The Deluge

I woke a very flustered Becca the following morning and fetched us our breakfast to be brought to our room. She had just finished her packing when she discovered once again that a significant chunk of money had gone missing from her wallet. We could only really explain this by the fact that we had given the staff our key while at dinner the previous night to fix the entirely non fucntioning bathroom. She was depressed and beside herself and I was a bit peeved. I told the staff we would NOT pay for the room as they had made up for it two fold on whomever had stolen the money. I would have been inclined to pay the room fee with a huff but all they would say was that they thought we were lying about the money having gone missing.... It seems to me at least sympathy and understanding would have resulted in us being willing to pay for the night.

Eventually it came down to 20 minutes of me arguing with a manager who I said could happily call the police and we'd love to speak to them but we were not going to pay for a room we had already paid three times its worth for in stolen rupiah. We agreed to pay for our 'breakfast' of sugar water tea and shaped factory bread and depart to Kuta.

Poor Becca had had quite enough of Bali and Indonesia and missing money wads and upon reaching Kuta she took off to tend to some serious retail therapy. I separated from her realizing I had no real plans to get myself OUT of/ OFF of that damn island so I poked around for a cheap room and handed off my laundry to a woman who ran a shabby but organized small courtyard of rooms off a tiny narrow alley tucked away. Once I found a place to rest my head I took to looking at flights for Sumatra... hoping to stop through YogaJakarta for the night of my birthday and then getting up towards Bukkitingi and the Northern lakes. I couldnt find a flight for under 90 dollars and was completely indecisive about the best course of action .. but it was time to meet Rebecca for a NO utensil meal of fried seafood and decided to leave it chance. Becca and both calmed by an afternoon of forward thinking used our hands and tore apart several poor creatures while the restaurant of orange skinned Brits/ Australians stared on in horror.

We strolled to my hotel room so Becca could repack and I could make a bag to send home the following day via Indonesia boat mail. It was sad watching her reevaluate the extraordinary amout of superflousness she carries around in her backpack that weighs 17 + KG for a final time. It was one of my favorite parts of our travelling together, watching Becca insist she needs to carry surgical equiment as well as TWO, TWO toilettry bags full of bric a brac.. Im not one for packing light but Becca is a pack horse... and has the muscle to sling it all along as she trudges from one country to another.

I walked her as slowly as I could, begrudingly even, to her taxi and slipped a large bag of chocolate candy into her purse..devestated at her leaving..both for the loss of the best travelling companion I could have wanted and for being left behind in god forsaken KUTA beach. I took myself to a mild dinner of water and yogurt, continued a search for a suitable flight..none of which were purchasable by credit card less than 48 hours in advance and decided to stroll the beach. I took a two hour walk in the dark down towards renegade displays of fireworks but was chased back by ominous coulds which began to follow me on the return journey to the hotel. I pulled off the beach and found myself lost somewhere between Kuta and Dispensar (a neighboring hell hole) and eventually, having taken to the roads, found myself a hummus spot to write Amanda a post card. I was immediately forced to chat with an Indonesian man, who was trying very hard to engage me. I ignored his requests to sit at a different table and answered him in the shortest words / sentences possible. Even when he had left well enough alone I felt eyes on me...scarfing down subpar hummus and trying not to spill it on an oversized postcard I kept noticing people staring at me.. thinking well JEEZ I dont look THAT weird do I? It wasn't until I noticed the rawkus chess game going on next to me that I saw what people were really staring at...and was happy to be knocked out of my defensive self absorption and laugh.

Eventually I tried to sneak away from the Indonesian who called after me for at least two blocks.
As a light drizzle began I turned off down an alley way. I pulled up next to a tall swarthy tan skinned man with an extremely large surfboard also looking for the street with all the hotels. I followed him as he asked people directions and eventually approached him to ask what he'd gleaned from some confusing Indonesian 'go this way and then that'. We strolled along together and got to talking, an Argentinain arhcitect here on his - 'cut loose' - trip after nine years of study and working. I was depressed immediately.

He invited me for a drink and I gladly obliged, dodging out of the drizzle that had turned aggressive. He was charting a really strange travel itinerary having been living in Europe for some months then going to South Africa for the games, travelling around the cities there for a bit, and then spot hoping all over Asia. He did Kuala Lumpur for 15 hours, Lombok in Indonesia for a week (to surf), Thailand for an equally strange and specific amount of time.... Its not a really imaginable way to travel ...and it does seem to rob one of the spontanaeity of discovery in foreign lands. However, he insisted as a modern architect there were only a few things he absolutely needed to see in these assigned places. We talked about him travelling America and I tried to advise a plan that would allow for the best 'modern architecture', but I left out St. Louis in lieu of New Orleans...because it just has to be seen to be believed...at least thats how I've always felt about The Big Easy (I also told him to gladly skip over Boston..whats a Boston!..Do Philly instead).

He advised me to skip Chile when doing South America and to head through Brazil Bolivia Argentina and Colombia ...with an option on Ecuador. (Mind you I was later to learn that the Chileans share the same feelings about passing over Argentina...) We had turned into a bar called 'Havana Central' which was covered in photos of Che Guevara, black and whites with huge puffy clouds of cigar smoke clouding a young Fidel. It was inevitable that our conversation turned political and we dove in head first. Ofcourse it doesnt take much knowledge of South American politics to woo me into a state of euphoria, just a little chainsmoking and some flippant remarks as to America's postdated notions about socialism and Im yours. The rain had become a driving force but I didn't notice launching into Diatribes about Miami Cubans and Arizona xenophobes, Texas Death mongers, and bible belt homophobia (although ... as it turns out Argentina aint far behind us on that one).

Some two hours later the spot was closing and my Argentinian was but half way done with his 90th beer. He chugged it, discarded his empty pack of cigarettes, and hollered as we exited out the back door (the front was already gated and locked) "Goodbye MY Frieyends!" He invited me to find a place that was open a bit later so that he could continue through his 95 and 96th beers and I obliged separating from him briefly to drop some parcels off at my room.

When we met back up the rain was still coming although lighter, we committed to a little dampness while we looked (in completely the wrong direction) for bars that had a longer life..The best we could do on the edge of town we had naively trudged down was a Macdonalds filled with drunk teenagers whooping and hollering, upsetting the special security guard assigned to the national treasure that is Mickey D's (would NOT be shocked at all if he was deployed by the US embassy).

Suddenly the tall pirate of a man turned to me with a glint in his eyes and says "I LOVE THE RAIN! DONT YOU LOVE THE RAIN?!" I looked at him with childlike wonder and my creeping adult skepticism "Well yes...but do you really KNOW what rain here in the rainy season is like?" No use, his hand was in mine with the words "Lets go to the beach! I LOVE the rain, dont you LOVE the rain?!" There we were sitting on a tree branch next to the BIGGEST open water source possible in the middle of a typhoon.. and within twenty seconds he was kissing me. And within 4 seconds after that it was a deluge. Whatever hesitation that the rain had suffered in the ten minutes that we'd been bar hunting was over.

It was over, we were soaked ..and it was NOT fun.

Eventually nauseated on the smell of cigarettes and 90+ beers I was compelled to remind him that he had his passport in his non waterproof money belt and we ran for shelter. We found ourselves in a cab stand wondering if it would let up, soaked fully through and through. We began awkward conversation as he felt rejection and I felt bitterness for my sorry state as my clothes clung to me and all my most intimate curves... not so ladylike indeed, eventually deciding to take a cab back to our respective hotels. The Argentinian was on some monologue of self-affirmation by saying that he probably would jsut take this cab straight to the airport for his early morning flight so it was a GOOD thing I had refused his offer to stay the night... and I was plotting ways to make this the most painful cab ride for him I could.

With a glint in MY eye this time... I switched on. The poor Argentinian kept pleading loudly with the cabbie to "My FRieeeyend please to turn down the AC! Please my Friyend" Meanwhile I was making a long list of all the things I wanted him to design for me in my future mansion: "I'll take a human chess set room, can you arrange it so that the floor lights up in winning play configurations? Its my imaginary mansion so I dont fancy it cheating. What about a giant piano that you can dance on to play? I'd really like to combine my interprative dance skills with my musical ear! OH and I need a giant bed jumping room, not a trampoline mind you, a BED jumping room with beds that have Subwolfer speakers in them... this is key..are you writing this down? I think you should be writing this down!"

While the Argentinian, digging for a reason for his rejection, was asking me if I had any roommates ...or housemates.. back in NY ...were they MALE?! I was making baby footprints in the window condensation of our future spawn..asking him what their NAMEs would be.. he uncomfortably muttered 'Alejandro?' and I happily mispelled the words 'Well Come Alehandro'.

Kuta was a lake, we passed drunked hoards of Australian teens kicking water at each other as they waded ankle deep in a drunk teenage wonderland. Traffic lights were mute points and the water was so high that it took our cabbie 40 minutes to pull around one block, hearing the words "My friiyend, the air, can you turn down the air please my friyend" some ten times before dropping us in front of his hotel.

I insisted on wading my way back to my room telling him to please take the cab to the airport, save yourself some time (pride). We hugged goodnight and he made some halfhearted promise to email me on my birthday some two days later... I was extremely grateful that he was lying.

