Goodbye Indonesia, Goodbye Southeast Asia

Alright, alright. I admit that Bali isn't all about beaches. Despite what I wrote on my previous post, there are other things to do on the island. I figured I'd pick my lazy ass off of the beach for a few days and do something more worthwhile with my time. (I did, however, return to the beach for a day and a half before I finally left. Just couldn't resist a few more hours in the sun.) Since I'm a sheep and not a shepherd, I followed everyone else to the city of Ubud. It's the place where tourists go to immerse themselves in the "true" Balinese lifestyle. (It's also been made famous by the recent book and movie, "Eat Pray Love.") One of the reasons why Ubud is considered special is because there's a strong Hindu influence in what is otherwise a predominantly Muslim area. So bundles of white people (i.e., the phonies) who think that studying eastern religions will help to reveal the secrets of life come here in their quest for enlightenment. So whenever you hear people talk about Ubud, it's always referred to as the cultural and spiritual center of Indonesia. Despite my usual skepticism at such things, let's be honest - I could use some culture in my life. My idea of culture usually involves a cold beer, my la-z-boy, and sports. So off I went to appreciate the culture and the art, and hopefully experience a little spiritual awakening...

...And none of that really happened. Oh, sure, the mass-produced art that's made just for tourists is nice to look at, for a while. But after I saw the same painting for the 60th time while walking from art gallery to art gallery, I questioned how "authentic" the art could really be. There might be some culture in Ubud, if you count being hassled all the time as "culture." And this is where I want to take a moment to go off on a random tangent about hassling. One thing that Ubud has, as does all of Indonesia, are people hassling you all the time. Most of the time it's pretty innocuous, like the "taxi drivers" standing on street corners screaming constantly, "Transport? Yes, you take my taxi!" Since they space themselves about three feet from each other, it's a constant din wherever you go. The walk from my bungalow in Ubud to the internet cafe was about 300 yards. In that span, it was not unusual to be offered "transport" 50 times. Like I said, they're rarely hostile; some even have a sense of humor about it because they are so accustomed to being rejected or ignored. This guy probably got tired of saying "Taxi!" and came up with perhaps a better method. I was tempted to create my own sign that said "No!" It would have been perfect for 95% of the Indonesians I came into contact with. However, some of the hasslers are pretty aggressive in their selling techniques. The most invasive were the old ladies selling fruit on the beaches. It would go something like this:

Peddler [old lady carrying a basket on her head with 40 pounds of fruit]: "Helllllooooooo, sir!"
Me [sitting on beach, thinking about whatever...]: "Hello."
Peddler [getting within 6 inches of me]: "Hello! You buy bananas!" [Not a question but a statement; shoving 10 bananas in my face.]
Me: "No thanks." [Thinking: what the hell would a tourist do with 10 bananas on the beach?]
Peddler: "Ok, you buy five bananas."
Me: "No." [Looking away and pretending to read my book.]
Peddler: "Ok. Five bananas you buy." [Putting five bananas on the ground next to me.] "You pay 20,000 rupiah [$2]. You pay now."
Me: "No! No buy! No bananas!" [Hating myself that I've been forced to use poor grammar.]
Peddler: "Ok, two bananas..."

And that would go on for a while. Even after she got the message, she'd still stand there looking at me for a few seconds as if I'd change my mind about buying 10 bananas. Yeesh.

Anyway, back to Ubud. To be fair, I don't want to paint a picture that all people in Ubud are solely after the tourist dollar. Yet I think that whatever culture existed back in the glory days seems to have been steamrolled and brushed aside by the crazy growth of tourism. If I had to venture a guess, I'd say 90% of the local population relies on tourism as the primary means of generating income. When I left Ubud after three and a half days, I asked the Dutch girl sitting next to me on the bus what she thought of the city. Her one word response summed it up perfectly: "touristic." So it's not just me, and I'm not exaggerating for effect, because I don't need to. This "spiritual" town had not one, not two, but three Dolce & Gabbana stores on the main street. Pictures don't lie:

And D&G was just the start. Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, and DKNY stores also featured prominently. At times I thought I had been drugged, kidnapped, and transported back to Rodeo Drive and/or Melrose Blvd. The bars and restaurants were no better; they all tried to ooze a hip, cool vibe. It was just too much. I'm not sure what I expected, but I certainly didn't expect what I found.

Ok, so I basically just took a big crap on Ubud. Which is not entirely fair. There are some interesting things to do and see in and around the Ubud area. Most of these interesting things I found while on a chartered day tour. Normally when I take these day tours it's in a minibus with anywhere from eight to twelve other young people. But this one was a bit different. My only two other companions were a 51 year old German woman and a 62 year old Dutch woman. (There we are having a delicious lunch.) When they first walked up to the car I thought, "Oh great, two old ladies. This tour is gonna suck." Shame on me. They were delightfully entertaining and were some of the best company I've had on any day trip. They were perfectly quirky and funny. The Dutch woman was an ethnographer and had studied Indonesian culture, so she was an excellent guide and far more helpful in explaining things than our driver who could barely speak English. Among other sites we visited a cave called Goa Gajah - the Elephant Cave - that was supposed to be one of the most impressive and important religious sites in Ubud. Walking up to the cave I was indeed impressed with the ornate carvings on the entrance that were done over 500 years ago. It had a certain Indian Jones quality to it. As I got to the entrance, I hoped to walk hundreds of yards down a narrow, dark passageway to some sacred idol that few people ever saw. Yeah... not so much. The cave was no more than 40 feet deep and at the end there was a small, cracked carving of Shiva. All I could think was, "This f**king thing has inspired people for 500 years?" I guess people are easily impressed. So much for Indiana Jones. (And, true to form, I was inappropriately dressed for this religious site. I had to purchase a sarong in order to cover my legs. With an unblemished record of heterosexuality, I have to admit that I liked wearing the sarong. It's lightweight, comfortable, and the blue brings out the color in my eyes... Oh man, did I really just say that?) After the cave we traveled to a region outside Ubud where acres of rice fields have been carved into the hillside. These were first made over a thousand years ago and are still used by farmers today. It's a remarkable engineering feat. My picture doesn't capture the scale of these fields. In many cases, they extend as far as the eye can see, which explains why I ended up eating rice at every damn meal, including breakfast.

We also visited several different religious structures on this tour. This first one is located on top of a natural water spring. The whole structure is designed to facilitate a "cleansing" of the body/spirit. People come here to wash off in the small pools that capture the spring water. I was bummed to learn that only Hindus are allowed to partake in the cleansing; it was so hot and humid that day I was tempted to convert just to take a dip in the pool. So I just watched, in total frustration, as other people cooled off while I baked in the sun. Then I thought, "How can they be certain I'm not Hindu? It's not like Hindus carry around a membership card... Or do they?" I started doing a little risk/reward calculation in my head. Reward = cooling of and possibly experiencing a religious awakening; Risk = potentially getting accosted, beaten, arrested, and/or starting a holy war, and potentially pissing off Shiva, Vishnu, or 300 million other Hindu gods. (Pissing off one god is bad enough, but 300 million??) Close call, but I decided the risk was too great. And my fears of getting accosted were validated at the next site we visited, called Besakih Temple. It's supposed to be the most important Hindu temple on Bali. It's built into the side of a mountain and extends over 500 yards from top to bottom. The fun began when we arrived at the base of the temple and began to climb the stairs to first of many sanctuaries. About 11 men were milling about near the staircase. (At the time of the photo, you can only see three of them sitting at the top of the staircase.) As the two ladies and I approached the temple, they blocked the entrance and refused to let us pass. They claimed to be "guardians" and would not permit us access unless they accompanied us, and then only to certain limited parts of the temple. All of this, of course, for a "guardian fee." Normally I'd believe these guys and would just go along with it, or at least I wouldn't fight it. But my guide book specifically warned me that these guys were full of crap; that they were best ignored; and that despite all their aggressiveness, they had absolutely no authority to do anything. Most tourists, nevertheless, either paid these guys or were intimidated by them and just left. The two ladies I was with were ready to leave, but not me. I walked past them and headed for the stairs. That's when two of them grabbed me, pulled me back, and asked, in broken English, if I wanted trouble. Again, at this point I'd normally just give in - one of the rules that has served me well while traveling in Third World countries is, "Don't be stupid." Holding true to that rule is no easy task for me - as stupidity is often my default condition - but I've done pretty good with it so far. But armed with the guidebook's instruction, I plowed right ahead. You also have to keep in mind that these guys are about 5'3" and weigh about 120 pounds. I told them to piss off and kept walking towards the stairs. By the time I reached the first stair, I was in a shoving match with one guy who told me - I kid you not - "I'm going to fuck you up." Oh, really?? That's when it was time for me to unleash the patent-pending "David Newman Stream Of Foul Language." No need to repeat what I said, but a good 50% of the next 100 words out of my mouth can't be broadcast on tv. And that was that. They caved in, realizing that they weren't going to intimidate this guy into paying them a "guardian fee." The three of us walked calmly into the temple. So what about the temple itself? It's a nice structure with great views and impressive carvings, but not worth the hassle. So much for kind, gentle, spiritually enlightened people in Ubud.

