Bali

I've spent nearly two weeks in Bali -- about half that time around the party epicenter of Kuta beach and the other half in a town called Ubud, the mecca of divorcees 'round the world after being featured in the Love part of the book "Eat, Pray, Love" (so I'm told).  Although I've been enjoying myself relaxing and hanging in these places, I don't think these locations make for a great story even when I embellish the minor dramas. Regardless, here's a run down.

Kuta is filled with bogans (the Aussie word for hicks) that work in the mines, who come here to blow their surfeit of money between their month-on, month-off work schedule. Inside one of the many clubs in Kuta my Aussie friend kept apologizing in embarrassment for his shirtless, rowdy countrymen, saying, "I hope you don't think that all Australians are like this." Then added with a look of concern, "I'm worried one of these bogans are going to deck me in the head because I'm wearing a sarong." Thankfully, that didn't happen.

In Ubud, "the cultural center of Bali", I found a lot of traffic and uncommissioned taxi drivers looking to make more traffic. "Taxi?!" No thanks. "Yes?!" Still no. Walk three more meters and another driver who watched me refuse the previous taxi driver asks, "Transport?!" No thanks. "Yes?!" Nope. Jedi mind tricks don't work if you live in reality. Repeat... Ad infinitum.

On Kuta beach, I found the same persistence from hawkers, who come to interrupt a conversation or stand in front of the view. My frustration in this method is usually assuaged by the fact that I'm on a beach drinking a beer. My favorite hawker is the guy who sells the bow and arrow set. No joke: A real bow, with pointy arrows and everything -- perfect for a good time on a crowded beach. Bring the kids too.  I'm hoping to see a rad surfer buy the set, and then cruise around on the waves shooting arrows at anyone who steals his wave.

Back in Ubud, on one of my busier days, I cruised around on a scooter with friends, saw some temples and a lava flow from a recent eruption (2009, I think). On the lazier days (most), I sat on my porch veranda reading or at a cozy cafe with painfully slow free wi-fi. Once I sent a text message from Skype, and I swear a guy in an official looking postal uniform came up to my computer and magically pulled out a small print-out of my text for delivery. Hollywood, just in case you didn't get it, I was at the Juice Cafe, four days ago.

My veranda for reading in Ubud

Balinese Hindu cleansing themselves during the day of Yellow. 

On left, the lava flows from the most recent eruption of Mt. Batur, and on the right, Lake Batur .

Well, I haven't been spending this much time in Bali just because I love bogans, clubs, and self-proclaimed granola towns that are swarming with traffic. In fact, if that was the case, I'd already be gone. But I've been sticking around primarily because I have a few friends in the area, and I needed to get some administrative things done in life. First, I got my Australian Working Holiday Visa, which required a trip to the hospital for a tuberculosis chest x-ray screening. TB free! Secondly, I got an extension on my Indonesian visa -- 7 day waiting period -- and now I'm all set until the end of August. Third, I visited the Bali Marina and posted a crew available message for anyone sailing to Australia.

Lastly, I've been mentally wrestling with the idea of flying (gasp!) domestically in order to check out Bunaken National Marine Park near the Sulawesi Islands, which supposedly has one of the best scuba diving sites in the world. That's a lofty title to hold, and one which the Lonely Planet has bestowed on basically half the decent scuba sites in Southeast Asia. Bunaken, as I've gathered from experience divers, is deserving of such a title. And with round trip flights at 150USD, probably a once and a lifetime chance for a soft-core diver like me.

Regardless, I need to escape Bali sometime soon, so Gili Islands, Lombok, and Komodo are all on the list.  For now you can enjoy a few of the pictures from around Bali that I've recently snapped.  

Unfortunately, I wasn't brave enough to figure out why these are called "Kinder Joy" or what the "with surprise" really is.

The rice terraces on the walking path outside of Ubud. 

Nasi Campur, a medley of chicken, tempe and vegetables I had at a neat restaurant in the middle of the rice terraces.

A palm-tree shadow.

Mt. Bromo and Mt. Ijen

Our group of seven set out on a tour of the two major volcano destinations in east Java before heading to Bali. First on the way was Mount Bromo, and second was the crater lake of Mount Ijen. A lot of interesting stuff happened along the way, but here are the highlights worth sharing (without boring you, or taxing me with writing).