The way back to my room was an obstacle course of skidding through knee deep river trenches that were the streets while passing drunk 20 somethings on MOTORBIKES saying to me "whhhatttaafuuuckissdiss eh?" I called back at them "Your funeral park the bike, drunky and walk for cryin outloud." And with that I felt myself again, prepared for the next leg alone, steady soaked and exhausted I stripped down to nothing wrung out my clothes and fell asleep clad in a towel awaiting my exodus out of the seventh ring of Dante's Inferno.

Next up, The road to Sumatra is paved with inconvenience....

Castles of Water, Steady Flowing Traffic

We stirred from our damp bed the following morning to find a relatively sunny day rolling out in front of us.

We were thrilled to do our hike in clear weather and suited up for a trek, me in my 'adventure sandals' (which Negin refers to as my lesbian sandals - this is an insult to all lesbians everywhere ...I promise they have better taste in footwear) and shorts and the Brit in flip flops. We set out for an independent trek, passing up on guides and decided to set out on our own on a recommended path along the top of the rice paddies.

We tripped our way up a long, steep flight of stone stairs which occasionally provided two feet of railing every here and there. Until we pulled around the top of the stairs to look down at a slope of rice feilds separated by small elevated embankments which adeptly funneled the buckets of rain from the night before from pool to pool. The sun beat down on us hard as we took photos along the grassy uppermost part of the fertile ampitheater. Dogs barked at us and people stared as we made our way to a muddy ditch that might constitute a trail and began to climb around household trash and tree roots in our insignificant foot wear and extremely muddied selves.



The heat in Asia always wants to make me turn back from whatever I'm doing and run for the nearest shaded anything.... reverting me back to my happy state of house cat immobility. However, Rebecca is always pushing forward without a thought to the heat or a pause for heavy respiration.. making trekking with her like running after your agile 7 year old grandchild at the ripe old age of 72. She goes gliding off scaling large stone staircases and over giant puddles of mud in fully tractionless flip flops..to which I am always taking issue with, "What if you fall and crack that expensive head of yours open, your parents are gonna come to ME expecting a refund on that Oxford education!"



After weeks of driving past rice paddies it was nice to find ourselves in one, exploring the elaborate irrigation and the ways in which the fields cut the countryside up into endless configurations of reflective pools. We passed women with baskets on their heads liesurely scaling the muddy incline in equally in adequate footwear who would stop to deliver a snicker or two at our half walking half skidding along.

We were in search of lost temples and abandoned cities.. but what we found was real life. Being chased by kids and dogs past pig pens, coming accross several generations of Balinese women bathing near a spring who stopped to converse with us in my limited Bahasa (eventually running from their dogs), and following every single broken stone pathway that looked old enough to take us to Becca's dream of an Indiana Jones vine swinging adventure/discovery. Eventually we stumbled accross an abandoned graveyard we thought? Perhaps an old temple...It wasn't much in the way of vines or really even architecture but stepping briefly within its walls there was a resounding silence to the place. A peacefulness that was noteable by putting one foot in the alley way outside and one foot in the temple grounds and shifting one's weight side to side.

At one turn I slipped and almost fully fell off an incline and sliced my foot open in the process covering me in blood and fresh rainy season mud...Leaving me with my one and only war scar on the trip (which I've been contemplating numerous explanations for upon my return - tiger fights and crocodile massages). Eventually the heat and the bleeding got to me and once Becca had scaled two or three extra staircases (for the hell of it) we decided to make our way back. We couldn't for the life of us get our bearings but Becca has a sense it was in one direction and eventually we were come upon by an old old man and his son who told us just to follow a stream .. we kept saying...right THROUGH it? And he would walk over and mock splashing along the cool water. Eventually we realize we were in for getting wet and stomped along till we found ourselves returning through the alley way directly accross from our hotel.

We checked our belongings out of the hotel and stashed them at reception, donned our bathing suits and entered the water castle. A bit of a stone Balinese Disney land, it was built in the last three or four decades and its full of amazing algae filled pools teaming with large carp and strange statues that seem to rise more from the murkey green depths of algae than from the pristene clear water that was probably intended for their emergence. Becca fell immediately in love declaring this would be the site of her wedding, and we dove into one of the stone swimming pools. Curling up in our bikinis next to strange statues for romantic pictures and diving off of huge stone slabs into the cold cold water. We moved from one pool to another until it began to rain, and went for a big fancy meal... that was...as is most Indonesian food...extremely disappointing.

We knew getting on the road would have to happen soon, knowing becca had a flight the next day and we had scooters to return (although it seems the scooter rental place had taken to forgetting all about them). So we suited up I attached my suitcase for Beans to the back of the rig and off we zoomed grateful that the rain had stopped. The drive, however, was in itself ominous enough. We were insanely lucky that the rain decided to abate for our drive cross island because passing people on hair pin turns behind slowmoving logging trucks filled to the brim was exhilirating but mostly terrifying. I would watch as Becca would actually hang towards the side of the road we were meant to drive on and then as all the Balinese would happily pull out to pass her she would swerve right to the middle of the road again leaving them all frustrated. Eventually I pulled ahead on the downhill path as I don't so much mind clinging to the side of the road and we landed comfortably in Probolingo. Becca made the case that we should push as far as we could because the morning might prove trafficy and while we had the weather we shoudl go on. I was absolutely resigned to trust her as my sense of direction and timing is notoriously lagging next to my fine feathered friend so on we pushed. As dusk hit we were zooming on large stretches of highway into the pink sky feeling like we might just zoom over a bridge in the ocean right into the horizon and, once we hit flat road, Becca was completely out of sight... this child has a need for speed.

It began to grow darker and beans suitcase kept going flying off the back of my scooter causing me to fall even further behind Rebecca's outrageous pacing. Eventually we caught up to each other covered in dirt and engine exhaust and found ourselves in heavy traffic while we clung to the dying embers of daylight. Indonesia traffic is a lot more like extreme off roading..because well...it IS extreme off roading. They detour you every two KM or so into these gravel side bars that you have to merge into with three lanes of traffic that run unpaved for at least half a KM each till you are again redirected to another patch of 'paved' ground'. It was terrifying and bumpy, your worst enemy on a scooter is not so much water as it is dust and gravel which can cause you to skid and fully lose traction. In this situation I found myself religiously studying the people in front of me hearing Mega's voice to always watch your fore-scooterers, because the dark had cloaked all the potholes from vision. Eventually we pulled past signs that were getting us back to Kuta and found each other - poor terrified Rebecca was desperately worried that I had become lost in the mess and she would never find me in the dark.

We checked into an over priced hotel in Sanur I went on a very tired and grouchy search for an ATM devestated at what the dust and exhaust had done for my skin. We ate a restaurant where they were mercifully playing BB king and bemoaned our disgusting leaky bathroom as sleep hit us like a ton of bricks.

Next up - Becca departs on her flying arc and leaves me to drown with the other animals somewhere on Kuta beach.

When the moon hits thaa skyyy....

It was dark by the time the ferry docked at Probolingo, and we met up with our driver, who I was feeling extremely indebted to - on account of his having to wait for us for two hours.



He took us to Eco - dive where we once again happily mounted our scooters and (especially Becca) felt the surge of power that comes with being in control of one's OWN movement around a country - ne'er to run over a kitten whilst we were at the helm.



We went from one end of the island to the other eventually picking up a man on his own motorcycle of sorts with many tattoos who led me off in one direction to find a hotel.. while Becca understood we were going to wait for her somewhere else. It left me to my newest of Indonesian boyfriends... whose affections were posed in the repitition of the phrase "I sorry my english is no good, I'm very stupid" - so one would be obliged to reply " NONO this isn'tthe case your English is great, you're not stupid"... to loving batting tattooed eyelids....And so I was coerced. Eventually blonde damsel that she is, Becca picked up a man with a nearly fully unbuttoned button up shirt - looking a lot like a pimp - in the opposite direction who talked his friend into giving us a pretty amazing deal on a cabin at the top of a hill.



We piled in and paid the fee. My new boyfriend meanwhile stationed himself on the front porch and insisted he would wait.. I told him he would most certainly not do that and was forced to promise that I would come meet him and his friends shortly for dinner.



Becca passed out, poor thing, from the awfulness of our day and I went and fufilled my obligations by sitting down with my tattoo artist 'boyfriend' and all his friends who were quite lovely. One of which spoke near perfect English and played a pretty good guitar as well - we talked music - obviously - and I warmed up on the inside with the ginger tea and candlelight. Trying as hard as I could not to return my boyfriends penetrating stare and focus on the meal at hand - A grilled chicken with Balsamic Vinegrette and some rice... thankfully.



Once satiated I promised the boys we would come to their party tomorrow if we didnt need to take off before then and went home to my sleeping Becca..... only to be awoken by the start of the rainy season a day before the full moon.. rain wakes you up in Bali... and it sounds more like some sort of natural warfare.



