling alone (female edition):
1. Dealing with the stares. Men, women, children, no one understands why there’s a single white female at the bus station.
2. Not being able to relax when you’re in public. There’s no one to watch your back or your stuff so you’re on guard 24/7. Also, you have to keep an eye out for danger AND ward off the relentless touts that just want to sell you cheap/grey-market goods and services.
3. To go along with number 2, 'Eve teasing’. This is the Indian term for sexual harassment against women. Not necessarily condoned in most countries, but certainly tolerated in a fair few of them.
4. Dealing with all of the questions about where your husband/boyfriend/partner is and why you’re traveling alone. Is he in the US? Why didn’t your friends come with you? Who takes care of you?
5. Guys (and very rarely women) wanting photos with you or just taking photos of you. This one I just don’t get. Yes, you saw a white woman, maybe even in a bathing suit, but hey! Look over there! Four more of us! WHY ARE YOU TAKING PICTURES OF ME?????????????? Sometimes, though, I do feel like I should let them when they ask because, hey, at least they showed some manners.
6. Fuckit i’m too tired. Going to lay down with the cockroaches now. Ooh, maybe I can sleep on a luggage trolley!

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