We rode buses a lot. I lost feeling in my butt, often. In moments of exhaustion, the hot, sticky limp limbs of neighbors pressed up against me. Bus drivers accelerated like rockets and tailgated so close we broke laws of quantum physics. We decelerated like objects that decelerate quickly... (hmm, like Ants on a Log snacks placed in front of hungry children?; get it?). Naps were inevitably interrupted. In one minivan my door kept popping open about every 20 minutes and I'd have to slam it shut. Sometimes I'd be asleep when it opened up and a flimsy seat belt would have been my only life line if I had needed it. Once the Korean group on the bus applauded how deftly I pulled in the swinging door. Driving took up 75% of our daylight for the three days. In summary, the driving sucked.

But I think it was worth it (at least once) to see both of these volcanoes.

To visit Mount Bromo we stayed in the village of Cemoro Lawang, elevated at around 2500m. We arrived at nighttime coming from near sea level at day time, so we were all under-dressed for the near freezing temperatures. My first impression of the town reminded me the villages I passed by in Peru several years ago. In fact, sometimes I felt the faces of Indonesians shared features with those in the Andes Mountains (click here if you are curious about migration routes of early homo sapiens into the Americas, nerd), but I'm a white guy, so what do I know. Anyway, I was glad to put on the cold weather clothing I haven't had a use for in the last six months.

A wake up call came at 4am to allow time to hike up the mountain and watch the first of the sun's rays hit the three volcanoes in the area (Bromo is the most active one). I walked up with two Aussie travelmates, Kirra and Hollywood, but lost them on the main viewing area that was swarming with tourists and flashing cameras. Looking to find a more quiet place, I hiked up another 200 meters of scree to a peak, where I found a French family of three huddled under one blanket, and separately two French travelers enjoying the solitude and the view. The family had camped there for the night and the father explained his contempt for his "beach tent" they slept in, which the French accent seem well fit for capturing. (I don't know why, but there are many French travelers in Indonesia that visit primarily to see the volcanoes and they seem to appreciate the activity more seriously than the average traveler).

Stealing words from the French company I shared, the site and experience was "Oh la la". The view was expansive in all directions, volcanic cones jutted up from low lying clouds in five or six directions around the compass, and in front was Bromo spewing its ash relentlessly into the air. (About four months previous, Bromo had been erupting with lava, which would have made an even more impressive sunrise). I found that contemplating the magnitude of destruction contained in an active volcano added to the unique experience. For a long time I stared in awe at the surrounding scenery.

Fog passing over a ridge nearby Mount. Bromo. 

Bromo erupting its ash. 

The three volcanoes around Cemoro Lawang. Left middle is Mount Bromo.

The sun was fully in the sky by the time I realized my friends might be worried about me. I hiked back down to the main viewpoint, then further down the trail where eventually I caught up with the two Aussies. I popped in between them saying, "Hey guys, sorry about that, " and Hollywood shouted in joy, "DAD!". Dad?... Apparently, as they had been looking for me, Hollywood thought screaming "Dad" might catch my attention more than "Ad".

I tried to imagine a few hundred travelers thinking a nervous Asian adult had lost his elderly father on the top of a mountain. Funnier still would have been if his shorter, white-skinned, "father" (me) of a nearly identical age was reunited with his son as the crowd watched. As we traveled in a bus toward Mount Ijen for the rest of the day, I responded to Hollywood's call of Dad, and occasionally scolded Hollywood in fatherly disappointment: Hurry up, Chew with your mouth closed, Tie your shoes, Do you need to pee before getting into the car?, and That's how girls throw.

Ijen was a little warmer, almost pleasant and less touristy. The trade off was significantly deteriorated roads to get there. Another early wake up call and we were at the base of Mount Ijen for the 3km walk to the summit. At base camp I read a sign that said, "It is absolutely forbidden for tourists to walk into the crater" and it was translated into French as well, which was the first French sign I'd seen in Java. I walked up the trail following the wafts of sulfury air tingling in my nose, briefly took into the sight from above, and promptly entered the trail that wound itself into the crater -- along with everyone else ignoring the advice of that sign.

