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.

A Long Post For a Long Bus Ride

The trip from Padang, Sumatra to Jakarta, Java required a marathon 52 hour bus ride, or in terms of distance, 1,300 kilometers of bumpy country roads at Indonesianapolis 500 (like what I did there?) stop-and-go speeds. Without hyperbole, I’d estimate that half of the trip was consumed in accelerating to 60 km/h as fast possible and then soon afterward stopping in order to yield to on-coming traffic. Did I mention that I was prodded by upholstery nails in the mid-section of my seat when I slouched? Or that the guy next to me didn't seem to realize, at least a quarter of the time, that he was in MY seat. Or that it was a 52 hour bus ride? W.T.Fuck.

Google Maps: Padang to Jakarta

Google Maps put the transit time at about 21 hours. Lonely Planet added some fudge factors and suggested at day or more, profoundly noting that it is easier to fly with a competitive price to boot. I planned as much as 36 hours for the sake of keeping a positive mindset. So when I arrived 16 hours after the worst-case estimate – more than half a day thinking the bus would roll up to the ferry terminal any minute – well, needless to say, I had some pent up cynicism to purge.   Hither it comes…

First, I woke up early in Padang to ready myself for the trip. As I walked out the door, the owner of the guesthouse offered me a shuttle to the bus station for approximately 20USD. But I had been suckered into this ludicrously pricey “tourist” shuttle scheme once before when I first arrived with the crew from Bubbles. At the time, they had planes to catch and it was still dawn, so I kept quiet. But this time I politely declined, hoping I wouldn’t hit any language barriers for striking out on my own. Fortunately, I succeeding on the second attempt by showing my bus ticket to one of the drivers of a pimped out shared-taxi. He charged me 2000 ruppiah, or about 0.25 USD, and I got to enjoy the curious, friendly stares of the passengers that we picked up along the way.   A savings close to 100%. Winning!

One flavor of pimped out shared-taxi in Padang. 

At the bus station, I got onto an “Executive” bus, which consists of AC, reclining seats and a TV hung from the ceiling (no guarantees the TV works; and if you’ve never traveled by bus in Asia, hopefully it doesn’t). My leg room seemed to be smaller than the rest of the rows, but it wasn’t a full bus so I had that side of the aisle to myself. Things weren’t looking too bad.

The bus at the rest stop where in The Middle of Nowhere, Sumatra.  Featured is the Super Executive bus I hopped on later in the trip.

About 5 minutes into the ride, I immediately regretted having a cup of coffee and a large orange juice at breakfast. The bus stopped a few minutes before I might have ruptured my bladder, and a young man showed me a nearby toilet in front of a mosque. When I returned to the bus, everyone on the bus quietly chuckled at the Westerner who had to pee in the first 15 minutes of a 30+ hour bus ride. 

Leaving Padang involved navigating steep, narrow switchbacks cut through lush jungle, all the while the road was under construction with kilometer long traffic jams in either direction. The expected two hour trip to Solok took about three and half. I thought our late arrival might be a problem for my transfer at the next stop, but when I arrived in town, I had to wait for another 45 minutes for the “Super Executive” bus. Basically, it’s the same bus as before but with a bathroom. From observation, only females and children use this bathroom. I guess Indonesian men choose if they need to pee.

The view of Padang while winding up the mountain roads. 

In Solok, an Indonesian man bought me lunch and I only talked to him in bare-bones English for a few minutes .  Another man, Herman, saw me struggling to communicate with the bus clerks about the transfer, and he kindly approached me right away to say he’d make sure that I got on the bus since he was on it too. For the win! I didn’t know it at the time, but he was making a commitment to ensure I got to my hostel in Jakarta.

Anyway, back on the Super Executive bus:  I sat down next to some stone-faced punk, probably about my age or little younger. I got settled in and then tried to introduce myself to my neighbor for the next day or so. A simple, “Hi, my name is Adam” with my hand out. He apparently took offense at the token of friendliness, seemed to tell me his name was Erdu (or maybe it translates to “Piss off”), and then outright refused to shake my hand. Man, I thought, what’s up his ass?