We woke up the following morning to rain soaked streets and rainy skies. Becca rolled out of bed to discover her money missing from our Mataram mulleted maverick (Yeah I lluuuuh the illiteration), leading to my feeble attempts to cheer her up . We agreed to go stay in Tirta Gagna, right outside of Ahmed and attend the party in the afternoon. We had limited funds upon realizing that half the 100 dollars she had taken out the night before was missing and decided to keep everything as free as possible. We drove over the mountain and checked into a cheap hotel accross from the water palace (thankfully one of the only things that I think was actually capable of lifting poor Becca' spirits). And piled onto one scooter to check out this Balinese party. I felt pretty chuffed to be honest to have a leggy blonde hangin off the back of my scooter, after all it IS the American dream.... If only I had thought to cuff my t shirt sleeves and gel my hair I'da been James dean in a poncho.



Now going into this party we thought... wellll I hope we're not crashing this big traditional hoo ha, imagining Balinese women scrutinizing us and greeting us through gritted teeth. We collectively agreed upon appropriate comportment and attire, assuming this was a very closed event/ affair. The premised of the celebration as it had been explained to me was that someone had just built a new house and with good luck they were christening the new place on the night of the full moon - which is a very fortunate set of coninciding timing.



What we found was about twenty or so VERY drunk Balinese men, all of them well into the party, and not a single female in site... we were the only westerners, the only women, and definitely the entertainment.

Becca was immediately siezed upon by one particularly old and grabby gentleman who seemed to lack an understanding of the old english directive "hands to yourself please". I was immediately defensive telling them not to touch her and being pulled off in several directions by different people telling me to calm down and not to worry. However, I had let this poor girl get robbed once already and now had dragged her to a party of what turned uot to be WASTED police officers.. I hate cops.. I hate people touching my friends without consent .. I was peeved. People were definitely speaking words to me but I was focused as this man slapped her thighs and tried to interfere every time he wuold insist she drink shots of 'Arak' - a local rice wine. BEcca kept assuring me she was fine but I was fully alarmed as my boyfriend kept trying to say things to me... which I fully ignored until someone else would pull me off to tell me something else. We were having strange food on plates handed to us in baskets and cakes wrapped in plastic forced into our hands. At one point I was give somethign cold and gelatinous and I tried a small piece trying to make a face of gratitude through the disgust - 'Oh its just pickled suckling pig'.. 'Oh no clearly because ofcourse it is...'

I was finally made at ease when the old man reached the point of drunk that he had to be dragged off still screamin things back at Becca... and all eyes were somehow on me... The Balinese men like a curvy woman and they kept trying to get me join in traditional dances.. that were not exactly 'join on in' kinda dancing (note the fanny pack of mine that makes an appearance here and Becca sweet voice at the end)

I met the man of the house Joni and all his brothers and cousins, and neighbors and old bosses. Meanwhile I was having metaphors about spanish guitars and spicy chili peppers flying past me left and right. I threw back as much as I could while my CREEPY boyfriend kept whispering at me "katy.. i jealous.." I was told that he was a drummer... like the one in BLink 182.. First off .. I reallly hate blink 182 furthermore, how do I come to a cop party and end up stuck with a god damn drummer?? I left New York to get away from the drummers/ bassists/ keyboardists/ guitarits/ artists/ guitartists/ retardists ETC. If I could find me a Balinese Carver (Wire reference for you coolest Grandma ever) I'd be set!

Once the festivities had reached severely drunk we slipped out as inconsipicuously as we could... (if you were me) only having to tolerate a FEW rounds of kisses from a drunk proprieter of one of the local resort hotels and having the words "Spanish Guitar" echoing somewhere behind me as we navigated the mud and light drizzle and I escaped my poor tragic tattooed boyfriend. The Sensitive type he was and didnt put up any fight at our parting.

I drove us home, Becca's head was reeling from the strange spirits she'd been forced to drink and once I'd got her showered and relaxed we ate some dinner and she crept off to bed. I meanwhile was in my fully social state and upon meeting a family of Belgians I think they were with two guitar playing sons jumped in on an old chili peppers song I remembered exactly ONE verse of. THe boys were playing guitar with two Balinese men in traditional everything decked out for teh full moon. They played I sang, we talked music... they knew 'Susie Q' which tickled me to the core, and as the rain began to fall heavily we talked and played every single song we ever knew. They played me Balawan - AMAZING - and I played them the Isley brothers. It was two am before I even realized it, having sang for teh first time in years really and been so awakened by the conversation abotu music...

I said good night to two truly lovely and talented Balinese men, we were all glowing from reflected light off the wet street in front of the porch where we played. The very serious guitar player said 'If you lived here - you wuold be in my band' a complete honor/ I'm sure load of BS. I slipped off to bed and poor sore cheeked Becca after a strange day, while the rain came streaming down from every corner of the sky.

Next up - Water palace, Indonesian Rush hour, and separation anxiety...

Balawan for those who are interested -http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zFQwqpnYz4o

Making it IN and OUT of Mataram

We spent the following morning both dealing with and anticipating massive skin peel, find our every move among the sorest.

It resulted in a morning in near fully reclining positions, eating, reading, and catching up on our writing. Having worked out how much money we had between us to get to the mainland, we budgeted breakfast and lunch and some internet time before buying boat tickets to take us to Lombok.

Lombok is a main island in the Indonesian island chain of Nusa Tengarra. It is a big favorite of the tourism industry yet it remains pretty unspoiled and undhindered by the partiers in Bali which is due in part I think to the spirit of the Sasak people who inhabit Lombok. Mostly muslim, the Sasak were colonized by the Balinese for a long time and still maintian a series of very strange animist-Sasak traditions mixed in with the practice of Islam.

We rode a long think Banana boat from Gili Meno to Lombok, being tossed on every giant wave that spilled over the bow of the boat. Our fellow travelers were much more relaxed by the whole experience and never seemed to catch themselves wavering a bit off balance at the edge of the benches we all sat on. When it was time to disembark Rebecca as well as everyone else on the boat easily slid off on to the beach carrying sandals and bundles and backpacks in hand.. Becca's long spinder legs once again serving her far better than all 5'4 of me that dropped my sandal in the water and then fell in after it.

Once I reached the shore, ornery and salty from the spill, Becca was being attacked by several different van drivers who wanted to take us to the city for varying rates. Becca, sweet and excited by the opportunity to bargain (another thing shes amazing at - seriously this girl is golden) was fully engaging our tormenters but I was dead set on the bus, which we had clearly agreed to take into the city. However being the expert she was, and perhaps the all too kind person, she let a man in grey shirt give us a low enough price to persuade me into a car. I didnt like him because he kept grabbing us and pulling.. something I dislike is when people touch me in any given exchange of business... I have explained and perhaps this makes me ignorant... but I have explained a few times in Indonesia that I have no reason not to fully accept, respect, and appreciate Indonesian custom and convention.. but I simply refuse to abandon my own cultural and personal limitations. Which means, unless give express permission, please hands off.

The other thing that is slightly frustrating in Indonesia that we experienced many times in our travel there, was that people do have a tendency to lie to you. Just like in America everyone has a hustle and as my former boss El-p used to say all the time 'at-d'enda tha day' everyone has to earn a living. However, if you want to take me for double the price of public transport and I would personally prefer to ride the public transport... please dont lie to me and say the public transport does not exist... when I know damn well it does!! I mean even cab drivers in NY would point you to the nearest subway if you needed...jeez.

At any rate we end up in an airconditioned range rover of sorts speeding around curves on a densly forested road. There was a man in a pink - what looked to be ladies bowling club uniform shirt - with the sewed name 'Nathan' over the breast pocket. He was wiry young and handsome and kept leaping out of his seat to turn and talk to us excitedly. Asking us all about our trip and where we were from, what we were doing next. Picking up on Becca's kindness, he insisted we go to a travel agency run by his friend to get us back to Bali the next day. I said no several times but we ended up there mysteriously anyways... yet again being told that we absolutely must take this option in order to get back to the mainland.. this time I put my foot down and Becca was well in agreement that we should just make our way to the ferry on our own the following afternoon.

Nathan began telling us all about Lombok. which had apparently been colonized by the Balinese for hundreds of years. We passed a long line of cars full of men and women in traditional clothing, driving in a procession. Nathan quickly piped up that this was a wedding procession, the groom and his entire family were going up to meet the bride at her home. He then gave us a breakdown of marriage in Sasak culture... It goes a little something like this.

The sasak people have 4 seasons, The wet season, The dry season, Marriage season which is directly followed by divorce season... he was VERY clear to explain to Becca that Sasak men and women cannot have sex before marriage but kids do go out on dates, unlike in our cultures where people have sex... right? Anyways, Sasak men pay for all of the wedding and pay a dowry to the wife's family I believe... in what they refer to as 'the cold weather season' aka ... 85 degrees? and Divorce season takes place in the hot season when men no longer need the women to keep them warm. To divorce someone all you have to say is "I divorce you I divorce you I divorce you" and your marriage is dissolved... never to be married again...

The Sasaks have a lot of marriages I suppose.

We were fascinated and amused when we pulled into the parking lot of a pretty cheap hotel... frustrated I did my best to shake Nathan and all his offers to force us on to his friends transportation the following morning. Becca and I retreated to our room, thrilled to find a TV with MOVIES on ... we decided to run and grab all the aloe vera ever made and some dinner. Eating some oily fried rice while watching Sean Connory in some weirdo (and racist according to me - OFCOURSE - I havent changed that much guys) conglomeration of historic literary characters was actually heaven. We even had some powdery chocolate... none of the showers worked, the hotel room was really eerie... and we were pretty sure that the BEDBUG BITES all along my face the following morning could be attributed to this confounded institution serving as a hotel... but it felt like heaven somehow. It's moments like these you encounter your true compatability with someone, this goes beyond needing to just travel with another person... its that we both share the same idea of 'comfort' and so gladly engage in it together.