I spent the rest of my time in Ubud just walking around and trying to get away from the other tourists. By and large, my efforts failed. Everywhere I went there were other tourists. (At one point I walked for hours through a giant rice field hoping for a quiet Zen moment. Still, more tourists. And in case you didn't know, rice fields are boring. No need to walk for two hours when 10 minutes will do. Rice is rice.) Yet some of the things I saw were fun nevertheless. For example, at the south end of the main road in central Ubud is a monkey sanctuary. It's no more than a few acres but it houses at least 400 macaques. These aren't shy, cute little monkeys that hide in the trees. These are aggressive, loud, confrontational little buggers that come up to people and steal food if you're not looking. Here I am walking through the entrance way, where the monkeys have learned to congregate in order to get fed by people who bring bananas. I counted 73 macaques within eyesight. It's all fun and games until they reach for someone's camera dangling from a wrist, thinking it's a banana. Then it's a classic showdown of man (usually, female Japanese tourist) versus beast. One woman shrieked like a banshee when the monkey jumped onto her arm and grabbed her purse. I didn't know humans could scream that loudly. That alone was worth the price of admission.

My favorite activity was watching a traditional Balinese dance show. Yes, it was all for tourists, but it least it had a hint of actual Ubud culture that predated tourism. It was accompanied by music on instruments that I had never seen before. Half of them were small gong-like instruments and half of them were piano-looking things that were struck with a hammer-type object. What really stood out was something the female dancers did; they moved their eyes and fingers back and forth rapidly during the entire 90 minute performance. The eye thing was especially trippy. It looked like they were convulsing on purpose. Crazy.

So that's it. The end of my three week stay in Indonesia. After nearly four months, I'm done with Southeast Asia (and it's probably done with me). The next leg of my journey brings me to Australia. Before I depart Southeast Asia, I leave you with my completely random "List of Things I'll Miss, And Won't Miss, About The Asian Third World." These are in no order whatsoever:

Things I'll Miss:

Massages. Oh man, how I love a good massage. It's probably genetic, inherited from my father who taught me the value of visiting spas whenever possible. I had a massage in just about every country I visited. There are some slight regional differences, but overall these ladies know how to use their hands (and feet, and arms, and elbows.) In Vietnam and Laos the massages were so cheap ($3-$5) that I racked up 11 in a 23 day span. And in Ubud, it was six dollars for massage. I visited the same spa all three days I was there. They actually remembered my name on my third visit. And fifteen dollars for a massage, body scrub, and facial. Oh. My. God. That was two hours of pure bliss.

Warm weather, especially at night. Granted, it's really, really f**king hot during the day. And Vietnam - holy shit was it scorching! But for the most part, after you come back from touring all day and you take a shower (always cold water), it's wonderfully pleasant once the sun goes down. It's usually that perfect temperature where you can't feel anything. No cool chill, no heat. It's just like the air doesn't even exist.

Low, low prices. A decent room for $15; beer (in the non-Muslim countries) for a buck; and decent meals for no more than a few dollars. In Vietnam, it was even cheaper. If a meal costs more than $2, you're getting wildly ripped off.

Street food. Basically what we're talking about here are the same kind of unregulated but delicious vendors who grill bacon-wrapped hot dogs after football games. They often make the best food for the lowest price; can be found virtually anywhere; and are super quick. Plus, it saves me the ignominy of eating 45 minute meals at restaurants by myself all the time. Constantly having to say "Table for one" can really wear on you.

Beaches. Empty or crowded, white sand or black, gentle ripples or pounding waves. You can find them all. You've seen the pictures and heard the stories. Just awesomeness.

Sunsets. Truly amazing to behold. I love me a good sunset, and there's plenty to be had in these parts.

Casual dress. I've never been mistaken for a fashion hound; I still wear a few shirts and pants from college. So the fact that I can wear a ratty t-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals almost everywhere is heavenly. Except for a few religious sites, I've never had to wear long pants, dress shoes, or a dress shirt. Thank you, Southeast Asia, for not judging people by their clothes.

Fruit shakes. Someone must have sent out a memo to Southeast Asia that backpackers like fruit shakes, and I proudly put myself in that category. They can be found just about anywhere at any time, for about a dollar. The fruit is right off tree, literally. Banana and pineapple are my favorites - add coconut milk and/or water, a little sugar, some ice, and a pinch of cinnamon (for the banana shakes), and you've got liquid heaven. My favorites were in Siem Reap, Cambodia and Luang Prabang, Laos, where I had a shake every breakfast and usually one or two during the day as snacks.

Being tall. I'm about a foot taller than every other person. True, I got a lot of "holy crap that guy is tall" stares. However, people get out of my way on the streets and I think my height has prevented me from being subjected to extra hassling in certain situtations. (The same can be said for being white. But that works against me too, as it marks me as a tourist and I know I'm getting ripped off most of the time.)

Niceness of non-tourism people. On the handful of occasions when I had meaningful interactions with people who weren't trying to sell me something, I had nothing but positive experiences. I've tried to remember all of the people who wanted nothing more than to talk with me about America, buy me drinks, join in their basketball game, and help them with their English, but there are simply too many to recall. How can you not like people who, like the ferry operator in Laos, felt bad about the boat being delayed so he gave me two shots of rice whiskey, some fruit, candy, and half of his sandwich?

The English language. English is the undisputed universal language in these parts. Without it, you can't go anywhere. I am so thankful for whatever forces of humanity in the last 60 years made English the one language people have to know to travel the world.

And most of all...

Meeting other travellers. Without a doubt, this has been the best part of my trip so far. Some people are just on a short vacation while others are traveling the world. Some have quit their jobs, some haven't even started working. Whatever their stories, I love hearing about them. The people I've met are happy, energetic, open-minded, and adventurous. Which makes sense - they're on vacation and having a blast. But it's so refreshing to get away from an environment where people bitch and moan all the time with no appreciation for just how fortunate they are. Additionally, most of the travellers I've met are non-Americans who look at their place in the world - particularly, their relationships with their jobs - in a refreshingly new way, i.e., they work to support their outside interests and don't let the fear of not being employed ruin their lives. I love it.

Things I Won't Miss

Rice (white and fried). If you are what you eat, I'm basically a rice bowl with some chicken/pork and veggies on top. I never want to see rice again. Rice: you can go to hell.

Roosters, and stray dogs and cats. I hate them all. I don't get it - what do they have to gain by waking me up at 3:00 a.m., 5:00 a.m., and 7:00 a.m.? I'm not a violent person, but the next animal that squaks, barks, or meows during normal sleeping hours will come to an unpleasant end.