But then I realized that I was in the wrong. There aren’t a lot of Westerners visiting Indonesia, and fewer still visiting Sumatra. So over the past few weeks I’d grown accustomed to the friendly and eager Indonesians I’d encountered. Even in the hectic city of Jakarta, I often feel that I’ve made a person’s day with a “simple” hello and a smile – add a high five and you’ve made a solid week. Soon enough, a Westerner starts to feel like a celebrity, as if one deserves that type of reaction, which is no more than an entitlement complex. There are so many reasons this particular gentleman might associate Westerners with something less than good – and I know enough Westerners to understand how one could have a prejudice. So I let the rebuff pass, and made a mental note to try again later.

At the next rest stop, I got to know Herman better over a plate of curry and an unknown fibrous vegetable that looked a little like a pineapple. He insisted on paying, which seemed absurd given my self-indulgent reasons for traveling and his. He was returning home after finishing a two year work contract that stationed him 2000km away from his wife and family in Jakarta, and hadn’t been home the entire time. Once back in Jakarta, he would begin following up on leads for his next contract. My impression of Herman is that he is the type of guy who, even if he knew how much money I could make in a year, still would have insisted on paying. We talked on things for where our vocabulary overlapped and otherwise sat in silence until the call of the horn beckoned us back onto the bus.  

Around midnight of the first night I found out that the itchiness on my back was actually the point of a semi-blunted upholstery nail sticking through the seat. It wasn’t noticeable unless I slouched, which is bad for one’s posture (and mine is crap), but slouching is a tried-and-true method of shifting weigh off of a gravity weary gluteus maximus. It never pierced me, but every once in a while I’d forget it was there and the jerking of the bus remind me that, yes, it is still there.

I also made some progress with the guy next to me. Ultimately, I think he formed a better second opinion of me after observing that I didn't rip the heads off of any Indonesians (and that I liked to play with the adorable toddler in the seat in front of us).  First, I offered him a doughnut-like snack I had picked up at a rest stop. He declined, but there was no malice in his response.  Later, he offered me a tissue, which seemed odd since I was just staring out the window at the time, but a nice enough of a gesture (I think). And eventually, he offered me a vanilla wafer which I accepted. Occasionally, as we marched back onto the bus, we’d acknowledge each other with a smile – a knowing, “Yup, more bus riding”. So despite the fact that sometimes he literally sprawled out in his seat so much that he encroached, and sometimes downright occupied my seat, we were at least on friendly terms.

The bus made a stop around 3am on the first night of the journey. Herman paid for a midnight snack, though I made a few unsuccessful attempts at trying to even the score. At one point, he asked me a question about a bracelet that I had picked up in the Nias Islands. Realizing he had some vocabulary to continue the subject, I made a nonchalant inquiry about the origin of the necklace he wore. It was from Banda Aceh. He asked if I liked it, I said yes, and the next thing I know he had taken it off and laid it out in front of me as a gift. Honest, like refusing to eat home cooked food in front of grandparents, I tried to give it back without offending him. I failed, and it is a really nice necklace -- nice enough that I don’t mind wearing it even though I’m no longer the tree-hugging, devil-stick juggling, hippy I once was. Anyway, I’m wearing it now and for the foreseeable future.

Herman and I at our midnight rest stop after he gifted me his necklace.

To speed things up a bit, here is a selection of some notes I recorded in my journal:  Stray goat eating out of garbage patch; suicidal juice hawker marching down the middle of the main highway; a passenger on a bike with hands clasped as if praying that she’ll survive the particularly steep switchback road; served the heart, lung, and esophagus of a chicken in a curry dish; bus bottoming out so hard that the co-pilot stopped to see if there was permanent damage; in small hamlets that we pass all through the night (1-3am), groups of men playing cards outside; at midnight pit stop, I just want to pee while nearly everyone takes a bucket shower in the stalls; awoke to a changed landscape with mountains no longer looming in the distance;  shanties sprawling over the marshy landscape for as far as the eye can see; song after song of indistinguishable Indo-pop music blaring from the TV; passed an aged but seemingly functional “Water Boom” theme park in the middle of nowhere; endless rows of meticulously aligned tree plantations with collection cups on the trunk just above a removed patch of bark – rubber trees?; bus stalls a few times and engine is running rough but eventually starts back up; arrive at the ferry terminal at 2am, but we don’t start loading until 4am; think I saw Mt. Krakatau though the morning mist while on the ferry crossing;  people littering off the boat left and right; bus smells of Durian; Herman offers me to stay in his house – after not being home for two years – I politely decline.