We gladly jetted out of the place as fast as we could the next morning, deciding that breakfast would best be served somewhere else, and took off for some of the few Hindu temples/ castles left over from the Balinese colonization.

We both agreed that a walk would be good for our constitution after a night in Abu Grahib and the amount of harassment we seemed to encounter just trying to find ourselves some dinner the previous evening. We took off down a long boulevard, full of strange public spaces. The citizens of Mataram were all out walking with their families and a strange impromptu carnival had sprung up - where some of the rides were actually powered by a man on a bicycle. Rebecca stopped for a chocolate pancake... we walked about two KM, and decided it would be best to grab an Ojek so as to get through seeing all we needed to see.

We were stopped by an old man and sat three to the motorcycle seat, looking like true Indonesians hanging off every part of the vehicle possible. (We were offered a ride by a man with a large plastic bin tied to the back of his motorcycle .... and were pondering for several minutes if he meant for one of us to sit in it..?) The old man took us through back alleys and seemed to slow down just to show everyone his two white girls .. he slowed down for everyone, but certianly not everything.. as when we turned down an alley he ran straight over a small kitten with a pink ribbon around its neck..

Becca gasped,I screamed and fully lost my temper. Screaming all kinds of epithets at the man, who in his incomprehension could only laugh at my extreme reaction. We got off the scooter, I was still yelling at him asking what in the hell he was thinking, Becca paid him and tried to cool me off as he asked "So are you two married?" I burst into tears . .. having been the one to watch the cat roll in agongy off the side of the road after us.

The temple was abandoned except for a small devout group of about fifteen people in mid practice. Unlike Bali the grounds were in complete disrepair and felt haunted.. I kept replaying the image of the struggling animal over and over in my mind.. not sure what to do to let it go and feeling terrible for poor Rebecca...trying her hardest to save our collective mood. Eventually we agreed to walk back and see if it was still alive.. it was..and very much dying....

It was a miserable afternoon, attempting to visit another temple feeling perfectly awful with images of this baby animal dying running through our minds. We gave up on the temple when the 'proprieter' insisted we pay him for admission and an undesired tour for an exorbitant fee. We decided it was time to get back to Bali, no sleep, bedbug bites, dead kittens... we were quite finished with Lombok.

We got into a public bus (which are more like small trucks - communal cabs) with two men, who insisted we move to the back of the cab. One of them was carrying a picture frame in a bag and the other had an absolutely noteworty mullet.. I mean ... the show 'Cops' would have paid gooood money for this guys hair in reinactments scenes from here until the next millenium. The man with the mullet was exceptionally friendly and asked Becca to change some money... this request struck us both as odd, and it was one I was most certainly not going to fufill. But Becca's good natured kindness, which we so cherish her for, led her to consent. The man with the mullet began to show us how to count in Indonesian, causing us to count with our fingers in the air. We went on with this, till I began to feel my bag moving realizign that the man with the frame had placed it over on top of my bag and was reaching in and unzipping things. Before I could accuse him of somethign I was only barely just aware of we were rushed off the bus for a mini bus to take us to the harbor... (This is travel in Indonesia, one form of transport to another just to get to the actual form of transport you need). I told Becca I thought the man had been trying to pick pocket me ... but he probably only made off with five dollars..

It wasn't till the following morning we would realize that Becca's whole pouch of money had been lifted. If it wasn't a close friend of mine in the situation, a situation I contributed to with my own full fledged naivete, I would note that theman with the mullet was quite clever and extremely graceful... we didnt see him take a thing but he had us so distracted by touching Becca and keeping our hands up.........

We slipped into the back of a mini bus and were held up waiting for as many people to be shoved in as possible - as is the way with these things. As we waited three Sasak women, one quite old sat in the seat in front of us and just stared... just STARED at us ... There really is nothing quite like the scrutiny of a wise old woman who does not speak your language......

Two men who spoke a small amount of English tried to ask all about us, we seemed to be performing our answers for our blank staring audience, our disapproving audience. They immediate sked if we were married and I jumped to answer first showing my fake wedding ring - communicating to Becca "TODAY we are married". The men chatted with us, scrolling through my phrase book and passing it around the mini bus and eventually left, being the first two people the bus stopped to let out. We picked up about five or so more women carrying HUGE parcels and wearing traditional head coverings. Every new woman who got on with huge baskets full of ambiguous greenery and sacks of rice... would look at us and the conversation would commence again. There is nothing like being on display to a bunch of muslim Sasak women, knowing you are being discussed, disected and scrutinized .... especially when the conversations all stopped so everyone could turn around, look at us, and fully burst into laughter. We eventually felt our very very low spirits lifted at the hilarity of the scene watching the women pass around chips made of rice and pork fat (we call em pork rinds back home).

Finally, the most outgoing of the women in a gail of laughter managed to say with as much English as she could pull together, "Only in Lombok are you married." Becca and I loved them for seeing through our lie, for laughing at us when were so incapable of laughing, and for allowing us to be in their lives - even if we were the butt of a joke. We pulled through a dirt road to let off the very old stern woman, who broke into a smile as we pulled around her corner and said to us "my house"in Bahasa Indonesia. We watched as her husband and another old woman helped to pull down her multiple parcels from the roof of the bus and looked around at what her life consisted of... this woman was not stern, she was prideful. She runs her house, she is in charge of her life (however simple), and knows she has earned a general respect in life..one that llows her to stare deeply at two nervous white girls in the back in of her ride home if she damn well pleases.

We finally got to the harbor forty minutes longer than it should have taken, and got on the ferry. Avoiding a real multitude of pushy salesmen. We were really tired of Lombok, it had taken the piss out of us at a real cost ... and we slept for three hours as the boat dragged us over to meet a car picking us up to return us to Ahmed..

Next Up - My new boyfriend, Full moon festivities, and A palace of water fit for a king.

King Leo's Court

The Next morning we were wholly disenchanted with the Gili Islands. I felt bad for poor Becca who felt she had somehow mislead me to a subpar destination. I couldn't have blamed her less, its hard to know who to trust on travel advice.

Often times one thinks they meet someone rational and reasonable.. and this person has the definition of travel that goes something like "Well thats a perfect beach.. and so chilled out.. but thats ALSO a MORE PERFECTER beach thats also soooo chilled out.." and so on. We had been told left and right that the Gili islands, free of all motor traffic were the perfect locale.. something to see. What there was, were some fairly poor people who had to carry from boats all the necessaries to support the tourism industry on these tiny islands ... and lived solely on the leisure of tanning white flesh dotted amongst brand new vacation houses of wealthy foriengers. I was uncomfortable.

We decided to remedy the mistake of not pushing ahead to Flores by going for some snorkelling. We pushed off on a traditional rickety boat with three British doctors doing their residency in Bali (all stunning young women) vacationing on Gili Tarajan (the party island - no cars...no cops). The snorkelling trip consisted of three desitinations, a boat operater and a guide.. in the form of a small 13-14 year old boy who swam like a fish. We all paddled along the reef .. riding the strong currents in all our ridiculous snorkel gear while the little maverick dodged around giant sea turtles and swam under water with schools of neon fish for inhuman periods of time.

By the time we'd seen a giant ship wreck under water, the Gili Wall, and several reefs we dropped the doctors off and were allowed to sit on the top of the boat. (Not so much meant for sitting). We held on as the boat quite literally tossed itself amongst huge waves crossing a channel to return us to Meno... It was a dangerous and most glorious sensation and I relished in getting to share it.

Upon our return we began to notice large red patches on each other's bodies... perhaps I had taken Becca's golden hue far too much to heart.. so much I failed to wear ANY sun block while we floated for several hours on our stomachs through salt water... But we paid it no mind and went through with our orginal intentions to find a massage on the beach after a hard day of ...floating?

Well we did not so much experience a massage as... extreme exfoliation... like all of our skin. The women who give massages on Gili Meno are.. hardened Gili women. Calused hands after a lifetime of using them.. they lie you down .. in the sand.. to add an extra layer of nature's greatest skin removal product to the experience. All of this on top of what was becoming more and more apparent were BLISTERING sun burn we had both recieved. Tears were pouring down our face as we tried not to offend the massage givers.. and said goodbye to several important layers of healing dermis....we limped laughing to stop the crying alll the way back to our hut. Getting naked and photoing each other's EXTREMELY tomato red backsides we laughed for about forty five minutes while we tried to take the most gentle showers ever. Clothing ourselves was even harder... and I insisted we attempt to eat food although I'm quite positive Becca would have gratefully never moved from that bed.. at least not until the seven year period in which the human body renews all its cells ..had fully finished a cycle.

We ordered pizza and I couldnt even attempt to make nice to the waiter that still very much wanted to be in my company... when King Leo arrived. His arrival is hard to describe in a way that will be... anywhere near as amusing as the time spent with him and his courtiers.. but I can try...