The toilet situation. Okay, Southeast Asia, let's sit down and talk for a second. First, the lack of toilet paper. Not cool. You can't expect me to feel good after doing my business by simply taking a cup of water and pouring it down my crack. Not only does that not resolve the "situation," it just ends up making my ass wet. What good does that do? Now I have a wet ass, and more commonly, wet legs and wet feet. And the last thing I want to think about is having water drip down my legs when it started out as a cleaning mechanism for my ass after I took a dump. I don't know how this system started, but it's a crappy one. Southeast Asia, it's time to get yourself equipped with some soft two-ply from the local drug store. I'm tired of having to carry around an emergency handful of t.p. in my cargo shorts just in case I venture into a bathroom where there's no t.p., which is 85% of the time. Second, the squat toilets. Seriously?? Just a hole in the ground and nothing more, eh? At first I thought, "Okay, something new. I'll adopt the local culture. I'll work on my aim." The novelty was neat - I felt like I was flying a B-52 and I had to unload my cargo in the right spot. But after a while, it just got annoying. I like to sit down when I do my business. It's an important part of my usual routine. Back when I was working, I'd walk into the office, boot up my computer, and then walk to the reception area to grab the Sports section of the L.A. Times so I could sit in the crapper for as long as I needed while I read the day's sports news. I think there's something very comforting about the combination of shitting and reading at the same time. I need that combination every morning or things just don't feel right for the rest of the day. So, squatting becomes a real problem. My knees aren't strong enough to squat for twenty minutes while I try to find out who's leading the NBA in assists per game. This is all theoretical, of course, since I couldn't find any American newspapers with a decent sports section at the hostels where I was staying. But the point is this: I gotta sit to shit. I don't drink coffee, so my morning bowel movement is very important to me. It sets the tone for the whole day. If I don't have a good b.m. before 9:00 a.m., the world just seems gray. The simple truth, as I've learned, is that I can't have a good b.m. without sitting. Southeast Asia - I'm glad we had this talk.

Speedos. Did European men not get the message? No one wants to see your package. If you want to wear short swim trunks that go halfway up your thighs like running shorts, ok. That's fine. But Speedos? Do us all a favor and spare us the vomit-inducing experience of having to gaze upon your junk.

Metric and Celsius. Granted, the metric system makes a lot of sense. Probably more so than the crazy calculations you have to do determine how many yards are in three miles. But I don't care. I'm sick and tired of being forced to say that my hostel is 100 meters down the road, or having to convert Farenheit into Celsius every time someone asks me what the weather is like in Los Angeles. My brain needs to think in terms of miles, inches, gallons, and 80 degree weather.

Crappy protein. If you order anything with chicken, beef, pork, or fish, expect to find a tiny amount of meat that's more than 75% skin, bones, and other inedible material. I would have to order 5 chicken dishes in Southeast Asia to get the same amount of chicken I'd get in one meal in the U.S.

Ants, roaches, geckos, mice, and rats. They're everywhere, including motel rooms, sidewalks, and restaurants. Nothing makes you feel worse about the food you're about to eat than watching a roach/mice/rat walk out of the kitchen when you just put in your order for chicken fried rice. Makes me wonder... am I really eating chicken?

Being forced to watch soccer. I'm not a soccer hater, but if the U.S. isn't playing a World Cup-related game, I don't care. Unfortunately, any and every bar in these parts shows only soccer on the t.v. It makes me want to pull an Oedipus. Only being able to watch soccer on the t.v. is truly a fate worse than death.

Lack of Mexican food. I'm dying - dying - for a good burrito. I'm in serious guacamole withdrawal. I haven't had a margarita since... I can't remember when. Here's a stock tip: invest in Baja Fresh. When I get home, their sales are going through the roof.

Lack of directions. How hard is it to say, "The [place I'm looking for] is 100 meters on your right." Or, "Go past the second light, take a right, and walk 50 meters." Instead, I get people telling me, "It's over there." And if you ask to get more specific directions, they look at you like you're an idiot for not being able to figure it out. Oh, okay, I'll just go over there then... That's reeaallll helpful.

So that's it. I'm all done here. Off to Australia. I leave you with the one immutable, irrefutable, and absolute rule of Southeast Asia: no matter where you go, no matter where you are - whether in a city of 10 million people or tens of miles from the nearest sign of civilization, you will always hear American pop music. Always. You cannot escape it. You cannot avoid it. You simply cannot hide from Guns n' Roses, Miley Cyrus, Jay-Z, and all the other artists that have inhabited the Top 40 charts in the last 20 years. It's the only constant in an otherwise wide and varied region of the world. That, and squat toilets.

Bali and Beyond: The Days Are Just Filled...

Being a beach bum ain't easy. All that relaxing and doing nothing can really wear you down. With the laborious tasks of putting on sunscreen, swimming in the ocean, reading novels, drinking beer and fruit shakes, AND getting massages, you've got a lot on your plate. Plus, you have to remember to rotate every 30-45 minutes when laying out, otherwise you'll get an uneven tan, and you can't have that happen. Yes, it's a rough life indeed, but someone has to do it. I guess I'll bite the bullet and volunteer...

Bali. It's one of the major islands in Indonesia and the center of tourism in the country. Does it have culture, history, art? Maybe. But I want beaches. And it ain't hard to find 'em. White and black sand beaches envelop the entire coastline, sandwiched between crystal-clear water and endless rows of palm trees. Some are well-known and densely populated; others are devoid of human existence. Some beaches can only be reached by bribing a local fisherman to take you to an uninhabited island, like this tiny little one I crashed on for a while. It probably doesn't need saying, but having an island all to yourself is just about the most incredible thing in the world. Master Of The Universe; or, at least, a tiny mound of dirt sticking out of the Indian Ocean. Whatever kind of beach you're looking for, Bali and its neighboring islands have it.

My beaching began in Kuta, on the southwestern portion of Bali. Together with the adjacent beaches of Legian and Seminyak (it's really all one stretch of beach, just with three different sections), it's the place most people - especially young people - first come to when they arrive in Bali. If there were a statue welcoming people to Kuta, it's inscription would probably read something like, "Give me your young, your tanned, your drunk Australians yearning to get laid..." It's the over-commercialized, over-developed, over-populated, loud, and rowdy beach area where Aussies make their annual pilgrimage for cheap beer and good surf. (I'm not much of a surfer so that aspect of it is lost on me, but the waves can get pretty big; from dusk 'till dawn, there's an army of surfers - some novices, others seasoned veterans - trying to catch the ultimate wave.) Everywhere you look it's 19 year-old surfer-types who latch on to every here-today-gone-tomorrow fashion fad. Kuta is perfectly designed for that crowd: loud bars, tattoo parlors, and 10,000 square foot clubs pounding music at 4:00 a.m. All you need to know is that there's a Hard Rock Hotel fronting the water, and it's next to a McDonald's. So yeah, not exactly tropical paradise. More like paradise paved. The place is so popular that white folks strongly outnumber locals. From a bird's eye view of the beach, you'd be hard-pressed to differentiate Kuta from, say, Huntington Beach in Southern California. If I took a photo of Huntington Beach on any given Saturday in the summer and compared it to a snapshot of Kuta when I was there, I wouldn't be able to tell which was which. The only real difference is that at Kuta (and Indonesia in general), people approach you every 30 seconds trying to sell ice cream, fruit, sunglasses, sarongs, and beer. Other than that, it's the same. And for the record, I don't mean to pick on Aussies. They're good people. But let's be honest, when you put that many young drunkards together on a beach setting, regardless of nationality, the collective IQ drops 30 points (if not more), herd mentality takes over, and the bottom line is all about being (and looking) cool. As I read their faces when they passed me by on the streets, I guessed that the most serious things on their minds were, Is this dress too slutty? Would it be cooler if I carried my surfboard under my right or left arm, or carried it over my head? Like, omg, why is [fill in name of best friend] suuuch a bitch?, and Whoa! She's got a nice ass! Although, to be fair, if I had heard anyone talk about global fiscal policy or the like, I'd have puked. Trite, banal conversation is exactly what I'm looking for when I'm on vacation. It's refreshing to be around people who are enjoying themselves and don't give a crap about things they can't control. So, yeah, I have to admit that I liked Kuta. Not that I would ever spend a full vacation in Kuta, but it's a good place to crash for a while and soak up the craziness. There's plenty of cheap but quality lodging; the food is not half-bad; and the beach is worth the scene.