The interior of the crater at Ijen was neat for a few reasons. I passed miners laboring for every step as they carried baskets of sulfur slung over their shoulders, weighing at little as 65kg and as much as 95kg (perspective: I weigh 75kg). Huge bumps and calluses covered their shoulders. In return, a miner earns about 40,000 ruppiah (~4USD) in an average day. I saw men laboring to extract the sulfur from the rock as they stood only a meter or so away from the steaming noxious fumes that escaped from the rock. And there is a aqua blue-green colored lake that simmers away in the middle.

A miner carrying his load out of the crater down into the valley. 

Our crew minus one: Hollywood (AUS), Gordon (UK), Vince (FR), Virginia (FR), Willie (FR) and me. 

All this provided some great pictures and appreciation for the hard working miners, but I'm not sure it was worth it when the wind changed direction on the walk out. The fumes blanketed the trail, I struggled for breath, coughing and wheezing, and I thought I might pass out only to slide down the unforgiving loose rock slopes and get boiled in the lake. Although it was my first experience with it, I'm pretty sure I felt my lungs dissolving. I passed a panicked young girl (French, no doubt) struggling to catch her breath as her father tried to calm her enough to overcome her asthma. I looked back twice before I decided I couldn't help and it was either me or her even if I could. I kept trudging for the top. Alas, I made it.

After this, another bus ride, a ferry, bus ride, and taxi -- a trip almost as bad as escaping Ijen, but finally I arrived in the tourist mecca of Bali for some R&R&Fun.

Yogyakarta

The city of Yogyakarta, in Central Java, serves as a common pit stop along the 24+ hour bus ride that eventually leads to the island of Bali. I didn’t have a strong desire to visit this city, but I’ve recently had my share of long, unpleasant bus rides, so I joined the horde of tourists all on the well-trodden Lonely Planet path.

(While on the train to the city, I finally realized that the city “Yogya” was the abbreviated nickname given to Yogyakarta.  Also confusing is that the Y’s can be pronounced as J’s, vice versa, and not always consistently between letters – a legacy of the Dutch colonization, or the many nationalities of people that have told me where they've been. Because of the varieties of pronunciations, I had assumed this one city was actually a handful of difference cities that travelers kept telling me was worth traveling too.  Clearly, my cognitive thinking skills have diminished in months of traveling.)

I arrived from Pangandaran accompanied by former crew-member and friend, Hollywood. On the train he coincidentally reconnected with some travelers earlier in his trip, a French pierre named Vince and a British bloke named Gordon. Together, the four of us stood on the train platform looking inquisitively at the Lonely Planet map trying to orient ourselves. A taxi tout walked up from behind and asked me where we were going. I read off a hostel name very nearby and he replied, “Oh, that’s far, nearly one kilometer.”  Try lying better, buddy, as I quickly showed him on the map that it was 200 meters. He quietly turned and left.

The main thing to do in Yogya is to visit Boroburdur, where an enormous Buddhist temple resides close to the base of the towering volcanic cone of Mount Merapi. This temple was built around the 9^th century, but it didn’t get much use since their empire soon lost its dominance – supporting of the old adage, “Don’t put your empire’s headquarters at the base of a volcano.”

A corner of the Boroburdur Temple 

Hollywood and I posing in front of the stupas at the top of Boroburdur Temple.

The singular structure within Boroburdur park, an ornately decorated pyramidal temple, doesn't compare to Angkor Wat’s impressiveness or magnitude, and as it is one building, there isn't much to explore after an hour. If there is anything impressive in Boroburdur, it is the audacity of the tortuous tourist maze that one is forced to navigator through in order to leave, taking about 15 minutes at a leisurely gate. My best advice from drive-by sightseeing on this day: Take the bus instead of a scooter to see the temples, and visit Prambatan temple instead to avoid the tourists.