Okay, that just took 52 hours. Now I’ve arrived Jakarta. Jakarta reminds me a little of Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam: Congested with traffic and an endless sprawl of rundown apartment buildings. Herman helped me find a local bus, and then hopped on too, which I assumed meant he was going the same way. But after a few attempts at deciphering his broken English, I figured out that he was going to personally make sure that I got to my hostel. As he said, “First I make sure that Adam has a place to live. You are my friend. Then Herman does not have to worry.” Unnecessary but it definitely made my life a lot easier.  

Sunrise from the ferry. The picturesque scenery of hope that the bus ride will end.

The local bus eventually made it to the waypoint, and then Herman helped me find the road to my hostel, which I soon located. Its 3:30pm on June 26^th, after having left at 9am on June 24^th. I said goodbye to my helpful friend Herman, and we exchange contact information. He tells me I can stay at his family’s house if I go to Boroburdur in Central Java. Herman, the world needs more people like you. 

So in the end, I’m not worked up about the length of the bus ride. No doubt, there were some boring and trying times, and I really did spend more than a few hours thinking we were just an hour away from the ferry terminal. But I also saw a lot of Sumatra that people usually don’t see, using a method of travel only the insane would elect, and I met a really nice guy named Herman. In any event, consider myself recently re-committed to continuing my over land and sea journey for a little while longer. If a bus can take me to the proverbial “there”, it can’t be worse than what I’ve just accomplished. 

I'm (Not Sleeping Well) On A Boat!

You know that old fable about the Princess and the Pea, who can't fall asleep because she is so dainty and delicate and princesses-like, therefore proving to the prince her worthiness as a bride and queen? Well, on a boat, I sleep about as comfortably as that Princess (so I guess that means I'm ready to be married to a prince?). Regardless, sleeping arrangements weren't something I thought would be a problem before I signed up to crew on the boat. Silly, naive me.

Here are the main issues I found with sleeping on a boat: Namely, space, temperature, heeling of the boat, noise, sea-sickness, and when anchored, bugs. Most of these diminished in importance as sleep exhaustion steadily increased.

Bubbles, a 39 foot long sloop, once loaded up with food, a kitchen, books, tools, extra engine parts, emergency gear, dive gear, snorkel gear, beer, clothing, and the like, has an interior liveable space about that of a freshman dorm room. For most of my journey, this space was shared between four people in total. In a perfect world, that is about three people too many. In addition, the diesel engine, located just under the sink, creates a lot of heat (when it works), so does the refrigerator, and let me not forget that we are at the equator. That means the cabin is really hot and stuffy and generally uncomfortable.

For that reason, I usually slept outside next to the helm. This spot isn't any more roomy -- wide enough that my hips just managed to stay clear of butting up against the wheel as it turned -- but it was more comfortable temperature wise such that I didn't wake up drenched in sweat. Depending on the spot I had available to sleep at, as the boat heeled over to one side while under sail, I would slip out of my seat. (For those unfamiliar, this was due to something I like to call Bobby, but most people call gravity). There are only so many "low" spots on a boat that is heeled over, and it is always less than the number of spots available when at an even keel.

The noise of the diesel engine was too loud without earplugs, but the engine broke soon enough. The sea-sickness wasn't for a problem for me on all except one night, but I got used to the rocking motion of the boat soon enough. And when anchored, I was usually so exhausted I didn't feel the bugs biting me even if they were -- just trust in the bug spray and believe it is only an itch in your mind.

Speaking of which, I recently heard from Hollywood that he contracted malaria, so there is a decent probability that others on Bubbles have contracted it too. I'm not worried, I at least have some malaria medicine to take if feel the symptoms, and I'm on the mainland now. He found out while being stuck in a poverty stricken village on a remote island that was a 10 hour boat ride away from a hospital. Anyway, he's doing just fine now. I'll complain about the malaria later, if I get it.