Having done the crowded Kuta thing, I wanted to break out and start looking for the remote beaches I had heard about from other travelers. In order to do that, I had to travel east. (The more east you go in Indonesia, the less populated the islands are.) Once I got started heading east, I just kept going. I went so far that, before I realized it, I managed to get myself off Bali and onto the next major island, Lombok. It was a bit of a screw-up on my part - I planned on reaching Lombok at some point, just not so soon - but I had to go back to Bali anyway (it's where the airport is), so I just rearranged my schedule a bit. (Random side note: part of the trip east involved a ferry crossing. On the ferry were a bunch of tourists, and where there are tourists in Indonesia, there are always locals trying to hit them up for money. Before the boat left the dock, one guy was walking around the ferry while "playing" the guitar - i.e., butchering some chords - and going from tourist to tourist with a tip jar. He sucked so bad no one gave him any money. When he came to me, I actually said to him, "I'll pay you to stop playing." I don't think he understood me, but that's not the point. I really would have paid him to stop, he was that bad. Keep in mind that I'm pretty conservative with my money, so you can just imagine how badly this guy sucked for me to actually be willing to pay him to stop playing. I watched his entire 30 minute "performance" which garnered him exactly squadoosh, and culminated in a "Fuck you all" to the tourists as he left the boat empty-handed. So, the final tally is -- musical performance: F; willingness to insult strangers: A+.) After I got off the ferry and got on a bus that I hoped would take me somewhere good, I found myself in the sleepy town of Senggigi. It serves a very small, but growing, tourist population. There's a tiny strip of commercial development about half a mile long, which is set along a single street about 100 yards back from a portion of the main beach. A few bars and restaurants, a smattering of small hotels, one Sheraton (tastefully blended in with the natural landscape), and not much else comprise the main town. The beaches - broken apart by the occasional bay or rocky outcropping - span nearly 15 miles long - way beyond the main commercial drag. They are all black sand, courtesy of the volcanic rock from nearby Rinjani volcano that sits 12,000 feet above sea level. To call these beaches quiet would be the understatement of the year. It's not just that nobody else was around when I was laying out on some of these beaches. A few beaches have nothing - zip, zero, zilch - around them for miles. In a way it's surreal because you'd just naturally expect developers to come in and build the crap out of these places. But there they were, the holy grail of beaches: untouched by human hands. Surf, sand, palm trees... and this guy. That was it. Here's one I found while cruising the coastline - the only sign of any human existence was an abandoned bamboo shed (this comes courtesy of my newly-discovered ability to upload videos to my blog):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8Qjc34CWeI

At first I thought I'd get bored of Senggigi, since it is, as I said, sleepy. Nope. It's the perfect mix, and it has some of the most amazing sunsets I've ever seen. (The island actually comes to a halt around 6:00 p.m. as locals and tourists alike head for the beach to watch the sun descend through the palm trees until it sneaks below the horizon.) There's just enough commercial development in the small town to satisfy one's urban needs (food, booze, and decent lodging). I even visited the same bar three nights in a row courtesy of a great cover band that played all my requests. (On my last night there, a middle-aged British guy and I got drunk together and stayed at the bar well beyond official closing time so we could sing along with the band that - due to our plying them with booze all night long - stayed to accommodate our incessant requests for more songs by U2, Rolling Stones, and ACDC.) At the same time, Senggigi has gorgeous isolated beaches within walking distance and virtually no crowds. And the black sand... just divine. Yeah, I'm on the Senggigi bandwagon. I have no doubt, however, that in 10 years' time this place will be packed with Hyatts and Hiltons and annoying crowds. So I'm glad I had the opportunity to see it before it became debased.

From Senggigi I figured I'd try another set of beaches that came highly recommended to me from a girl I met in Laos. These beaches are found on the Gili Islands, three tiny little islands that barely stick out of the water. They sit just off the northwestern coast of Lombok and are less than a mile apart from one another. Each one has it's own identity; the one I stayed on, Gili Trawagan, is the furthest out, the largest (a whopping 3 square miles), and the "party island." Gili T, as it's known, is home to 800 locals and, at any given time, 300 to 3,000 tourists, most of whom are under the age of 30. There are a few fancy hotels, but for the most part, it's small homestays and bungalows dotting the beaches, along with a shitload of bars, restaurants (some fancy, others simple) and scuba shops, scuba shops, and more scuba shops. There is no motorized traffic, so everything is reached either by walking, biking, or taking a horse-drawn carriage. Fortunately, about half of the beachfront is completely undeveloped, so it's possible - as I did many times - to walk 30 minutes from "town" to find a portion of the beach where you can be hundreds of yards away from anyone else. As for the beaches themselves, they're a bit of a mixed blessing. I was expecting perfect white-sand beaches. They're not. There's a lot of coral in the water, so the beaches are littered with broken bits of dead coral that makes it rough to walk on. Furthermore, the undeveloped parts are really undeveloped, so there is a good deal of trees and bushes mixed in with the sand. So if you're expecting postcard-esque beaches, you'll be disappointed. I realize I sound annoyingly spoiled when I complain about not having perfect beaches everywhere I go. But, in fact, the rough beaches on Gili T grew on me. They weren't manicured or "beautified." They we're just as they might have been found long before tourism took hold. In that way, it was pleasantly refreshing to see nature as it was and, perhaps, as it should be. While on the islands, I also did some snorkeling. It was decent but nothing fantastic. I did come across a few turtles and was able to touch one of them. I realize that's a no-no, but it was right there in front of me. I couldn't help myself. It didn't even seem to care. And you know what happens when you snorkel for hours on end, day after day? You start to wonder about the fish and what their lives are like and what they're thinking. Are the fish in the ocean just chilling out before the snorkelers get to them? Maybe they're sitting around some coral, playing cards, drinking scotch, smoking cigars, and telling stories about the good ol' days. Then, a snorkeler jumps in the water from a boat, or approaches from the shore. Maybe there's a lookout fish or crab, and he sounds the alarm, and the fish whip into action, swimming around, puckering their mouths, moving their gills, getting into "school formation." Are they happy to see us and put on a show, or is it tedious and boring? Maybe there's a head fish who's screaming out orders: "Coral - start swaying gently with the current! Eels - put on your scary face! Clownfish - act cute because everyone wants to take pictures of you!" And what about those clownfish, the star of "Finding Nemo"? Are the clownfish happy to be portrayed as cute and sweet? Have they let the fame go to their head, swimming around with their chests puffed out, bad-mouthing all the other fish who haven't starred in a Pixar movie? Do the other fish secretly curse Pixar and plot to kill all the clownfish? Questions like these tend to lodge in my brain after a while.

I have way too much time on my hands.

After a few days on the Gili Islands, I headed back to Lombok. While in Senggigi, I had come across a tour company that offered an appealing five day boat trip. The purpose was to visit many of the remote islands in the far eastern region of Indonesia - like the one pictured here (I forget its name) - as well as a visit to Komodo National Park to observe Mother Nature's version of the bad motherfucker: the komodo dragon. It was billed as a five day, four night adventure into the "uncharted" areas of Indonesia. I hoped it wasn't too "uncharted" since I wanted the captain to have some idea where the hell he was going. I was also a bit apprehensive about being on a boat with a bunch of strangers for five days. If the vibe with the other passengers sucked, it was going to be a long five days. My curiosity to see the dragons got the best of me, though, and I signed on the dotted line. I'm sure glad I did. This was perhaps the best five consecutive days of traveling so far. In fact, I had such a good time that I'm going to break one of my rules for this blog and promote the tour company. It's called Perama Tours, and if you ever find yourself in these parts with the time to take the five day boat trip, do it.