Hollywood and I drove out to Boroburdur sharing a scooter. The traffic was chaotic and even scarier since I felt manic trying watch everything on around us. (I wore my helmet, as I always do).  After exploring the temple for a short time, Hollywood offered to drive back to give me a break from the mental drain of driving on high alert. It was a genuine offer in spirit, but I knew he didn’t want to drive. The real reason I declined  though was a fear he might relapse into one of his occasional spasms of ADD. Sorry, amigo. After a few close calls and handling rush hour into a city of a few million, we arrived back at the scooter rental shop, where we celebrated our lives. Hollywood said to me, “Thanks for driving, Ads. I don’t think I would have been that good at it.” Or maybe he said in his typical way, "I think I would have failed."

I spent a day or two more in Yokya doing some gift shopping and checking out batik artwork. In the evenings of drinking on the curb of a nearby convenient store with locals and travelers, our group picked up a few more people. So when the time came to depart, we were a group of seven (3 FR, 2 AUS, 1 UK, and 1 US)  all setting out on a tour to Mount Bromo, Mount Ijen and ultimately Bali.

Don’t Worry, I’ll Tie It All Together Somehow

For nearly three days, I walked around Jakarta and Pangandaran with an odd sensation on the back of my left thigh. One way, unquestionably the best way, to imagine the sensation is to picture a midget following at your left heel so closely that you can feel their hot breath on your skin. Another way to imagine it: someone peeing on you. Regardless of how it’s described, generally speaking, it’s not normal.

So at the end of day three, I googled the seemingly hodgepodge phrase “hotness on back of thigh” expecting nothing, but straight away found a medical website explaining what the cause was and how to alleviate the symptom. I have a pinched nerve in my back.

I tweaked by back on Bubbles early on (diving off the boat, of all things), but now that I’ve returned to backpacking, I think carrying my pack has aggravated the injury. One might conclude that my pack is heavy because I’m hauling around all my cold weather clothing, hiking boots and climbing gear (of which may never find a purpose again on this trip). Ethan might tell you it’s because I’m carrying 3 iPods, though, in my pitiful defense, one is exclusively used for backing up photos. I also have some souvenirs to send home. And my pack didn’t get any lighter with the purchase of a laptop. But even then, my pack should only weigh about 15kg (30lbs), when right now it is probably more like 20-22kg (45lbs).

I think the culprit is that I’m walking around Southeast pretending I’m a walking library. Some of the books I have are reference book I’ve been carrying around for months, and thousands of miles, and multiple countries and haven’t looked at for an equally long period. I never got rid of them because I was so unsure of where I was going next.

Today I finally traded in my Lonely Planet China, a book probably only dwarfed by LP India, and a weighty reference book on sailing. Also, a phrasebook for Russia, because I thought for a long time I’d return there while in transit to Europe. Well, I’m not. China either, although I feel I’ve left a lot unseen there. As for sailing, did Captain Cook need a book? Me either. Not anymore. As long as it’s basic sailing. And the weather conditions are favorable.

In exchange for those reference books, I’ve added four books to my stack. 

1. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens
2. Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan
3. The Beautiful Room is Empty by Edmund White
4. Brave New World by Aldus Huxley (how I haven’t read this yet I don’t know) 

 A pretty fine catch, if you ask me, all of which got piled on top of the following collection:

1. The Hobbit by J.R.R Tolkien (how I passed this over is also a mystery)
2. The First Men in the Moon by H.G. Wells
3. The Time Machine and The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells
4. The Running Vixen by Elizabeth Chadwick. 

Before you start laughing out loud about bullet 4, let me remind you not to judge a book by its title. The Running Vixen is a historical fiction set in the time of King Henry I (12th century), and it’s a romance novel. (Okay, laugh now). Fortunately, the cover tells me that Chadwick is “The best writer of medieval fiction currently around” from the always trustworthy Historical Novels Review. Just how I wound up with this is a very, very long story that I won’t bother going into detail about.

Actually, I simply traded it with an Aussie traveler for “Farewell Hippie Heaven” by Jack Parkinson.  Before that I read “A Short History of Nearly Everything*” by Bill Bryson and in a similar vein, “A Brief History in Time*” by Stephen Hawking.

While I was on the boat I read, “Marine Diesel Engines” by Nigel Calder, because it seemed like an appropriate next read after the sailboat’s engine nearly exploded. Also on the boat was “Coming Through Slaughter” by Michael Ondaatje, the author of The English Patient.