Boat Fare

The day before setting sail on Bubbles, I was having a chat with a previous crew member, Nicole, and a few other sailor folk in Langkawi, Malaysia. Nicole said to me and Kris (aka Hollywood), "You'll spend a lot of time on the boat talking about the food you will eat once you get back to land." It wasn't until three days into the sail that I truly appreciated the truth in this statement.

To start things off within an hour of setting sail, a leak was discovered in the propane tank, and then another the propane system. With no other options -- turning back not one of them -- that meant three days of cold food before we might be able to find a fix in Pulau Weh. So, the first three days consisted of tunafish-cucumber-tomato salad with crackers, canned corn and kidney bean salad (surprise, with crackers), and fruit (which was quickly consumed given the other options). All of these dishes were consumed in a dog bowl, which is quite a clever solution to the troubles of preparing and eating food on a sail boat that rocks back and forth constantly.

In Pulau Weh, we managed to get a fire-hazardly acceptable propane system working, which meant pasta and sauce was added to the menu. At first these meals tasted gourmet, and just days later, it was no better than cold salad and crackers.

After fixing the propane system to be less of a fire-hazard (i.e. buying a propane camping stove), the batteries on the boat started crapping out and the engine essentially exploded, so the refrigerator was now a convenient box to keep things a little warmer than the outside air. Mayonnaise, butter, and similar parishable condiments found a home in the sea.

The remote islands left little for alternatives in the diet. We had vegetables and fruit for the first few days out of port. After, we varied the pasta with rice, and tomato sauce sometimes for cheese sauce, but otherwise, our high sodium, boring diet continued in this manner for the next two weeks. To be honest, I became accustomed to it all.

We finally arrived in Pulau Siberut in the Mentawai Islands, where the hotel room included three delicious square meals per day. During lunch, I realized I had adopted an eating style on the boat that isn't suited for civilization. I forked in mouthfuls of food before finishing the next, gasping for breath where possible, while using my utensil like a shovel or a backhoe. Embarrassed, I curbed this behavior in the first few mouthfuls, but it was obvious that the mundane diet and isolation of the boat had affected my eating habits.

I'm glad I have the variety of the street stalls again. My first breakfast in Padang cost me a little less than 1USD (8000 ruppiah), and though I don't know exactly what kind of curry it was or what was it in, it was delicious and new. And I didn't consume it like an ogre either.

Weather Forecast: Clear Skies with a Chance of Sumatra

To a layman looking at a map, Sumatra refers to the largest and western-most island of Indonesia, split nearly in half by the equator. But to many sailors familiar with these parts of the world, "Sumatras", often plural, refer to the violent thunderstorms, or squalls, that whip across the land and sea here, and then evaporate into harmless puffy clouds nearly as quickly as they appear, leaving one in awe and in terror from the spectacular displays of nature.

Captain Alex told the crew about Sumatras as we set out of port on Day One, chuckling as he mentioned that they can be "pretty nasty". So, as I'm trying to get the basic terminology and skills of sailing down, I'm also conscious that I need to be on the look out for ship-sinking thunderstorms. No big deal.

Every night each crew member took on a three hour shift for watching and navigating the boat. Much of the time we were able to use the autopilot on the boat (curiously, sailing is much more enjoyable when the sailing is done by someone/something else), and course correct for any fishing boats or large cargo carriers that didn't seem to be giving us the right of way.  Generally speaking, that left a lot of time for nighttime daydreaming and looking at the sky.

Several of my night watches had cloud free, clear skies. I would lazily stare up at familiar or unfamiliar constellations, occasionally glimpse a shooting star flash into nothing, or contemplate the enormity of the Milky Way Galaxy spliced across the sky like a wound in the darkness of space. In particular, I enjoyed seeing the Big Dipper, scoop side toward the sea, hang low in the sky at the start of the night and over several hours, watch it rotate counter-clockwise downward in a futile attempt to ladle out ocean water before morning came. I enjoyed these nights.