King Leo, fully named Leofric, is a british neonatal nurse living in Australia. He was clothed in a slightly unbuttoned men's safari shirt that hung around a small but thriving belly. He had greyish hair but was clearly young...and vibrant. He approached us in our reclining dinner position and throwing and arm around each of us, popping his head in between ours he said in the MOST stereotypical British accent possible "Girls, is there anything HIP to do around this side of the island? I mean we're staying roundabout the other end, its a thirty minute or so walk, and its really chilled out.. but over here its all families and what not.." And then petting Becca ever so gently he commented on wanting to find hip young folks like us.. and what were we up to etc. We told him we were eating pizza and knew nothing fun to do on the island but perhaps we 'd hang out with them on their way back from a full exploration of our side ... it felt like this..



On his way back Leo embraced Becca and began to discuss the Blueeeness of her Auuuura. I was intrigued and told him that once we'd finished eating we'd come join him and his compatriots for a drink at the next restaurant over... he said "Oh yes, but do, do come...' asking our names and commenting on my "fringe". In all his ridiculousness.. I was mighty curious, and convinced a tired and scorched Becca we'd best go for one drink.

We joined the group of three and were introduced to Ivan... a Norwegian who was drunk beyond any sort of reasonable coherent grasp of the English language and an Australian girl. Ivan used to play in a band on 4Ad and apparently had been slighted by a woman he was in love with for a very handsome friend of mine back home (I'm not naming names but I was pissed that his sordidness followed me to a remote island in the middle of the ocean a 12 hour time difference away... now THAT is impressive). Ivan, having left his band.. I'm thinking for similar reasons of incoherence was now a chef and according to Leo "Pays for everything and Ohhhhlways has good drags (drugs)..." We sat down and Leo immmmeediately began to tell us all about far less knowledgable travellers he'd encountered who hadn't EEEEEVen read 'The Beach' yet.... and then proclaimed his hatred of Elisabeth Gilbert... and continued to mock my fringe... asking me to tell the story of how I'd aquired it...

I was lying in wait.. thirsty for a bit of revenge... but so generally in awe of this person as being an existing ...thing in the world that I was slow on the comeback.

Instead I was caught up in some ridiculously long and totally inaudible story about Ivan cooking Axel rose a steak that he never ate...which lasted a good fifteen minutes longer than I had... anticipated. It ended just as I heard Leo telling Rebecca and the Aussie all about how lovely his eyes are... I stopped him and said "are you.. really discussing how lovely your own eyes are? Did I.. hear that correctly?" He turned beat red and mumbled something about how I was a snappy NYer or something and commented on our matching shirts (which was true..thanks mom!). Leo had spent much of his time whispering to Rebecca about her aura, Ivan was now launching into another loooonnnnng epiiiiiccc story about getting robbed by the mafia in Bali and then picked up by a thai lady boy on a motorbike and buying him dinner... after a handfull MORE of mushrooms than the regular dose requires? ...Rebecca and I were thankful for each other's general sobriety (She said to me later she could not imagine being the kind of person who would forget about cocaine in their pocket and pass gracefully through airport security...another one of Ivan's claims to fame). Becca went to the bathroom and King Leo pulled me forcefully aside to ask..."So how am I doing... what are my chances..."...

In every friendship there comes a moment.. when one could easily choose to amuse oneself.. enjoy a ride so epic in the watching a friend squirm under such glorious royal affection.....alas I did not take it and mumbled some story about Becca's ex...turning the questioning back to Leo.. in the hopes of recapturing some of the glory I had so mercifully passed up. "BUT LEO... tell me about Youuuuuu..."

Alas heartbreak isn't funny in most anyone... Leo sat Becca and I down and prevailed upon us to stay ONE MORE NIGHT on Gili Meno.. to stay with them in their very cheap accomodations on the other side of the island. Imploring with such dignity that if he repeated the name of the Sunset Gecco three loud and pronounced times we would most certainly not forget it... Sunset Gecco Sunset Gecco Sunset Gecco... Sunset Gecco... There he had said it so we would not forget. And we must come over the following day to meet them in the bar they would be drinking in next to the Sunset Gecco Sunset Gecco Sunset Gecco and (as Becca and I often repeat to each other with such a flourish) "Carp-eh Diem This Shit !! Just Carpe Diem this shit!" Truer words were ne'er spoken fair King Leo...

Ivan had bought a bunch of local kids with guitars an endless collection of beers and one non alcoholic cocktail for the youngster. I slipped Leo all the beers Ivan had bought for me from one side and fed the violently hungry pregnant cats the left overs of his giant grilled fish on the other watching both creatures pick away.

Eventually after Leo had given tired and exasperated Becca a head massage and whispered in the best impression of an old British Librarian accent I've ever heard "Thats just a tassste" in her ear.. we were off to bed. Leo implored her to let me stay drinking with them... but after I heard the collective agreement that the Eagles song 'Hotel California' was the most profound song they could all think of... and a conversation had ensued about its levels of meaning.. I was more than ready to join my comrade in sleep. Besides, he wanted to work on me only because he could sense I was weaker in my utter amusement and might slip into making a promise to stay one more night.

We traipsed to bed.. Gails of laughter pouring from us.. and were glad to be heading to Lombok.. out of the Kingdom of Leo... the poet (seriously.. a published poet)...the lover.. the man.. the legend.

Next Up.... Madness in Mataram.

Ahmed

Becca and I slipped out of Ubud, and pulled off into the mountians.

The motorcylce driving can be tiring. It requires a certain kind of focus for a number of factors that are not usually as necssary to take into account in vehicles with 4 wheels. We thought, given the mild ride to Ubud that we would easily navigate our way up to Ahmed for a night and be set to head off to the islands.

Not so. The driving was winding roads through small towns where women carried elaborate baskets full of bountiful offerings, wedding processions, chickens, epic roosters, and the best reveals ever. We'd be exasperated, hungry, lost, and never sure of our exact location on a map.. and then we would peak up over a mountain top and in front of us would be an intricate design of irrigation and greenery unfolding.

Rebecca Ross is an expert navigator, patient, inquisitive, and always careful. Forging ahead and stopping fearlessly to ask directions, shes quite the opposite of me who often assumes being lost is part of the necessary experience and lets herself get swept along till disaster is unavoidable. She got us everywhere in Bali and should be lauded for her ability to take charge and lead lazy old me through every corner we peaked around.

Eventually after a series of breathtaking views we were scaling down a mountain and towards signs for Ahmed (a seires of small coastal fishing villages turned French tourism hub).. just in time as I found myself getting crankier and crankier. We settled on Eco dive - a diving school run by a sarcastic Canadian - for its economical room (five dollars for each of us) and simple accomodations. I went to the beach and found Becca wading through the cold volcanic water and over spikey dead pieces of reef... because I was so cross all day I decided to get a massage and make myself more likeable for the poor woman who had managed to get us there... It was a good decision.

Dressed and showered we were recommended a place called 'La Vie En Rose', an Indonesian spot with "French Influence?" The restaurant was on a hill top with glowing christmas lights swaying in the wind at the same pace as the receding surf. We were one of two sets of guests in the place... it was us.. them .. and the Rastafarians.

NOW look I had a Bob Marley phase.. I have long appreciated that he, more than most other artists, has come define world music... and has made an important stamp on politics the world over.. playing an international folk music of revolution... However.. after a month and ten days in Indonesia.. I wish reggae had never been invented and 'No Woman No Cry' had never been written. Comodified reggae / rasta culture is a scourge on the earth that should really be stamped out. Starting with La Vie En Rose.

The merry band of newly dreaded and extremely excited 25+ year olds blasted through all three Bob Marley songs and quickly chased off the only other restaurant clientele.. so it was us and them.

The band leader approached me.. and I tried tactfully to ask if.. they knew any earlier bob marley songs? Or Toots in the Maytals ? ....Skatalites?/.....Sister Nancy... Anything? I was handed a Bob Marley song book... of which the two songs I wanted to hear .. they knew nothing about.

They asked to sit close to us, two guitarists, a congo player, and a wirey newly dreadlocked singer.. who sang as much in the style of Bob Marley as he could ..closing his eyes jerking his head and holding his ear...

I was in hell. Almost as much as poor .. squirming... Rebecca. Rebecca had become much the focus of said ridiculous singer and was trying very much not to blush under his direct scrutiny. I wanted to help her, but they had begun to sing a Balinese song one half the chorus of which went " I'm Horny Horny Horny".. which sounded like "I'm horn-ah Horn-ah Horn-ah". We tried our hardest but soon had collapsed into giggles un able to look at each other or the musicians. We paid as fast as we could and I made poor Becca's drive home in the dark even more frightening as I pulled up to yell "Hey how are you feeling? I'm good just a little.. Horn-ah Horn-ah..."

We got home, I worked on a New Yorker article about Serbian Jewel theifs that had me enraptured.

The next morning I woke up super cranky, for some odd reason. Becca convinced me in soothing tones to get on a boat to the Gili islands, to which I agreed between sips of (I asked for Unsweetened) Sweetened tea. We were allowed to store some our bikes and my little suitcase at Eco Dive. I expressed great gratitude at not have to island hop with the thing and the Canadian said "My goodness you're easy to please!" ... I replied "Well duh! I'm American". We rode the 45 minutes on fast boat to Gili Meno and thanked the Canadian and his staff after hob nobbing and trading cranky sarcastic jabs ( for which i was grateful).