Some other books I’ve read and discarded (going back as far as April, after which I’ve lost track):

1. The Wild Things by David Eggers
2. Pride and Prejudice* by Jane Austen (which I really enjoyed)
3. Cash: The Autobiography of Johnny Cash by Kurt Cobain
4. The English Patient* by Michael Ondaatje

And those asterisks next to the titles? Those are books I recommend if you find yourself in need of a read.

Yet, writing blog posts won't lighten my pack nor fix my back. So I’m going to stay a while longer than I expected in Pangandaran and try to finish a book or two on the beach before I leave. And if I start feeling nearer to 100%, I’ll give the surfing a go in nearby Batu Karas where the friendly beach break is a good place for wussies to learn.  

Jakarta to Pangandaran

I leave my hostel early. I have a heavy 20kg pack on. I walk to the taxi scooter stall. 50,000 ruppiah, he says, for the 18km ride to the bus station. I negotiate to 40,000 ruppiah (around 5USD) and the driver begrudgingly agrees. When he drops me off at the Kampung Rambutan Bus Station, the driver tells me he doesn't have change as he pockets the 50K bill. I knew that was going to happen -- don't think you're clever -- but I had already planned on giving him a 10K tip because he wasn't reckless.

I'm reading on the bus waiting for the bus to gather enough people to leave the station for Pangandaran. In my periphery, I see a guy assess the passengers and skip over a few empty rows of seats. I think, "Yup, come on. Sit down. I'm here for you to practice your English. Don't even concern yourself with the fact that I'm reading a book." Incredibly, he reads my mind. His name is Yono.

Yono wants me to pay for his ticket. I tell him no. I think, what distorted image of wealth do you have for westerners? He tells me that he works as a waiter in the only 5-star hotel in Jakarta. Oh, I guess that image.

With the seats less than half full, we leave the station. The bus clerk comes to get payment from each passenger; he notices that Yono can speak English enough to talk to me. I pay the 55K ruppiah for the ticket, as listed on the stub. The clerk and Yono have a brief conversation in Indonesian. Yono says that I need to pay 1,500 ruppiah for something extra, "plus-ing" he calls it. I show him the stub, it says 55K. I tell him I paid 55K, so its okay. He shuts up.

The clerk comes back and says something to Yono. Yono tells me that I must be "plus-ing" for my backpack. I point to Yono's pack next to him and ask him if he paid. No, he says, because he can put it on his lap. I point out that if I need to, I can put my backpack on my lap. I also point out that the bus is half empty, so my bag is fine where it is. I'm starting to get angry, its obvious in my voice. My body language makes it pretty clear that to the clerk that I know I'm being discriminated again.

The clerks seems to pick up on this, doesn't like being in the wrong and facing a confrontation about it. Hopefully, he realizes that westerners aren't the fools he assumed we were, or maybe he re-considered the image of westerners being too happy to depart with their weighty, burdensome paper money that we all have too much of. So the clerk gives up and heads to the front of the bus to sit. Yono is keeping up the fight, for why I don't know. I want to be done with it and Yono says, "Maybe give him 10 (thousand)". I'm ready to concede, but the clerk has already given up and he doesn't come back to settle the matter.

Yono thinks we are best friends. I do my best to keep my nose in my book or nap. He does his best to talk to me, sometimes in straight up Indonesian, and then seems confused why I don't understand him. I just pretend I understand, probably saying things like "neat" when I should be answering a question. He wants me to come to his house, basically as a trophy to see his mom and the other villagers. Then he will drive me for one hour on a motorcycle through dangerous hilly roads (his words earlier in our conversation, not mine) to my ultimate destination. I decline. He offers himself as a tour guide in Pangandaran. I decline that too, seeing it as a not-so-sly money making scheme he'll mention after the fact, not the friendly gesture he passes it off as.