There were 31 people on the first leg of the trip. (The trip was broken into two legs - the first three days were outgoing. At the end of the third day, about half the people left the boat to continue to onward over land, while 12 new people joined the remaining passengers for the return trip. I stayed on board all five days.) It was a mixed group of Europeans and Canadians, and me. Once again, yours truly was the only American. There was a large contingent of Dutch people -- Indonesia was once a Dutch colony, so there are strong ties between the two countries. The Canadian contingent consisted of 11 guys who were between 22 and 24 years old; there was a strong fraternity vibe there, but when they did make an effort to mingle with the rest of us, they were polite enough. Fortunately for me, there were three Brits and three Aussies, and us native English speakers bonded quickly. The three Brits - Jamie, Emma, and Marissa, pictured below in deep conversation - were great companions, and Jamie became my b.f.f.t.d. (best friend for three days.) Ok, I have to admit that the accommodations on the boat sucked big time, as you can see pictured to the left. People either slept on the deck - yes, you heard me, out in the open - or in a "cabin." I was in a three person "cabin" with two nice Dutch guys. The cabin's dimensions were: six feet high, five feet wide, and six feet long. I got the top bunk - a tiny "bed" that was too short and narrow for me - while the Dutch guys had to split a twin bed on bottom. Plus, we had to fit our luggage in the room. So that sucked. But in a way, it made the trip much better because no one wanted to spend a second longer in their room than they absolutely had to. People sat out in the main galley and on the deck whenever possible. This forced us to talk with one another, eat meals together, and generally do everything and anything with everyone else except sleep and poop. Plus, we caught great weather all five days. Not only was there not any rain whatsoever, but there were hardly any clouds. So everyone wanted to be outside on the small front deck getting as much sun as possible. After the first full day, it was like we had known each other for years.

The plan for five days was divided between three main activities: snorkeling, laying out on empty beaches, and observing komodo dragons. The first day, around lunchtime, we landed on a private beach smaller than a football field and we stayed there until well after the sun went down. We snorkeled, we played volleyball, we did nothing. It was marvelous. The hours dragged on into the night, and no one seemed to care. The sun exited stage left, the stars entered stage right, and the half-moon was bright enough to light up the sky. For dinner, we had a campfire barbecue and we did a little sing along with a few guys who brought guitars - John Denver would roll over in his grave if he knew how badly some of the people sang "Country Roads." The guides tried to teach us an Indonesian line dance, but we all sucked miserably. When we got back on the boat, we all stayed up drinking Anker beer (the local brew, which ain't too bad) and looked in awe at a perfectly black night sky pierced by thousands of little lights. Everyone else went to sleep but I was restless, so I gazed out at the night's sky and pondered questions big and small: how did the universe begin?; what's the meaning of life?; will the Lakers three-peat?; should I make the switch from Colgate to Aquafresh?

The tour kept getting better. We had more amazing snorkeling in the morning of the second and third day. I've already described my snorkeling adventures ad naseum before in this blog, but once again, truly mind-blowing. Colors, shapes, sizes of the coral - it was an amazing kaleidoscope of nature. Fish of all types, rays, turtles, snakes. Epic. On the second day, we also hiked to a saltwater lake in another island. Due to the high concentration of saltwater, our entire bodies floated on the surface. If you were standing on the edge of the lake, you would have stared out at 31 bodies looking like starfish hovering on the surface of the water. Off to another deserted island where, along the way, some dolphins decided to join the party. Seriously, what's cooler than having dolphins swim along your boat? Nothing - that's what. So we got to this tiny deserted island, swam to the beach, and - no surprise here - just laid out and chatted the day away. But... not all was right in tropical paradise. We forgot the beers! How could we forget the beers?!?! That's when I had to step up and do something. I don't like to throw the term "hero" around lightly, but what I did was nothing short of the most heroic thing any human has ever done in the history of doing heroic things. After we all realized that we didn't bring any beer, a feeling came over me, took hold of my soul and said, "This is your time. They need you. They NEED you. Be that guy. Be. The. Guy." My fate was sealed. I slowly stood up and turned to look at my friends. They stared at me, a mixture of confusion and uncertainty painted across their faces. I turned away from them, faced the boat, and began the long (very short) walk to the water's freezing (warm) edge. Slowly, they began to realize what was about to happen. I turned around one last time - paused ever so slightly, my eyes squinting in the failing sun - and gave them a final John Wayne nod of my head. From the distance I heard a cry, "No, David. Please! Don't do it!! You don't need to risk it!!" But it was too late. Into the water I dove, with my mind set on one thing, and one thing only: cold beer. A lesser man might have asked for help. A lesser man would have turned around as the crashing waves (tiny swells) beat down on him like Ike Turner. Hundreds of miles (yards) later, I reached the boat, tired and drained and ready to quit. Then I opened up the cooler. I was recharged with the power that can only come from seeing the true beauty that is the perfectly sweet combination of water, barley, yeast, and hops, all packaged in cheap aluminum. Back I went, braving the shark-infested waters (false) and giant squids (also false). My b.f.f.t.d. Jamie came to rescue near the shore line just as I was about to sink into oblivion. But there I was, alive, and with beer. The entire island erupted into a massive celebration (still false) and anointed me the chosen one (totally false). Some called me "the guy who swam 700 yards in open seas and came back with beer." Others called me crazy. The voice inside my head said, simply, "Hero."

Days three and four were all about the komodo dragons. There are only about 2,500 in the world, and they all live on a few islands in Indonesia, the main ones being Komodo Island and Rinca Island. They look like giant lizards and eat anything and everything, including ox, deer, boar, and humans. And when they eat, they don't leave anything behind, including bone. (Although they don't digest the bone, so their poop is white. I swear it on a stack of bibles.) They range from eight to eleven feet long, weigh up to 200 pounds, can reach 12 miles per hour in a sprint, and can eat their weight in a single sitting. And, I'll be honest, they just look likes badasses. They've got long teeth, razor sharp claws, and although they walk slowly, they've got that "I can eat anything I want, including you" feel about them. Given all this, you'd think that the precautions necessary to view these animals in their natural setting would be more than a stick. Yet, that's all the guides carry with them. So off we go, all 31 of us, into Komodo National Park, in search of the dragons, with nothing more than a single guy holding an eight foot long stick to protect us. The guides repeatedly warned us that it was a nature reserve, not a zoo, so there was no guarantee of seeing any dragons. How much would that have sucked - to travel by boat for three days specifically to see komodo dragons, and then not see them? And yet, within ten minutes of starting out, there they were. Two beasts right before our eyes. The one over my shoulder is an older male, about ten feet long. As I turned around to see him right before I took this picture, I thought, "I'm not comfortable the way you're staring at me..." These animals are awe, and fear, inspiring. In all I saw about 30 of them spread over different parts of the two islands. They just look and feel like lean, mean killing machines. Most of the time they'd just lie on the ground and turn their heads every now and then. This lulled us into a false sense of security. Jamie and I would often inch closer and closer to get a better look, sometimes getting withing six or seven feet. Then the dragons would get to their feet and we'd go running away and screaming like scared little girls. Fuckin' awesome! Then there was this one, who I started to record on my camera. Here's rule number one of komodo dragons: don't take your eyes off them. Just as I was zooming in to record this one walk past me, I caught another one in the corner of my eye coming right for me. So forgive the crappy footage at the end of the video - I was trying not to get eaten:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQNmuJwTdPU

Equally as incredible as the dragons are the islands that they inhabit. Komodo and Rinca islands are part of Komodo National Park. The Park encompasses hundreds of islands - some big, some smaller than an acre. There's virtually no development anywhere, so the islands are pure nature. On both Komodo and Rinca islands, our group hiked to some of the higher points (ever watchful of the dragons) and soaked in the raw beauty before us. Despite being near the equator, these islands are not lush rainforests. In fact, the setting is very reminiscent of Southern California; scrub brush, palm trees, and a thin layer of light green grass is the norm. What makes it incredible is the complete lack of humanity. No buildings, no cell towers - nothing. Even back on the boat, the whole area remains spectacular. The view of the islands as you sail across this stretch of water is amazing. Little spits of land pop up left right and show you what nature is all about.