We found a cheap raised guest hut with a big Mosquito net surrounding a double bed. Parking our stuff there and running to the beach Rebecca left me to wallow in my bad mood with the ipod and article while she obtained a nice golden brown hue on the beach...something I thought was encouraging about my liberal application of SPF85... perhaps I could go a bit easier?

We spent the day swimming and relaxing... not really sure what all the big fuss was about on gili.. meanwhile I was coming to the dreadful reality that we would not easily make it to Flores.. and my dreams of riding a giant poisonous lizard through the tropical island landscapes.. were squashed. We ate pizza and got in to bed giggling about some waiter who had taken to the fact that I was American and round.. and wanted very much to give us tattoos.

Next up.. Sun Burn.. and the great King Leo.

Extortion Contortions

When I travel, there is often a voice at the back of my head, nagging, whispering... constantly prodding ... it whispers "Duma wouldnt do that." For those of you that don't know her Duma is a dear friend of mine, one who I consider a superior traveler... she spent a year living in Senegal and always finds the most respectful ways to adapt herself to where ever she happens to be. In fact, when I think of WHY Duma is such a model world citizen for me it is because as a traveler she most always puts respect at the forefront, choosing to socialize with people in their homespaces - making friends and family for life - above personal comfort and leisure.

As we set off for Ubud, Duma came to mind because of a story she once told me about her and her best friend Courtney (another one of this breed of superior travellers - Jenny and Negin fit this bill as well) trying to get a visa to Nigeria from the embassy in Senegal for a visit to see Courtney's family for the Christian holidays. The Nigerians had held their passports captive and were trying to extort as much money possibly before having to relinquish them (with or without visas) back to the girls - as I understand it. With much frustration and the countdown to their trip looming they were told of they wanted to get their effects back without paying all their money...they were going to have to cry ... that the Nigerians would be forced, out of a deep discomfort, to succumb...

Well Duma, we did you proud.

Fifteen minutes out of Kuta, Becca still adjusting to traffic laws as well as the general motor functions on her scooter (mind you ten minutes prior I had gone speeding off a curb by accident - damned handle bar throttles), pulled out too far into the middle of an intersection. We tried to back up but it was too late, a cop had spotted us and summoned us to the parking lot where he was stationed. Mega had told us the cops in Bali would try to get money from us, and thusly Becca had followed close to her instructions and kept a small wallet with less money, and a bigger wallet elsewhere with her true bounty... so the cops wouldn't take us for all we were worth.

The cop pulled us in to a parking lot, and had us come sit in his cubicle of sorts, in the parking lot of one of the many Dunkin Donuts on the island. He was young and handsome and began to smile while he attempted to scold us, saying through his grin "This is a very bad thing you've done here in Bali." Wrote us a ticket and stretched out an explanation that he would take our licenses and the vehicle registration to court for us to pick up the next day or we could pay there... We knew we were being extorted, we knew the second he pulled us over we were being extorted....but I resented his 'playing the part'. He was so charmed by Becca's blond chipperness, smiling at him, cooing in that accent "Can't you give us a discount??" That he was simultaneously trying to exert authority while melting under her blue eyes and saying "I want you to have a good time in Bali... where you from?"

He insisted we pay 200 rupiah - twenty bucks - but if we were going to be extorted it was GOING to be discount extortion and we BOTH felt adamant about that. The power struggle began with Becca's cajoling but I got hotblooded and started speaking in rapid fire French hoping to throw him off. Becca showed him only the money in her small wallet, he began insisting that we could go right to the ATM next door (a clever move on his part). Then I began cajoling saying sweetly, saying "but but.. you wouldnt want us to have a bad time in Bali would you...??" This seemed to take effect .. Becca picked up saying "Yeah we will tell all our friends how bad it is here..." but he kept looking down at his imaginary ticket... saying that he would put it in the computer so that if we were stopped again we would not have to pay... which made zero sense.

Finally we reached an escalation.. my hot bloodedness kicked in ... and he kept getting up to go give our effects to the court.. Becca and I had a definitive moment. It seems to me it was almost exactly the moment that Duma and Courtney describe when, with a tricky Nigerian backed against the glass door of the consulate... they decided to take action ... and collectively weep. I realized at this point we were in control, we were not only wearing him down.. but he didnt want to take our stuff to the court... I was angry... I'm from DC and NY.. I DO NOT like cops. Hysteria entered my voice and I just began to let the words fly, rapid fire questions about how we could get our licenses back .. or the registration... speeding epithets came pouring out of me... Becca provided a high pitched harmony ... litanizing about what we were supposed to do driving without registration!!! And the vehicles were rented!! We talked so fast and so much that finally, after all of his posturing at authority..poor young guy, that he said.. "Well maybe you can pay me 150...." Drunk on my hard won victory I would have kept going but Becca said, "KATY...lets take it..." Just in time too as the young man had called for back up to his boss, a man who looked much more like an American highway cop... Dark Aviators and all. We paid and ignored his friendly attempts to make good with us... getting directions and heading for the hills.. literally.

Ubud was closer than we expected the road is pretty direct 'due North' from the south of Bali (Ubud is close to the center) and we twisted along a road that was lined with silver emporiums and stone carving centers. The stone walled architecture in Bali is ornate, seeming at once to provide bawdy decor as well as detailed tributes to various gods and goddesses. Incense burns in front of stone effigies covered in beautiful checkered cloths... or well clothed really in checkered cloths. As we pulled down towards Ubud taking a guess on a left turn, we found ourselves drowned in a funeral procession. We just made it to pull of into a parking lot ... to watch as people dressed in traditional saris and matching head gear swarmed the street. We weren't sure what exactly was going on till we saw a white clothed body rolling around atop an ornate stretcher being carried above the heads of several people. The spirit was upbeat and the instrumentation was strange.... we watched the traffic of people's real lives engulf us for a few minutes. It was one of the first real experiences we had had in Bali and we were rendered a bit breathless at the intricacy of tradition.. and the ease by which the Balinese practice it.

We stopped for lunch just a little ways down the road and made and executive decision to go to Monkey forest - oh boy. I was ofcourse obsessed with the fact that is a tribute to Hanuman - the white monkey- KING Of the monkies.. who is like totally my boyfriend.



We dismounted our scooters and walked into a beautiful high ceiling-ed forest..and immediately saw swarms of monkies.. jumping on people grabbing at backpacks and bananas.. My camera was in accessible at the moment so i was fidgeting with Becca's as we took ample photo opportunities and walked around. We saw baby monkies walking on to people's laps without a care... funny scenes of dad's - showing off to their kids being climbed on for bunches of bananas.. and big signs that read "DO NOT FEED THE MONKIES PEANUTS"... By the end of our jaunt we thought an interaction with the monkies would be harmless... and much desired some intimacy as we had seen in fellow visitors. Becca was the first of us to bridge this gap and sat down while two smaller monkies climbed on her inspecting for food, bananas and possible rewards. This turned bad rapidly as when she began to fidget as they started to pull things out of her backpack one of them pulled her hair. I stood by utterly useless having been fidgeting with her camera for the photo op she had asked for... finally one of them annoyed with her dismissal of their inspection, bit her ...twice..hard. She screamed we both leapt up... and began to collect her things while we fussed over the bite marks.

We decided it was well time to leave monkey forest once some antiseptic had been applied by the park rangers... stupid monkies.

Ubud's beauty is anchored in the fact that much of it is in accessible by vehicle. The houses and rice patties are stationed on huge hills above the actual town, where roads cut cleavage between sections of the more altitudinous abodes. We searched for places to stay, slipping up stone stair cases, breathing in the cool humidity and fresh flowers. Eventually we settled on a pricier guest house that was out in the middle of a rice pattie, the view was SPECTACULAR .. we were in a room on the top deck that looked like a honey moon sweet with a princess style mosquito net and a table on the upper front porch for late night chats. The design was impeccable with the one exceptional added touch of Mickey and Minnie mouse adventure scenes tiled into the bathroom. It was like finding a daffy duck toothbrush holder at a bed and breakfast in the middle of rural Vermont.

We ate a quick dinner and fell off to sleep in the cool air.

The next morning we enjoyed big breakfasts and chatted with the two Californians who have taken up residence at the place... one who was born and raised in Lousiana and still comfortingly talks like it. We checked out and got lost in the market place, where I made a purchase of an antique lockable suitcase for a dear friend of mine ... it was small but I had not figured how I would actually tie this thing on to my scooter....which proved a great difficulty as our motor adventures wore on.

We pulled out of town .. never managing the exact art of parking and set off for Ahmed... having decided Lovina (on the far North coast) would take away precious time from what were told were the picturesque Gilli islands.

Next Up, The Long Drive to Ahmed... and Becca gets Sere - naded naded naded.

The Road To Kuta..

Our time in Bali was as much a lesson in traveler's hindsight as it was patchwork of intersecting experiences, all made more glorious by our freedom to move places without the hassle of bus times, tour guides, or fear. Motorcycles/motorscooters make all the difference.