On one cloud free night during the full moon, I got up from a restless sleep to pee off the port side, and realized that the ocean swells lacked the glimmer of moonlight I remembered when I went to bed. Captain Alex, on starboard for his night watch, said, "Hey, look at the moon." And before I even turned to look around I was saying, "Is this an eclipse?" to which Alex said, "I hope so." It was in fact. And despite being the 21st century where all school kids learn about the motion of the planets, it was a little unnerving to witness an unexpected (at least to me) eclipse. I felt like asking the absurd question, "Maybe its not coming back?" just because a meteorologist or astronomer didn't tell me about it first.

Over the next 45 minutes, I watched the silver-yellow moon wane from an oblong disc to a crescent and eventually a dark red ball faintly flickering with orange and yellow (perhaps projections of solar flares from the sun), making me think of Sauron's eye in Lord of the Rings. Then continued getting darker and darker until it was barely noticeable with the background. Alex had a cold, so I took over the rest of his shift expecting to watch the suspenseful climax of when the moon re-emerged, but a lone cloud came along and cut the show off early. I grabbed a spot to rest in the cockpit next to Alex. "The moon is gone." "Oh yeah?" he said, but half asleep. "I don't think its coming back," dryly. "Maybe," he said, definitely asleep. (Spoiler alert: I saw the moon the next night, so no need to worry).

A few of these nights I saw Sumatras off in the distance -- far enough away that I didn't feel like I had to be concerned about them. I was concerned regardless, but the rational side of me pulled through. But first hand I knew that Sumatras could materialize from nothing. One afternoon, Bubbles experienced a short-lived Sumatra when it spun into existence in a matter of minutes in clear blue skies, catching everyone by surprise with the spinnaker sail up (only meant for light winds), blowing 20+ knot winds, and causing the boat to heel over to nearly 45 degrees at one point. Right around the 45 degree heel I was struggling to pull in the sail without going overboard, and with another crew members help managed to get it down with a lot of effort.

So during my last night shift on the sail to Pulau Siberut, I considered myself fortunate (I still do) that we had good weather most of the days and nights of the journey. It rained heavily once, and most of the thunderstorms passed by without issue -- although sometimes closer than comfort. Ironically, I was thinking about all this as I looked out at a wall of Sumatras in the distance lighting up the horizon, which I'd witnessed before on previous nights, and felt confident that those storms would not still be around by the time we got to where they were. I was wrong.

Slowly but surely, over the coarse of three hours they constricted on our future location. Perhaps five different Sumatras: one directly east, one south east, one in the south, one in the south west, and one in the north west. Our destination was south. The wind gradually picked up as we approached. Lightning filling the sky, though oddly most strikes were thunderless. I thought about how in school I was taught that lightning tends to strike the highest object; we were surrounded by relatively flat seas with a damn 20 meter mast. "Exposed" would be an appropriate description. Personally though, I was a little terrified, but realizing it was irrational (most fears are), I did what any brave man would do: I accepted that my shift was up and I passed off the worst to Tex. Out of sight and out of mind in the cabin, I caught some shuteye.

When I woke up around 4 am, the storms still going on, and the wind howling. The lightning flashes felt like I was looking close up at carnival lights, then leaving me in momentary blindness while my eyes adjusted back to the darkness. Alex and Tex had been up for a while, but the worst as over. We couldn't go any further on our approach into the bay of Pulau Siberut until daylight, so we hove-to, and I had the watch until 6am. The weather gradually calmed and I was able to watch a beautiful yellow and orange sunrise with a conical volcano silhouetted far off in the distance.

It was an exciting end to the last night sail I'd have on Bubbles.

Malaysia to Indo

Captain Alex has a blog, www.sailblogs.com/member/bubbles, where you can get some updates for now.

For the record, my pirate name on the boat is Duke, my other crew members are Tex and Hollywood. Here is a relevant post.

And here is another post from his blog a few days after that.

The next blog post for Bubbles (updated: here) will be from me. I'm waiting to get internet on the boat to work long enough for the post to upload.

Currently, we are in the south part of an island called Nias. It has a famous point break for surfers, which is fun to watch people carve up during the day. Today I tried to get out to the break, then found I was too weak and exhausted to paddle past the current/tide, and retreated back to the boat with the board between my legs. Hopefully tomorrow I'll do better.

Newest sailing skill: I can tie about a billion useful knots, bends, and loops. 

Pirate call: Huz-ZAH!