We stop for lunch. Yono wants to eat lunch with me. We both have bakso (the K is often said like a hard H). The proprietor doesn't speak English. I ask Yono how much lunch was. 16K. I hand over the money to the owner. Yono gets up without paying. I realize I just paid for his lunch. I get pissed off at him. He seems confused, its only 8,000 ruppiah (1USD). No shit, but you didn't even ask.  Yono gets me some Indonesian candy (dodol) and a spiky brown fruit (satak). The dodol has durian in it, so it tastes like rotting onion. The taste of satak isn't strong, sort of like a fermented, dry jackfruit. I don't particularly enjoy either; for one reason or another, a bitter taste lingers in my mouth.

A few times I look over from my book or nap, and he is snapping a picture of me with his phone. Fine. I'm basically fuming inside, but I refuse to let this ignorant guy get the best of me. He tells me that his brother wants to call me on my phone -- he's curious to talk to me. I explain to him why that doesn't make any sense. At all.  While I'm at it, I'll just go around and call the rest of the 240 million curious Indonesians.

He sort of gives up talking to me, spending most the trip texting with his brother, who wants to meet me in person now. I imagine the conversation went like this:

Yono: I'm best friends with a white guy.
Brother: OMG. Brad Pitt?
Yono: No, but still super rich. Bought me lunch without even mentioning it.
Brother:  Coo, what's he like?
Yono: Big nose, blue eyes, strong chin, and really really rich.
Brother: get a mobile pic and send it to me.
Yono: *sending picture*
Brother: woah, look at that nose. that's a wealthy looking nose.
Yono: did i mention that he reads a lot and has functional elbows? he's the best.
Brother: so cool!!1!!11 i'd really like to practice my english with him. can i call him on his phone?
Yono: sure can, bro! it is 8102398101623

Yono leaves the bus an hour before I need to get off. I'm the last person to leave the bus and its the end of the line. I restrain myself from taking out my frustration on the persistent rickshaw driver that wants to drive me the 400 meters down the road for a suspiciously low rate. Apparently, if a rickshaw drops a tourist off at a guesthouse in Pangandaran, the local union/mafia gets a fee, which he would then get a cut of. I knew this, so I refused. Minutes later under the gates of the city, an officer stopped me and told me I had to pay a small fee to stay in town -- I probably could have lost it right then and there -- but it seemed official. Checking later, the Lonely Planet corroborated that there was a fee.

Whether or not I'm rich in comparison to many of these people in Indonesia (which is probably true in many cases), I am perceived as a neon pink, infinitely deep, walking wallet. For much of my traveling, I've assumed that this image was formed purely out of greed, but this experience also showed that there is a cultural ignorance and stereotype about western people and their money. In the future, I attempt the equally frustrating and fruitless act of educating any annoying "friends" on the truth of the matter.

Finally, after dinner, I received this text from, I assume, Yono's brother: I would like to introduce sir, my name is Yuda. wellcome in Indonesia, I hope you can enjoy visited Indonesia.

Me too, Yuda, me too.

Silly Commentary On Toilets

I've seen a lot of different varieties of toilets while traveling the last 10 months. I've taken a few varieties of poops too, but that's a different story. This is the story of different types of toilets... it's definitely not the story of poops.  Are we done with the poopy talk? Yup. Okay? Okay... poop face. I heard that. 

Let me apologize beforehand, but this will read like a silly kids book:

Most of the toilets I've encountered are northern hemisphere toilets. They flush counter-clockwise. Recently, being in the southern hemisphere, toilets flush clockwise. When I crossed the equator I wanted to check this and I swear on my life the water just went straight down.

Most toilets seem to be made of a ceramic material. In Mongolia, toilets are made by placing wooden planks across a stinky hole (technically, the stink comes after) -- but the views are to die for.

Most toilets have flush handles that are pulled down. Some are pulled up. The latter always trick me for a second, and I get a little worried that there's a problem.

Sometimes the lever is on the side, sometimes it is on top.

Some toilets have high efficiency flushing, meaning low water consumption. Some toilets have flush efficiency options depending on whether the contents are number 1 or number 2.

About half the toilets in Asia are sit on top toilets. About half are squat toilets. People that don't know to squat often call them "long drop" toilets. That's gross if you think about it any more than what I've written.