We faced another 12-15 hours of travel time into Denpassar - the capital of Bali.... and found our selves chaffed at the bus full of awful tourists we were packed into. First we dealt with a group of evil poles who put their bare feet on our back packs (which had been stuffed into the aisles) and were greatly chided at the request to move their seats forward as all four of them sat one to a set of two seats. Poor Becca's long legs suffered greatly on this journey as she tried angling herself in any number of creative contortions. Finally the poles were forced to share seat pairs as the bus filled up and we found ourselves behind a French couple, the gentleman extremely tall and very very sick to his stomach. As the journey dragged on we met two Canadians living in Korea, clearly rushing off to find the parties in Kuta and chance a trip to East Timor, so as to complete their 'I've travelled to every country in Asia' pick up line. The bus wheel popped and we were sidelined for thirty minutes, gratefully so as the french man had put his seat all the way back into my lap and refused to move it even after I requested quite nicely several times. Eventually we stopped for food, and after they got off I fixed the seat in upright position so as to save myself the hassle of getting really New York on them. Becca and I snuggled the rest of the journey me propping my knees firmly against the seat back of the poor French man least he try that crap again... and both of us trying not to die from the slightly toxic smells the poor fellow was emitting. Alas I fell asleep and once again his head was firmly in my lap..

Gratefully we came to the ferry which took us into Bali, both of us awake and teasing with the Canadians now... moving about the boat and laughing at the on board entertainment of a vivacious, somewhat scantily clad Karaoke host... we were in Balinese territory now. Finally we stumbled off the wretched smelling bus, and shared a cab to Kuta with the Canadians where we spent many hours in search of an actually affordable hotel. Deciding on one for 40 dollars split between us (believe me this is expensive for Indonesia). We relished the air conditioning turning it up to refrigerator temperatures and used all the hot water we could possibly use before sleep over took us.

The next morning saw breakfast with the Canadians, a swim in the swimming pool (with two rather pervy, overly tanned, old men sitting poolside in their non existent speedos) and a long backpacked search for a good place to stay...a place that apparently did NOT exist. We settled on a room for 250,000 RP (25 dollars) and called it quits. I made arrangements for motorcycles the next morning - while Becca planned out the first leg of our time in Bali. We spent the day girling out, shopping for ourselves, friends, and family... getting massages, eating the most MASSIVE and delirium enducing meal of fried crab, fried catfish, and chicken curry. I'll never forget the expression on Becca's happy face as we covered our faces/ bodies in foodWe were elated, calmed, relaxed and soothed by the time the day was finished... finally having worked out the kinks of several days bus travel from our systems.

Kuta is described by Lonely Planet as "a tourist ghetto" and where I only occasionally trust the full opinion of lonely planet, on this.. it is exactly right. The place is swarming with cheap perfume, almost naked tan barely legals, and millions of trashy Australian surfers.. "SPRING BREAK MATE.. Woooooooo....no" We were glad for the day of R&R but thrilled to be leaving... the place stunk to high heaven of everything we don't want to be doing..and promised all kinds of bad decisions.

We ran into an adorable Irishman, an accountant on holiday and told the poor forlorn soul to meet us for dinner... we of course insisted on returning the the place of the fried crab (definitely my first really solidly good meal in Indonesia)..and talked politics.. the Irish man seemed rather taken with knowing an American who could speak. He was so shocked that I had just decided to travel, being my parent's only child, and had never done such a thing before. He was sweet and I was so chuffed by his admiration. We all parted ways kindly, and Becca and I began preparations for our big journey. Being stunning and blond she was dragged off at one point to help some poor dumb lost surfers who couldn't seem to locate their friends. Somehow she apparently ended up at a dance club for a drink or two.. saww the minor appeal in a night of debauchery and turned back....we had things to do on a motorcycle journey after all. We were off to bed.

The following morning we hid our big packs away at the back of the hotel, stashing away only what we thought would be needed for 4 days.. and were formally introduced to our trusty steeds...and absolutely inferior protective headgear.

Next up: Ubud's magnificence, Extortion, and white lying hysteria....

Bromo, Probolingo, and Life on The Road.

Becca and I were a little sore over some advice that seemed to be deliberately with held by Luppa or 'Forget It' as you may remember. We'd spent two days trying to get information about buses and trains and a place to stay outside Mt. Bromo in order to catch the sunrise on the mountain top. He was busily trying to rush us onto a tour and we were desperately trying to avoid anything having to do with the word tour...finding in ourselves matching visceral reactions to most other tourists. Thusly we decided just to go to a bus station and hope for a bus straight to Probolingo...a town nearish to Mt. Bromo which we had hoped to slide into by nightfall for an early trip to see sunrise on the moutain... this was not exactly what transpired:

1.) We realized we had no cash between us.
2.) We could not for the life us communicate that we wanted a bus to Probolingo ASAP without someone trying to sell us a ticket elsewhere for some other price.
3.) We were generally still peeved with Luppa for making us so confused.

I took off on Ojek (again - motorcycle cab) to get us some money (I often volunteer for grunt work like this because, being the superior intellect, I depend on Becca for bargaining and navigation... seriously the girl is a maverick). We had to speed some 2 KM away to the nearest ATM winding through back alleys of the Jogja outskirts... it was quite lovely actually ...seeing another part of how a city functions. Slipped back to the station just in enough to time to determine that we should take the leaving bus to Surabaya that someone had been trying to sell us for the past half hour if we wanted at all to make it for sunset the following morning. On the bus, the only bus of its kind that I've taken so far, we both got our own seats... and AC, we tried to sleep and watch Indonesia pass us by as we sped East.

Changed over at Surwabaya and pulled into to Probolingo around 12:30-1 Am, totally exhausted and road weary. We were practically attacked upon stumbling out of the empty bus station by a highly overfunctioning small old man, who drives a Pedicab. He insisted on taking us to a SPECIFIC hotel. Becca, at this point still more cheery than I was, gave in to his pushing and we snuggled into the tiny seat set on the front of his bicycle with both of our giant backpacks arguing the whole way along about wanting JUST to go to the nearest hotel. We finally jumped out at a small roadside spot .. three quarters of a block down from the bus station.. grrreat... We took a room for cheap... and upon entering realized why it was cheap.. damp stains and neon light piercing our already overexerted eyes. We tried to sort a trip up the mountain with the people at the hotel but they wanted some exorbitant amount of money to rent a jeep? I told Becca we would get up early and wing it, falling faces first into our rather questionable beds.

Upon rising to the cell phone alarm... we stumbled about in the harsh lighting blinking at each other.... me wondering should we do this.. but the weary look of 'but we've come all this way' in her eyes told me to shut it and push forward. We walked back to the bus station finding a group of men hanging about in pedi cabs and motorcycles. We arranged, after much haggling of the over invovled, hyper old man of a few hours prior, to take two Ojeks up the mountains, and chase the sunrise as fast as we could.

The weather was cold and one found onself bundled close against a stranger in a Muslim country. For all the pomp and circumstance correlated with covering one's body in this part of the world, Indonesian motorcycle culture does call for quite a lot of snuggling with strangers. As we pushed up the mountain the last sounds of night surrounded us and enfolded the senses. The cool air and the rushing wind pulled me from my stupor and forced me to take in all that that was happening like a good slap to the face. As the morning drew closer, we began to pass through little towns on the mountain just waking up. At first it was just quiet houses with dark windows and the suggestion of arms and legs beginning to stretch out of beds. But as we pushed a little further the call of the Iman began, and as we hopped from village to village, so we chased this amazing echo, pulling higher and higher into the hills. Racing past large speaker systems set up on the sides of the road and coffee pots boiling we followed this now familiar sound further and further up as dawn just began to tease the sky.

It was the true definition of exhilaration.

Finally our two drivers, playing tag with each other up the winding hills, separated. My driver clearly attempting to show off his ninja motorcycle skills zipped up some marked pathway that was clearly denoted with some sort of "DO NOT ENTER" sign.. as we got half way up the almost fully flat incline,.... the motorcycle kicked out, and I was forced off to walk straight up the hill... tired and cussing the whole way. "Stupid Male ego.. stupid motorcycle", the driver standing at the top of the hill taunting my tired climb, telling me to move faster laughing through his grin. I was absolutely livid, till I turned my head and BOOM there was sunrise right behind us, just beginning to look like the most GLORIOUS paint spill nature ever chanced to blunder. I leapt back on to the roaring engine and off we took to finally catch up to Becca and her much more modest driver. We slipped off the cycles, alive and full of the thin mountain air, and skipped our way out to Bromo, a mile long walk from the top of the town which leads to the national park. We skipped and photoed ourselves, no longer caring that we had missed the sunrise... as we discovered... that which we always discover here; The journey is quite often meatier than the destination.

As we reached the stairs to the edge of the giant volcano crater we past horses, racing jeeps, and ojeks.. full of both Indonesian and Western tourists. We began our ascent up the stairs, noticing a high propensity of Westerners being photoed by young Indonesians.. a not uncommon site per se.. as the Indonesians are fascinated by white people, and even more excited to photo document EVERYTHING On cell phone cameras. We got to the top, lithe tall Becca gracefully... me huffing and puffing. All of a sudden we realized.. we had become the main attraction. Especially Becca was stopped by group after group of young people wanting their pictures with her, wanting to practice English. We endulged this, and our egos, for quite some time, especially enjoying the young people who wanted to practice their English, but it began to get eerie.... At one point I overheard a particularly eager young girl saying to Becca "But your skin is so beautiful mine is so dark and ugly.. you are so tall and I am so short." Becca fully overwhelmed by the comment stammered "nn no!".