The remainder of our time was spent doing more snorkeling, more beaching, and more drinking. It was awesome. And, thanks in large part to me, the Europeans on the boat were afforded with one of the greatest educational experiences of their lives. It was so remarkable that historians have immediately dubbed it the "PB&J" incident. When your children read about it in the history books years from now, you'll remember that it all comes back to me. As background, most of our meals, including breakfast, were of the Indonesian variety - white rice, some sort of mystery meat, veggies, and watermelon. Then, one morning, out of the blue, breakfast was toast with three options: butter, strawberry jelly, and peanut butter. Finally, something that wasn't white rice! I was hungry that morning, so upon seeing these options before me, I immediately jumped to the only possible conclusion that would fully satisfy me: peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The ol' PB&J. Admittedly not a common breakfast item, but PB&J is so classic it defies rigid categorization. It's pure heaven. Not that I eat a lot of PB&J sandwiches these days, but that's beside the point. If it were on the menu at Subway, it would shoot almost to the top of my sandwich rotation (below turkey but above meatball). I'll just come out and say it: if you're American, but you don't like PB&J, you support the terrorists. There, I said it. Anyway, back to breakfast. I take two slices of bread, spread the peanut butter on one slice (making sure to cover every inch of bread), spread the jelly on the other slice, put them together and... Wham! A little bit of heaven. I was lost in another world, another time. Every bite brought me back further and further into the past, to the days of nap time, milk and cookies, and recess. My taste buds savored the wholesome goodness of creamy peanut butter and tangy jelly. After quietly enjoying four bites, a feeling came over me - it felt like the whole world was watching me. I looked up to find everyone in the galley observing the spectacle before them. Finally, a Dutch girl that I had on occassion chatted with spoke up and said, "You eat the peanut butter and jelly together, as a sandwich?" I wasn't sure if she was joking or not - because the answer seemed so obvious - so I replied, more a question than an answer, "Yeah." She then scrunched her face like I was eating monkey brains. "We don't do that in Europe," she remarked, and everyone around her nodded. "You don't do that? Are you kidding me? You've never had a PB&J sandwich?" I was flabbergasted. "No," she said, "we just don't do it." Well, my friends, class was officially in session. I made her a PB&J - being careful to show her how to properly spread the jelly so that it wasn't too close to the edges where it would fall out when she took a bite. (I have a gift, what can I say.) Others took notes. Their eyes were opened and their taste buds were freed. Several others tried it and agreed it was deeee-licious. With three simple ingredients I had just significantly improved US/Europe relations. If a PB&J craze sweeps the Continent, I'm taking all the credit.

So that was the trip. Great weather, calm seas, good company, and amazing sights. Perfection.

There's plenty more to see and do here in Bali, and I've got some time before I leave. Maybe I'll climb some volcanoes, maybe I'll do a bit of culture. But man, this has been exhausting. I think I'll just lie down here for a minute...

Indonesia: Go Past The Equator, Take A Left At The Volcanoes

And then there was one. Indonesia. My last country in Southeast Asia. My last Third World experience ... for now. After this, it'll be nothing but kangaroos and "G'day, mate" for weeks. But let's not get ahead of ourselves. There's still plenty of time to savor the priceless experience of being stared at like an alien because of my height and skin color...

Indonesia is a giant archipelago that cuts across the equator and spans three time zones. Home to some 250 million people - the most populous Muslim nation in the world - it sits at the bottom of Southeast Asia and just above (and to the left of) Australia. It's comprised of over 18,000 islands, but the main ones - the ones you might know - are Sumatra, Java, and Bali. I began my trip to Indonesia as I do with most countries: in the bustling, confusing, overcrowded capital. Yes, I'm talkin' 'bout you, Jakarta. It lies on the northwest corner of the island of Java. By now I know better than to expect large capital cities to be even remotely appealing. But, for whatever reason, I feel like I don't experience a country unless I spend at least one day in the capital. Thankfully, one day is all you need in Jakarta. It is, as my guidebook aptly states, "A hard city to love." (Furthermore, under the heading "Sights and Activities" in the Jakarta section of Lonely Planet, the writer warns: "Jakarta is not a city most tourists care to visit.") You mean, Lonely Planet finally got something right?! Amazing!! There's little to see and experience here that falls under the "wow" category, or even the "that's neat" category, or even the "this kinda makes the red-eye flight to this city worthwhile" category. In fact, of the 11 "sights" in the greater Jakarta area that are listed in the guidebook, I visited seven of them by 11:00 a.m... and I started sightseeing at 8:00 a.m. The first thing I visited was this gigantic moment built by the President to celebrate none other than himself. It's set in a large park that seemed to be one of only two places in the entire city that was tended to by gardeners (the other being the President's Palace). Nothing really special about this - just a giant monument. Locals have appropriately dubbed it the "mighty erection." Perhaps the President is trying to compensate for something? Near the "mighty erection" is the main mosque in Jakarta. It doesn't look like a traditional mosque - more like a government building. I don't know what style it would be called - modern? contemporary? newish? - but it's big. Very big. At peak prayer time it can hold 15,000 people. I was delightfully surprised to be allowed in - again, on the condition that I wear a robe because I was dressed "immodestly." I was taken on tour of the mosque including the main sanctuary, right behind me in the picture. The most interesting part of the sanctuary is the design on the interior of the dome. It's an intricate honeycomb-esque design made out of copper. As you walk around the sanctuary, different parts of the honeycomb glint and shine as a result of strategically placed lights. It gives the impression that someone/something is watching and following your every move. Strangely, that sensation made me recall one of the few passages of the New Testament that I know by heart: "Watch ye therefore, for ye know not when the master of the house cometh." Bizarre that it came to my mind in a mosque. As if that weren't enough, right across the street - literally, across the street - is the main Catholic church in Jakarta. I couldn't stop wondering how it works having two very different religions housed next to one another. I started imagining a sort of Westside Story scene where both congregations get out on Sunday afternoon and slowly start to circle around one another as if a fight were about to go down, all the while snapping their fingers and taunting each other. Or, they probably just ignore each other. Yeah, that's more likely. On my way back to my motel from the mosque, I decided I'd walk by the Presidential Palace to check out his digs. I knew that there are no public tours of the Palace, but little did I realize that no one is allowed to even walk in front of the Palace on the sidewalk along the street. (Which makes you wonder, why have a sidewalk there in the first place?) So as I was approaching the Palace - which looks a little like the White House, but a fraction of the size - a military officer jumped out of a tiny guard post and started yelling at me. Armed in full camouflage gear and gripping an automatic rifle, he started asking me in a harsh tone who I was, where I was going, what I was doing, etc. I was like, "Whoa, slow down there, cowboy. Just out for a little stroll. No harm intended. I'll cross the street and be on my merry way." I headed towards the other side of the street, but when I got to the median, I turned around quickly to snap a photo. That pissed him off something awful. He started yelling in Indonesian (you can always tell something bad is about to happen when people switch from yelling in English to yelling in their native tongue) and ran towards me. I tried, unsuccessfully, to play the ignorant tourist, but he wasn't buying it. To borrow the lingo of our time, he got all up in my business. I could sense his eagerness to get something going. So I did my best to defuse the situation - i.e., try to get him to take his hand off the rifle. I think I said something along the lines of, "Dude [why I called him 'Dude' is beyond me, but I did], I don't even know who your President is. Seriously, I have no friggin' clue. I'm really not a threat. I mean, really, look at me. I'm wearing cargo shorts, a t-shirt, and flip-flops. I'm carrying a half-full bottle of Gatorade. What's the worst I'm going to do - quench his thirst?" I'm pretty sure the guard didn't understand most of what I said, but it was enough to get him to leave me alone. Crisis averted.