The rare Reverse-O toilet -- on the verge of extinction, I reckon, for their hazardous nature -- is one with the hole in the front, while in the back is a lipped shelf to catch the poop. Water enters from the very back top. Sometimes I worry that if the toilet flushes violently, the poop will launch out using the lip as a ramp. Do you think scientists test those things out in toilet laboratories? I hope so.

A Reverse-O Toilet. 

Some toilets can handle toilet paper. Most Asian countries want the user to put the toilet paper in the waste bin provided. Sometimes I don't care. So far, this has never led to an embarrassing situation.

Most toilets are white. Sometimes I see maroon and then yellow or pink. I have never seen a brown toilet. How would one know if it was clogged? I also have never seen a completely clear glass toilet, and maybe I don't ever want to. My secret.

In Thailand, many toilets only have spray hose bidet thingies. In the rest of Asia, many toilet do not have such devices.  Some just have a bucket of water and a left hand. One learns very early to carry spare toilet paper around at all times.

Some urinals have mothballs in them, I think to repel mosquitoes. Some urinals have ice in them. Ever think that peeing is better when you pee on ice or snow? I have.

Some toilets don't flush well, and the handle needs to be held down the whole time or jiggled. Every once in a while, a toilet flushes very very violently and loudly, like a jet engine. Who or what are these designed to flush? Tip: Press quickly, then plug your ears and run.

Some toilets flush down through a pipe. Toilets on trains go straight onto the tracks. That fact has significantly diminished the sense of adventure I used to hold for walking down the middle of the train tracks.

In Japan, I hear they make really great toilets. Heated, self-cleaning (you and toilet), and hands-free. These toilets are expensive (6,000USD+), so I don't think I'll ever own one, but I want to try one before I die. I have lofty goals in life, what can I say.

And that is my story of poops, I mean toilets.

Jakarta: Sprawling City; Sprawling Narrative

Once settled into Jakarta, I found out that most travelers come to here to go somewhere else. The Lonely Planet had informed me as much, but I thought for sure I'd find a few things to keep me intrigued. I inquired at a tourist agency -- surely someone will try to take my money by telling me what I can do. Nope. Not only did the honest woman standing in front of a pricey package-tour billboard tell that me there is nothing to do in Jakarta except leave, she also informed me that traveling to the major tourism spots is "probably something you can do yourself". I wanted to say thanks for the vote of confidence but point out the weakness in her business strategy.

I had a list of things I wanted to do in Jakarta. Trade in some books to lighten my pack, work out a rough travel itinerary for the next month or so, and go shopping (yup, shopping). The first night I exchanged three books for two and paid about 6USD to finalize the deal. If I haven't said so before, used bookstores in Southeast Asia are a racket, maybe with the exception of Cambodia and Vietnam. There they sell cheap photocopies of classics and other books worth reading. Scold me for enabling copyright infringement, but reading a decent book beats an agonizing read of the endless supply of pop-fiction trash authored by the likes of Stephanie Meyer, Dan Brown, Lee Child, Stieg Larsson, et al. (Yes, I am a book snob).

Then I shuffled on over to an internet cafe to figure out my next destination in this part of the world, so long as my plan ensures a few months of Spanish language immersion in South America before I'm broke. Here's what I've figured out in that regard: Flights from Oceania (Australia and New Zealand) to South American are about twice as expensive as those leaving from Asia (2800USD versus 1400USD), so the quite visible hand of economics seems to be pushing me toward an Asian city departure. That is, unless I find a job that will offset the living costs and transportation to South America. Hence, I sent forth my minions of doom to determine the type of jobs available, pay, and expected costs of living. When they return, I hope to finalize my decision.

I also renewed my travel insurance for another 6 months after August 2011-- insurance I was sure had already expired this past February. Good thing too. On my walk back from the internet cafe I passed a mosque, in front of which was a pre-teen girl on a bike wearing a t-shirt with a big grinning Osama Bin Laden face on the back. I didn't make a point of trying to figure out what the front said, but I doubt it read "Thank you USA!".  Anyway, I guess that means February 2012 is when I'll be returning home to the states.

I decided it had been a while since I had a beer or conversed with a Western person. Using my keen sense of direction, I soon found a street that, after a much longer time, eventually led to a bar. An empty bar except a younger Indonesian women eating dinner and dressed sort of like a prostitute; a guy in a shadowy corner selling cigarettes; and behind the bar, an older woman with her face painted not that much different than a clown. Perfect. I got a beer anyway.