After making it far to the edge of the mountain we finally managed a few moments alone together to recover from the shock of certain truths laid bare and a glorious landscape folding out in front of us. One stands on the edge of two worlds up there, a barren smoking crater - into which we tossed a bouquet of flowers in - and green thriving valley on the other side.

Dichotomous landscape and weird Indonesian insecurities/ cultural values are a lot for the tired mind to take in annd we soon turned back... ready to fight the masses who wanted more and more pictures with the blond. My tired bones and cranky words dragged poor kind Becca out of a few photo shoots till we were on the back of an Ojek together heading towards breakfast, our impatient drivers and the bus to Bali.

....Next up... 10 days of Motorcycle diaries in Bali: In which Katy and Becca rent their own Motorcycles and have adventures.

Lessons learned: STAY OUT OF PROBOLINGO

Terimoh Kasih

This is how you say 'Thank You' In Bahasa Indonesia, and at any given time in our days here you can hear an alternating chorus of Becca and I chirping Terimaaah Kah-SEEE!!

However it was as we set out to Borobodor that I learned from Mega that 'Terimoh' means 'Accept' and 'Kasih' means 'Affection'. It occurs to me that the Indonesians have this part figured out, that thanking someone is a reminder to the giver, from the receiver, to accept affection. Gratitude is pleasant offering, but a instructive, nay an imperative to accept the love and kindness of someone on the receiving end of generosity is absolutely what I need in my life.

It was decided that I was to drive Nana's scooter to Borobodor following Mega and Rebecca on Mega's scooter. Nana had given me good instruction the previous evening but I still felt nervous enough initially to ride the brake while accelerating with the throttle...which is not so good for the machine. Becca found herself a little nervous around the traffic so she opted to drive on the way back, having not much driving experience back home. I being the nutcase that I am, am so used to weaving in and out of Fulton street traffic on my bicycle that it wasn't too much concern for me. I did find the left side of the road driving a little stiff... as (my parents will happily testify) I've always been crap at learning my left from my right to begin with.

We sped off on a road straight out of Jogja, me sticking close to Mega and Mega insisting that I push out in front... like letting a little baby bird fly. We took off down a main road that led us out of the city and straight to the temple.... a 42 KM drive and the most freeing experience ever. I zipped between cars and began to enumerate the possibilities of this new found freedom, both in Indonesia and beyond. The notion that one can just jump on one of these things learn it, ride it, and not worry about all the things that are usually associated with that kind of process is thrilling. It's a feeling of endless possibility stretching out in front of you, past chickens and trucks carrying goats, other motorcyclists, one's own lack of ambition, deeply inhibiting fears, and the artificial impediments of an overactive imagination.

I was so thrilled to be speeding along that I didn't hear Mega say we had missed the turn. Once she caught up to me I tried to cross both lanes of the road to turn around and found myself forgetting the ease of the handle throttle, almost throwing myself straight off a ledge, skidding across gravel and waking up to the limitations of certain theoretically constructed moped freedoms.

We arrived in Borobodor and climbed all seven levels of enlightenment acting out a sort of human evolution series (which can be seen on my facebook for as long as I'm willing to embarrass myself on the world wide web). We finished our climb took in the magnificence and intricacies of the Buhddist's work on the friezes that make up the walls of the temple itself. The sun and the heat had its quick effects on us and we rushed back down after a pretty quick system of walking in semi circles.

Becca hopped on Nana's scooter, apprehensive about the traffic but pretty confident about the mechanisms of how the thing functions. I was a little worried but within 2 minutes she had sped out of Mega and my sites, drunk off the same intoxicating power of a purring automatic pink scooter that I had been just two hours before (I knew I liked this girl). Mega and I conversed about books and our future lives, her potential move to Haiti... my concern about what she might find there, and insistence on her coming to the states to find me and my family if need be. We talked about the Little House on the Prairie series shes been trying to find... Basically I felt like I'd known her for ever and ever and would happily have emptied my huge green suitcase and stuffed her in if she'd have let me.

We finally caught up to a grinning Becca who in the perkiest Britishism possible told us how she'd been singing inside her helmet from glee. We pulled up to a stand to pick up some laundry Becca and I had dropped off and the rain started, a sunshower of epic proportions. I bought us a pile of fruit and we sat in the Laundromat store front and watched the traffic pass, watching the sunlight bounce off the slick pavement. I am reminded here often of what a full sensory experience a rain storm is... it often takes me back to afternoons in Virginia with my family watching my father in a set of very run down overalls sitting out in the middle of a thunderstorm. At the time I can remember being utterly confused by his actions but Asia makes me understand the urge entirely, how could you not want to touch, smell, taste, and hear something as fresh as summer rain?

Anyways enough of that bout of Poeticism, we went home piled our stuff into back packs and made a jumble of different confusing plans all of which resulted in us showering, and me spending an hour talking to home on Skype.

The next morning we were up early and off to the bus station for our trip to see Mt. Bromo at sunrise (or well almost...)

Jogja continued

After a quick bout of working out with the super models Becca and I embarked on some serious exfoliating and dressed as nicely as we could to keep up with Ms Nanamia, who in the state of her alter ego 'Marrrrria' looked like the Indonesian Sasha Fierce. She was decked out in a ruffled mini skirt and exceedingly high heels and still only came up to about Rebecca's shoulder. We cabbed it over to meet Mega, Nana's best friend and Cittra (CHEE-tra), at Mega's house. We were fed the SPICIEST east javanese stir fry by the stunningly beautiful Mega and put in front of an Alexis Bledel movie about decent wall street bankers who fall in love with that creepy blue eyed hamster girl.

The girls, now in matching stilettos and tight black numbers took us to a live band Karoake joint where they sang some 'Sublime' songs I hadnt heard since 1998 and cheesy Indo pop. Becca and I were coming alive again, feeling clean and vibrant amongst the hospitality of our hostesses. We were soon carted over to a dance club playing Rrrrrr&B and watched as scores of teenage boys attempted partial crypt walks and what was an empty room upon entry was fully by the stroke of midnight.

Nana and Mega posted up in a corner looking like gorgeous mafiosos and the whole world seem to stop by to accept any kind of approval Nana would cast their way. We were introduced to Luppa (which means "forget it" apparently) and told that he could help us get to Bromo and Bali... which would lead to far more future complications than we could have anticipated (with a name like 'forget it'...) but he was very sweet and promised to book us a trip to the Ramayana ballet at the famous hindi temple of Prambanan the following evening. We danced for three hours, and were told by Nana that we should fight through our tired to see the "seessy dancing". We thought this meant Nana was going to do a sexy dance and then we would leave, as she was expert at Lil-Kim-armed-robbery-stance-up-on-the-podium moves.

Side note, know whats EXTREMELY popular in Indonesia... reggaeton... know what sucks for an hour and half straight..? Reggaeton...

Eventually a dj from Jakarta came on and played your average pop R&B club set, but he mixed it well, and we were made to understand what the 'sessy dancers' reference was all about. Three women in torn up tights and small neon turquoise underwear sets came out and began to wiggle... they were awesome for what a muslim country could muster... but not quite as rawkus as 'sessy dancers' are required to get in the states. Eventually poor Becca hit rock bottom and we had to escape.

The following morning we rolled off our respective couches and were taken to breakfast... we INSISTED that the girls leave us somewhere in the middle of the city and not bother with us any further (they are TENACIOUSLY Good hosts). We wandered the palace of the sultan... which was made up primarily of aging manikins in glass cases and then foraged ahead to the markets of Jogja and a batik store .. WHERE WE RAN INTO THE DUTCH GIRLS! SO happy to see their sunburned faces we went to a big lunch. Becca and I proceeded on to do a search for a series of amazing english language tshirts (the photo album of which can be viewed on my facebook now)...

The day ended in us rushing to meet 'Forget It' for the Ramayana ...which started with some seriously sloppy ensemble work but culminated in awesome at the end of the first act when Hanuman, the white king of the monkies, sets the entire stage ablaze (actually ON FIRE ...again I have videos ..but you all will have to wait for faster uploading speed). We were taking back to Bintang cafe in the tourist district... to meet Nana and Mega and found ourselves again in the company of DARLING Emma and Phil. We told the Indonesians all about Phil's extreme bravery and deep sense of chivalry and crowded around a table while pooor 'forget it' cast longing looks at Becca's golden hair (he WAS very sweet).

We proceeded on to Nana's house, me flying on the back of Nana's pink wonder scooter while her long hair whipped me in the face on tight hair pin turns.. I felt like I was riding with Dark Angel and clung for dear life. The evening was spent on facebook and a series of explanations about each other's lives and all the people involved. The Indonesians roll their 'r's and have the most soothing habit of purring through the English language. It was a bust of a night for poor Nana and Mega who I think very much wanted to go out and subdue the town but we were so grateful for the intimacy of a night of girl talk.

We saw a tired Nana on to a plane the next morning for a well earned vacation and prepared for a day trek to Borobodor as chaperoned by Mega, the best guide Indonesian hospitality could Muster.