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.

Further Journal Catch Up

Leaving Pandagaran and Jogjakarta

Our day at the green canyon was spent happily. We rode rented motorscooters all throughout our mini tour given by local hotel entrepeneur Deni. Becca rode on the back of a super model blond Dutch girl named Charlotte, also travelling on her own, Emma and Phil were rockstars on their little red moped... annnnd I was stuck on the back of Deni's scooter... to a non stop barrage of stories about (to his credit) poor Deni's awful time as a waiter in a Japanese restaurant chain all over America. Once we had exhausted the 'Which states have you been to' game we thankfully came to a series of local tourist stops... a puppet maker (I have videos), a coconut processing spot, and eventually through a back road (the cops were apparently up ahead on the main one). The backroad was unpaved and absolutely glorious, riding directly through rice patties with people screaming HELLO!! As you passed. The small old women who spend their days with the most inhuman of strength bent over drying rice tarps... it was magical.

I ofcourse spent the entire time ignoring Deni's advances and jokes to the effect of "Who is stronger woman or man?" Me.."Um how stronger, are we talking subjectively is this physical strength or strength of character... this is a big question Deni...WOW LOOK AT THAT CHICKEN..what was the question?" ....."Woman is stronger because she must carry two large mountains..and man only a small peanut"......"Deni....how much longer are we on this scooter for?"

The Green Canyon was glorious buuut it was freshly rained and we only forrayed so far in before Becca and I, holding on to each other plunged like two crazy boule (it means Albino Buffalo - Indo equivalent of Toubab or Gringo) of a giant rock into a mini waterfall.

After spending the rest of the afternoon in Batu Karas (you'll remember this was my initial desitination) eating freshly grilled fish with our hands and watching a staring contest between a kitten and a puppy of the same tender age... we hopped back on our scooters and I tried to tune out Deni's endless chatter. Becca and I packed our things and met the next morning in Bamboo Cafe, happy to be people in each other's company and no longer just identifiably clueless tourists on our own.

An hour and one VERY bumpy mini bus ride later we were trying to stay as cool as possible on a speeding train towards Jogjakarta. Thanks to a dear friend of Rebecca's, made during her time in Australia, we had a connection to stay with Nana a pizzeria owner. We seemed to think this would be a "cultural experience" not entirely sure what Nana's age was, unsure if she had a family. But she had insisted we stay with her and Becca had tenuously arranged for me to tag along. When we arrived at Nanamia Pizzeria we were staggered. The place was absolutely BEAUTIFULLY designed and a young beautiful woman with hair down to her hips approached us in dark wash jeans and high heeled sandals.. introducing herself as THE Nanamia. A former architect turned restuarant owner Nana had cultivated her love of italian cooking and combined her two passions into this wonderful and exciting venture...we were in awe.

We had stumbled into Jogja royalty and I realized I had ABSOLUTELY nothing to wear. I insisted we go to a mall where I bought a pair of wearable sandals and some 'Poopy Diapy' (copywright Jane Feltes) Harem (according to Becca this word is Ha - REEEE-muh) pants. Nana took us back to ... the single most spectacular living quarters a NYC girl has seen in a long time. I know from friends (Shout out Mawuse Z) that there is a common occurence of spontaneous weeping when a longtime New York City resident sees a beautiful piece of property and learns the actual cost of renting it..Lets just say I had to be sat down next to the fountain and then taken out on one of three decks for fresh air ...just to stop the tears from flowing...