The last "sight" I wanted to catch in Jakarta was the elementary school that Obama attended for four years while he lived here. You'd think this school would be easy to find given that a) tourists would likely be interested in seeing it, and b) Indonesia has strongly gotten on the Obama bandwagon. Every time I tell someone that I'm from the US, they immediately say, "Oh, America... Obama!" He's a major celebrity here, so I figured his school would be well-documented. Not that I really care about the school, but there's supposed to be a bright, shiny plaque there and I figured it would make a great photo opportunity. I got to the place where the map said the school would be, but there wasn't a school in sight. Just a McDonalds. (Yes, I succombed. Big Mac, large fries, large Sprite. If there's a heaven for me, it has to have a 24-hour McDonalds.) But I knew I was in the general area because the school name shared the street name I was standing on. So I asked someone where the school was, and they gave me some directions. I followed the directions only to come upon a beauty salon. I proceeded to ask seven more people; I got seven completely different responses. Some of the responses were of the absolutely unhelpful variety - the "it's over there" answer while pointing at something in the ether that didn't correlate with any street or building. But three of them were incredibly specific - and incredibly wrong. Usually when someone gives directions like "go to the next light, take a left, then a right at the first street and walk 50 meters", you'd assume they know what they're talking about. You'd assume that, and you'd be wrong. I spent an hour and a half looking for this elementary school but couldn't find it. Really, how do people living near a famous elementary school not know where it is? And it's not like I was on the other side of town. All eight people I asked said it was within five minutes walking distance. I'm sure I could give spot-on directions to 80% of the elementary schools that are within a five mile radius of where I grew up. Why this was so hard for them to give me accurate directions will remain one of the great mysteries of my life. Tough noogies for me. No elementary school. No plaque. No photo opportunity. Which makes me wonder, if there's a tourist destination, but tourists can't find it, does it really exist?

One day was all I needed in Jakarta. After my day in Jakarta was complete, I boarded a train headed for the city of Yogyakarta. (An overnight train, mind you, from 8:00 pm to 4:30 am, bouncing along on what felt more like a trampoline than a set of tracks. Did I sleep? Ha! I had the great pleasure of being kept awake not only by the bouncing train, not only by the bright lights inside the cabin that they refused to turn off, but also by the potent b.o. of the guy next to me.) Yogya, as it's called, is supposed to be the cultural, spiritual, and artistic center of Java. I planned to spend a few days here - catching the sights (including a few thousand-year old religious ruins) and maybe taking a one-day class in wood-carving or batik (a process of making patterns in cloth using a wax and dye technique) - and just generally soaking up the spiritual vibes. But, as you may have heard, there's this volcano called Merapi that's been busy lately, spewing out ash, killing people, and mucking up the works in central Java. All in a day's work for an active volcano. I was told that Merapi's ash had yet to reach Yogya. I was lied to. Yogya was covered in ash and was getting worse by the day. So I made the wise decision to fork out 25 cents for a surgical mask. Not a bad look, huh? The ash was so thick at times that I doubled up with a bandana (even though I'm pretty sure it adds nothing to the filtering process). At least a bandana looks better than a surgical mask. So I braved the ash and walked around to see the sights. I was thoroughly disappointed. Have you ever been somewhere that you were told by others is really impressive and then you get there and you think, "That's the last time I trust that person." That was Yogya for me. Several times I thought, "I came here for this?" That, and the fact that I was covered in ash and wearing a surgical mask all day, was enough to get me to cut my itinerary short by two days. (Perhaps my favorite experience with the ash was watching people take off their masks to smoke a cigarette. So let me get this straight: you're careful not to inhale toxic volcanic ash, but you don't think twice about smoking toxic cigarettes? Of course that makes sense... how could I be so obtuse??) The only thing memorable about Yogya - other than being covered in ash - was something I stumbled on by accident. In the evening I saw several other backpackers from my hostel enter into a temple and I, being the follower that I am, decided to check it out. It turned out to be a traditional Javanese puppet show accompanied by music, and I have to say, it was quite entertaining. They make these intricate puppets out of a hemp-like material and carve them by hand. During the performance, a puppeteer holds them against a back-lit curtain. All the audience sees are the puppets. Without understanding the words I couldn't grasp the story in its entirety. But the narrarator had a silky-smooth voice that felt like honey in my ears. Basically, he was a Indonesian version of Morgan Freeman. The show got a solid R rating for nudity (lots of boobs and several over-sized erections) and graphic violence. All I needed was a bag of popcorn and a soda to make me feel like I was watching something produced by Hollywood.

From Yogya to the island of Bali - the island just east of Java and my next major destination in Indonesia - is a 24 hour bus ride. Thankfully I decided to break it into two days with a stop at Bromo Volcano. Actually, there are three volcanoes right next to one another, each with a prominent crater. The volcanoes are all well above a mile high; the air is cold and clear and the morning mist sits well below the volcanoes' peaks. Bromo is semi-active and puts out a constant plume of sulfur-smelling smoke while the other two craters just sit as a testament to their former glory days of spewing ash and lava onto earth's surface. The thing to do here is to wake up early to catch the sun rise over the volcanoes. So I was up at 3:30 a.m. and took a one hour jeep ride up to a point on a nearby mountain to get just the right vantage point. It was an amazing sight. The sun slowly rose into the dark sky and illuminated a post-apocalyptic scene of barren ground and scorched earth. The red and orange painted in the sky contrasted sharply with the dreary black and gray of the volcanoes' craters. I, and many other tourists, stood in awed silence to marvel at something none of us had ever seen before. True, the volcano is not spewing ash miles into the sky like Merapi is right now, nor is there any lava flowing out (as I've seen in Hawaii), but the three volcanoes net to one another serves as a powerful reminder of the potential force of mother nature. Once the sun was firmly in the sky, I decided to get a closer look at Bromo. I climbed up Bromo's crater and stood at the edge of the rim to bear witness to the release of earth's innards into the atmosphere. The sight, the smell, the noise - it was something other-worldly.

So that was Java for me. More time in buses and trains than anything else, with some volcanic ash thrown in for good measure. But, worth it nonetheless. Now I'll have to suffer a week or two on the beaches of Bali...

Philippines: You've Slightly Redeemed Yourself

I badly needed a beach. A busy week of sightseeing, hiking, diving, and, most of all, being hassled by hookers, pimps, and hustlers in Manila, left me feeling tired and spent. Frankly, I would have settled for anything that could have blocked out the memories of Manila. My next destination, a tiny island called Boracay, did the job. It's situated right smack in the middle of the Philippines and would otherwise be unknown to the outside world if not for it's perfect white sand beaches and crystal clear water that's just the right temperature. The island is no more than 300 yards wide and five miles long, but it's home to three or four separate beaches that are just meant to be put on postcards. The main beach is called White Beach. It stretches almost four miles long and faces due west, which makes for some great sunsets. I was told, by my guide book and other travellers, that White Beach was the best beach in the Philippines and perhaps one of the best tropical beaches in the world. The former might be true, but the latter is certainly not. The natural beauty cannot be disputed. Painfully bright white sand, absolutely clear water, palms trees gently swaying in the wind - all of which is framed by a lush tropical jungle. But human development has not been kind; it has come roaring in and taken over this tiny island. Almost every inch of developable land has been put to use, and what hasn't been used up is currently being developed, so construction noise is omnipresent. The water is lined with boats taking people parasailing. Vendors selling anything and everything are a constant distraction. In fairness, the problem is not one of development per se, but of extremes. It's nice to have a selection of beachfront restaurants; to have ad hoc bars spring up on the sand and satiate my desire for a cold beer while watching the sunset; and to have a decent selection of hotels. Yet this has been taken too far at Boracay. It's the basic Goldilocks principle of life: not too much, not too little - you want it just right. A tad fewer bars, restaurants, and hotels would make it seem perfect. I spent nearly an hour when I first arrived on the sand looking for a space that was at least 50 yards from anyone else and out of earshot from the constant pounding of pop music. Fortunately, I found such a place and parked my butt there for several days. I thought I might try my hand at some of the activities being offered - snorkeling, hiking, etc. - but once I found my spot, I didn't do squat. There were even some spontaneous games of soccer, ultimate frisbee, and volleyball that got started in the afternoons near where I was laying out. I couldn't manage to get up for those, either. It was too nice doing nothing. For a period of 72 hours, I was about as unproductive as I can be. And I can be very unproductive. The daily schedule was something like: wake up, drink fruit shake, lay on beach, eat, lay on beach, go in water, lay on beach, drink fruit shake, lay on beach, go in water, drink beer, eat dinner, pass out. I'm not saying I was the most unproductive person on earth those 72 hours, but I was certainly in the running. The sun baked down on me; the gentle breeze cooled me; the beer southed my soul. And I'm thinking of going back to work... why?