The younger woman welcomed me in. She told me that the woman behind the bar was the owner and her mother (age 70, I learned). The guy was her brother. The young woman introduced herself as Mercy, M.E.R.C.Y (she spelled it out since I didn't catch it the first time). I quipped, "Is that because you hurt a lot coming out?" No, she told me, it's the word for "thank you" in French. I pointed out that I think the French spell it with an "i". She ignored the unintentional offense, but it wasn't a great start to a conversation.

She asked me how I ended up at this particular bar. I said it was the first one I saw. She asked where I was staying and concluded that I must have passed a handful of bars on the walk. (Sure enough, on my walk back, I saw the other side of the street lined with cafes and bars). Next, we talked about places I had gone in the USA, or wanted to go to in Europe or South America. She had lived in all those places (Boston, SanFran, Quito, Amsterdamn, London). I asked her what she did for work. "Just working". I couldn't tell if she was telling the truth or trying to sound interesting. For the record, I don't know if she was or ever had been a prostitute, but assuming she was, I found it weird being surrounded by her family as if they'd be okay with me saying something like, "Okay, what's your rate?". At that, I had finished my one beer and rose to leave. She seemed disappointed, and I understood why, that bar was a living coffin.

The next morning in my hostel, Hostel 35, I realized that my room number was 35. As I putzed around drinking a tea, I noticed that the room list on the front desk didn't include my room. Creepy set of coincidences, eh? That's all there is to this paragraph.

BBQs and fireworks; and the oldest, they have soirees and costume parties).

Flying the Indonesian flag on the base of the monument. 

As I got closer, caravans of large armoured vehicles passed by, SWAT teams stood in the ready, and camouflaged military personnel lined the gates with large automatic weapons. Seeing such a sight, one cannot help but think that some shit is about to go down. I kept headed toward the monument but using the less densely occupied path ways, mostly so I could get away from all the curious but amicable stares that followed me. I got through the last throng of people to stand somewhere near the center of the park and take in the scene. 

Definitely hundreds of thousands of people, maybe as many as a million people, and I got there just in time to hear the conclusion of an especially passionate and threatening speech. Obviously, I didn't understand a word, but I do know that someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed -- that man was aaaangry. Then a horde of a few thousand pre-assembled and costumed protesters started a fist pumping march toward the empty space I had put myself in -- although I'm sure it was mostly symbolic. Some police circled nearby to guide their path through the park and I got to the side lines.

Pumped up rally-ers headed my way. 

Appreciative of my new found look at life, I decided I could appreciate the contents of the National Museum. There are two separate wings to the museum, a south and a north. The south wing is the older of the two with a 1950's decor, while the north wing uses a very modern decor. Otherwise, the exhibits topics and material are exactly, exactly, the same. Going to both is a waste of time, unless you like that feeling of standing and walking around a museum for too long. While there, a teacher politely asked me if I would speak to her middle-school students, which I briefly did, and I also checked out an art exhibit featuring metal roses.

Exhausted but still motivated, I took a bus ride to the north of the city in order to get closer to the major shopping mall, and pass through the Dutch quarters on the way. Well, the Dutch quarters are overrated and in my assessment, and a "mere fiftieth" would be a more appropriate designation. For as long as I could hold my breath, I walked along the fetid, opaque, trash filled stream that divides the city. I often ask myself in Asian cities, why not put a cover on top of the gutters and canals if they're going to be used as your waste disposal system?

I made my way to the mall to buy an assortment of patterned fabrics and doo-dads.

Psych. I bought a laptop. I've been think it'd be advantageous to have one if I head south to OZ or NZ, since wi-fi is usually free, while internet cafes are relatively expensive. Secondly, if I enroll in a Spanish language immersion class, I'd probably need a computer. Thirdly, my online gaming is suffering dramatically. And fourthly, when I write stories, I prefer to type. My only concern is becoming one of those reclusive travelers, which Ethan so aptly described in his Exeter Newsletter article. So no need to waste my energy rehashing similar opinions.