Her roommates at LEAST one of which was a model, were out on the deck doing communal exercise time... all of them toned and tan an utterly ripped. It was insisted we join and I was proud that I actually truly held my own, managing a head stand... nothing next to hot German Robert's handstand push ups but...I felt good about it.
~~~~~~~~~


MORE TO COME!! Must eat dinner On the Island of Gilli Meno I LOVE AND MISSY YOU ALL

Journal entires and Photos

Hello There!! After 30 + hours of trekking in under 48 hours we are here in Bali.
Its been a true adventure, bus breakdowns, mindaltering motorcycle rides, and Moonscapes on the surface of the earth.

I will let you all read my journal enteries from the past few days and then you will be relieved (since I know you live to read this thing) that I will be able to upload millions of pictures.

Backtracking...

Pandangaran-

After surviving Mad Max Asia, I roused myself early and checked out of the person's house I was sleeping and into a neighboring hotel. I wandered around still adjusting to the time difference and eventually I found myself back in my hotel room sleeping four more hours to get rid of the bus residue in my brain. I woke up and walked down to evening on the beach, meeting two absolutely wonderful dutch girls, both on an extended holiday between school and newly aquired jobs back home. This was the first of many conversations to follow about American politics...you never realize how identifiable all the problems of a country are till you are looking at it through someone else's healthcare system. Loes, a nuero psychologist who I share a mutual love of Oliver Sacks with, and I discussed how concerned they were for us as a nation in our inability to care for the burden of sick people.... I ofcourse did nothing to help their impression of the States providing them with further and further dismal statistics. We went on to discuss the problems of the Dutch, the issues with Arab immigrants that all of Europe is facing and the recolonizing of the colonialists...It was all very fascinating and I was so deeply happy to meet two very forward thinking young people from accross the seas.

From them I was introduced to a young playful British couple named Emma and Phil who were flying kites against the setting sun. Things felt a little better, as I practiced my Bahasa texting with my bus boyfriend.

I went BACK to sleep again in my hotel room still recovering from two days solo travel with my back pack. And woke up just in time to run down to the Bamboo Cafe (a favorite hangout of beach dwelling foriegners) and catch the tail end of the final world cup game. The place was mostly packed with Dutch people, praying hard for their little team that couldn't, and young Indonesians routing hard for Spain. It was an uneasy balance of former colonizers and formerly colonized glued to a screen with sudden outbursts of joy erupting from both sides....always to the discomfort and dismay of the other.

I found myself colonized by mosquito bites and went home to treat my rashlike marks all up my legs.

The following morning I woke up early finally well rested and comfortable with my headspace. I took off for a walk on the beach to see some of the damage left by the Tsunami. Much to the credit of the people in Pandagaran the place has been rebuilt with absolute efficiency. Only one or two hollowed out structures remained and I turned back after making it down about 4 KM of coast land.

Upon my return I was summoned by a substantial group of old white men who I had seen the day before posted up at one beach side bar. They asked me if I was Brazilian... ( I said to myself no Brazilian would have this hair cut....without at least attempting suicide) they are apparently a group of men over 60 from The Netherlands, Germany, and one from Alaska, capitalizing on the availability of Asian women. They left me feeling nauseaous and resentful of my own skin.

At lunch it was insisted I join an old dutch man with a General Custer Moustache and his friends. They were an older couple from Amsterdam, she was a Dutch born Indonesian and he owns a sewing machine repair shop that he is running remotely from Asia. The man with the moustache has apparently been living in Jakarta for fifteen years, he was down in Pandangaran on the money he'd used to rent out his place in the city and to stay and relax with his old friends. He was, I was told, in his 80s although I found it a bit shocking since he felt the need to complain about everything the Indonesians did to rip him off on the Bus ride down (a difference of 2 dollars US)....internet scarcasm intended.

He launched into a tirade about Obama and all his failed promises to remove us from foreign wars ..."why do they kill the arabs?? WHY?" He got further heated. I was touched by my desire to defend my elected leader...more because I felt the man's arguements were reductive than because of any lasting feelings of patriotism... but still because I feel as though Obama might as well be rebuilding the US from the rule of Milosevic with all thats been heaped on his plate. Unlike the young women the night before this group of Dutch went on to explain how much they hated their own country for the Morroccan mayor of Amsterdam who continues to let Arabs in .. and increase the crime rate.. I was happy when my meal was over and continually rejected the offers of the sewing Machine repairman to learn to ride his scooter, take a walk in the national forest, etc etc even after he had followed me into the water for a swim.

I WAS SO GRATEFUL to find Emma and Phil and would not for the life of me let them leave my sight... insisiting we go to dinner and spend the evening/ next day together...shockingly I'd had my fill of creepy old white men. I bonded with them while emma got a delectable beach side massage and the conversation turned to yet another session of "I knew things sucked in the US but I didnt know they were THAT bad, how do you people live?!" This time in regards to the cost of University education and the extraordinary amount of debt young people in the US are routinely faced with... I was beginning to sink into a depression. At dinner we were joined by my future partner in crime Ms. Rebecca Ross ... a blond Oxford grad with a lean, tall stature and an adorable crisp accent. We discussed the intersection of our two countries with the BP oil spill, ate some really bad food for the most part and felt warmed on the inside from each other's happy sun soaked glows.

We agreed on a trip to the green canyon the next morning and paused for a drink at a beach side cafe where we met five Aussie, Kiwi, and one English pilots. They had been shipped over and paid well to fly a new Indonesian airline. This was supposed to be their first week of training but the plane was experiencing difficulties and they were being paid for a week of R&R. We made nice with them talking about music and our respective visits to each other's countries (Rebecca has spent the last year living in Australia temping). Eventually Becca and I traipsed off to bed and begun to bond over the possibility of a travelling companion.

The next morning we took off for the green canyon and were told by Emma and Phil that the tallest of the pilots, a rawkus kiwi surfer, had sat down next to one of the local Indonesians a young deaf girl and began feircely mocking her handicap. Small little Phil stepped in and said "You're not going to do that" causing the other pilots to pipe in with whatever chivalry they could manage (having been put greatly to shame) and agree that he was well out of line..

I was so proud of our our little group, and Phil's bravery... and secretly deep deep down in my soul...happy to have found some people with worse behavior than an American.

Pandangaran And The British Invasion

Things could be so much worse.

I've met a group of Brits I'm totally enamored with. Young, gorgeous and "cheeky" they are all wonderful. Here are some shots of todays adventures - green canyon, puppetry, coconuts, and many speeding hours of moped madness. (also monkeys gettin dizzzown)

Tonight we party with some Kiwi and Aussie pilots... tomorrow its off to Jogya. Pandangaran was hit heavily by the tsunami but you wouldn't know it. The people are welcoming and the vibe is decidedly beach town chique. We've loved it but are ready to push off...