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.