Next stop: Dumaguete. It's a mid-sized city on the southern tip of the island of Negros, the largest "middle" island in the Philippine's archipelago. The city is small enough that it doesn't attract too many tourists (thereby keeping away the Filipino riff-raff). It's also a college town (30,000 of the 100,000 residents are students), so it has a young vibe with plenty of bars and decent nightlife. (But they don't do Halloween in the Philippines, which killed me. Not a single person was in costume or handing out candy. Very lame.) Dumaguete serves as a great hub for touring in the southern region of the country. The first item on my agenda was diving around tiny Apo Island. Just off the coast, it boasts some of the best coral in the Philippines and some really interesting sea life. (Ok, ok, I admit that I borrowed that picture of the reef. The picture of the turtle is real, albeit not mine. It came from the guide who showed us where to swim.) I went with a group of five people to explore what the island was hiding under it's coastline. I had to stick with snorkeling because I'm still not a certified diver, but it turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I saw a lot more animal life than the divers, and the coral was just as amazing at the depth of 10-15 feet as it was at 75 feet (so they told me). The coral came in every shape, color, and size you could imagine. There were all sorts of fish, from tiny little silver things that amassed in huge schools and glinted in the sun, to lots of types of clownfish (think: Finding Nemo), to giant triggerfish, which are very agressive and will bite if you get too close. Sea snakes, eels, and a host of things I couldn't even identify made cameo appearances. The best part, by far, was stumbling upon a group of sea turtles. Three or four of them were floating with the current about 10 feet below me. I dove to try to follow them and was within touching distance of one of them. It quickly swam away from me, but I was pleading with it - through my snorkel - to stay within eyesight. "No, don't go! I just want to be friends." At full speed I tried to follow it while he (or she - who knows?) was just gently strolling along with seemingly no effort whatsoever. After two or three minutes, I was dying from exhaustion, so I had to let it go. Afterwards, back on the boat, the five of us recapped what we had seen. We went out to dinner, drank beer, and said our goodbyes.

The following day I decided to explore the city and outlying area on my own. I rented a motobike and let things progress randomly. Doing this has become one of my favorite activities once I find myself outside the major cities. First, the driving is easier and safer around the small towns and on the back roads, and drivers are much more polite and easy going. Second, it's fun to put away the map for a day and just go whereever the wind blows. I drove up and down the coast, and when I got bored of that, I turned inland to explore the jungles. Of course, the flip side of driving a motobike in remote areas is that the roads suck, or, as is more often the case, are nonexistent. One second you'll be on a nicely paved path, then next second it's grass, rocks, puddles, mud, and tree branches. While I was travelling up a steep hill (for no reason whatsoever other than it was fun), I figured - quite stupidly - that the best way to manage the obstacles in front of me was to gun the engine and go as fast as possible so I wouldn't stall. Bad idea. You see, I'm a moron, and should probably come with a disclaimer like, "Government Warning: David Newman is a moron." I lost control of the bike, hit a large rock, and managed to swerve into a ditch. I survived unscathed, but the bike had some issues, the most pressing being that it was stuck. I couldn't get it out. After a long while of pacing around and wondering how I could be so stupid, a farmer came by, laughed, and then helped me pull the bike from the ditch. He didn't speak any English, but none was required. The situtation was ridiculous in any language.

The following day I did some hiking in the mountains around Dumaguete. The scenery was nice but nothing amazing - more of the same jungle I've been trekking in for the past six weeks. I came across this waterfall, called Cassaroro Falls, which was blissfully cool on a swelteringly hot day. I met some people at my hostel who thought the hiking trails I had travelled on were "amazing, dude!" I just didn't see it that way. In fact, I met several people at my hostel who were idiots. I think that's the flip side to what I wrote about in my last blog post. Some of the people I've met are pleasant and interesting and fun to be around. Others suck at life. At the hostel in Dumaguete, this one British guy sat down at my table while I was eating breakfast and began talking to me about some nonsense I can't remember. Then, knowing that I was American, he began this rant about American politics and the Iraq war and so on. In no mood to discuss these things, I did my best to change the subject or just give monosylabic answers. Then he started talking out of his ass about the lack of culture in our country. My good sense and patriotism couldn't be silenced any more, so I astutely observed that this dude was a) smoking Marlboros, b) drinking Coke, c) wearing Converse shoes, d) using an iPhone, and e) carrying Ray-Ban sunglasses. Could he be any less of a billboard for America? That's right about when the conversation ended. I should note that in the over three months I've been travelling, I have never - not once - heard a bad thing uttered about America from locals. As soon as they learn I'm from the US (it's one of the first questions they ask), it's always "I've always wanted to visit" or "I love your movies" or something about NBA players. The only badmouthing about America has come from two or three Europeans who were probably idiots to begin with. So, rest assured, our country is still held in high regard by the taxi drivers, waitresses, tour guides, boat drivers, hotel clerks - the everyday, regular folk - in this part of the world.

My time in the Philippines was almost complete, but I couldn't leave until I experienced a truly Filipino event: cockfighting. It became quickly apparent that there's no Humane Society or SPCA in this country because this "sport" probably defines animal cruelty. They keep these birds locked away in small cages for weeks, get them all pissed off, and then when the fight comes, it's a brutal, 'till the death fight. The whole thing is done with much of the "lead-up" similar to boxing matches in the US. Before the fight, people gather around the birds and try to decide who's the better fighter. Then each owner brings his bird into the "ring", prances the bird around, and then gets his bird riled up by shoving his bird's face into the other bird's face. Then there's one last step that I didn't know about before: each bird has a razor sharp, three inch blade attached to the back of its left foot right before the fight begins. I assumed that the fighting just involved pecking and biting, but the "better" birds use the blade by jumping over their opponent and kicking the blade into its back. It's pretty grueseome to watch since one bird always becomes that night's dinner. Twenty minutes after the first fight began, the place filled up completely. I'd estimate about 300 guys (and maybe 10 women) crammed into this tight space to watch two hours of cockfighting. Gambling, shouting, drinking, and shoving were the norm. And this was on a Tuesday. At 2:00 p.m. Yes, I found it to be gruesome, but, after I while, I was really getting into it. I know, I know - that probably makes me a monster. But it didn't ruffle my feathers. On the contrary, by the third or fourth fight, I was - at least in my head - rooting hard for certain birds and shouting at them as if they could understand anything I said: "Go for the body! Go for the body!!" (I would have gambled if anyone spoke English, but this wasn't a crowd that catered to tourists. Indeed, I was the only white guy in the entire place and constantly got the "what's the white guy doing here?" look.) The atmosphere was total machismo. Good times were had were had by all. Except the birds.

So that was it. Two weeks in the Philippines. It got better the further away from Manila I travelled. Had I not already booked my flight out of the country, I might have even stayed a while longer.
I'll end with two last thoughts, one positive, one negative. On the positive side is Red Horse. It's a national beer that's served in 500ml bottles. It's cheap - less than a buck - and potent. Alcohol content is over 7%. Two bottles and I was down for the count. That's worthy of my respect. On the negative side, I felt like the country went out of its way to nickel and dime tourists. Go to any port for a boat ride and you'll not only pay for your ticket, you'll have to go to another booth to pay a "terminal fee" and another booth to pay an "environmental fee." It's not a ton of money, but it just leaves a bad taste in your mouth. It's one thing to be overcharged as a tourist, but it's quite another to feel like you're being squeezed for every penny possible. Even at the main airport terminal in Manila, you have to pay a $20 "Airport User's Charge." Not cool, Philippines.

So that's it. Two weeks and I'm out. Not my favorite place, and I'm in no rush to go back. Hopefully Indonesia fares better...