Salamat Jalang, KK; Salamat Datang KL

I just finished my first 24 hours in KL and I’m quite shocked to observe that it seems to me that I’ve only got about 20 left. Left in KL and left on my trip. Not ready to leave about sums it up…

But before I get all philosophical and start reminiscing, I need to go ahead and finish talking about my time in KK and talk at least a tiny bit about KL.

It’s always hard when I let too much time come between my experiences and writing about them, so I’m going to just hit the highlights.

KK Day 4: After a 5 star breakfast of eggs on toast a la Mr. Cham, we went white water rafting on the Kiulu River. Here Nathan and I were the only white people in a vast sea of another type of traveler hitherto unencountered (yes, I realize that isn’t a word): The Young Female Asian Tourist. It was me, Nathan, and eight photo snapping, giggling girls from Singapore or KL or perhaps China. Of all the boats, we were the only two who didn’t shriek when we got wet or drop our paddles to make peace signs every time a camera appeared. Because of this, the harried guides naturally gravitated to us and we shared many a chuckle at the expressions of terror and disappointment as these girls realized they’d paid money to do physical labor (paddling) and get drenched. Needless to say, Nathan and I had a blast and the shyness of the girls may have kept them from talking to us, but they weren’t afraid of taking pictures of us not drowning (also known as swimming) in the water. That night we had some fine Chinese dining and shared ostrich, crocodile, and corn fed chicken with some of Mr. Cham’s rather amusing business partners.

KK Day 5: Laid on a beach. Turned our lifejackets into lederhosen and embarrassed the very few whites on the beach. Snorkeled. Dodged jellyfish. For dinner we went to a little hole in the wall Chinese place with more business associates and sat at a table filled with little bowls. In said little bowls were literally every part of the pig one could eat. Intestines, kidneys, ligaments, knuckles, eyelids, and meaty bits (only one of these isn’t true…). It actually turned out, like all of the food we had in KK, to be absolutely divine. Desert of Es Campur (that’s the Indonesian spelling, I know it’s a bit different in Malay, but it consists of shaved ice and 15 different jellied things from beans and corn, to seaweed and crunchy things) followed at a Malay place and it was as not tasty as the one I had in Medan.

KK Day 6: Went to one of the many many many Catholic churches in KK. The service was in English and several of the hymns were not only the same words, but also the same tune. Singing ‘One Bread, One Body’ with a church that was packed 30 minutes before mass started. Afterwards a lady came up to me and said, “I hope you enjoyed mass, I know it’s so different here!” I thanked her, but didn’t mention that far from different, the service was, of course, almost word for word the same as ours back home. The two differences: Chinese and Malay people can’t sing the sound –th which was pretty amusing and during the sign of peace, people bow to each other rather than shake hands. This is AWESOME. A breakfast of roast duck and roast pork and Chinese coffee at another hole in the wall completed an excellent morning. We spent the rest of the day trying random foods, going to random resorts, watching random golfers, and finally bidding goodbye to our most gracious host and getting on the flight to KL!

I really do miss KK and it was a wonderful, bustling, welcoming town blessed with abundant and excellent food and amazing natural beauty. A must see on any South East Asian tour.

Well, I promised a bit about KL, but it’s 3:30AM here and I’m starting to have difficulty seeing straight, so I’m going to call it a night. Update tomorrow? I think so.

G’night!

It's Worth it for the Sunrise

The title is actually a heading for a section of the Lonely Planet Malaysia guidebook that deals with the hike to the top of Mt. Kinabalu. The irony will become clear further on in the post.

First of all, I'd like to apologize for my lack of activity on this blog in the past several days. Mr. Cham has kept Nathan and I unbelievably busy with the terrible burden of fine dining, fabulous company, and the wonderful sights and smells of that lovely little metropolis they call Kota Kinabalu. That's my excuse, and as proof, it's midnight here and I'm fighting to keep my eyelids open as I fulfill my duty to my loyal readers. Therefore, believe me when I say this is my first free 30 minutes in the last three days.

But enough about that. So! Mt. Kinabalu. The mountain is about 14000 feet or 4000 meters, was first climbed in 1851, and boasts a 8.5 kilometer climb covering about 6,800 ft. That's about a 680 story building... We started the climb at about 10AM with nothing but some of Mr. Cham's hard boiled eggs in our pockets and self confident smiles on our faces. I think Nathan and I understood the mathematics of what we had to do that first day, 6km, literally every step of which was up, up, up, up. But we didn't quite get what that actually meant. We stopped about every kilometer as the air thinned, the trees thinned and our endurance thinned. We made it to the rest house below the peak after four grueling hours and collapsed thankfully into the chairs inside.

The rest house is another 2.5 kilometers below the peak, but it was where we were to spend the night before heading out at 3:00AM the next morning to make the peak before sunrise. We ate dinner, watched an uncommonly beautiful sunset, got cold in the thin air, and met other hikers (coolest ones: Joel and Jen, a Kiwi-Malaysian couple in Uni in New Zealand, and forgot-her-name, an Aussie who had taken Russian at community college. Not so coolest ones: The Angry Australian. I don't know what this guy's deal was, but we ran into him about 8 times on a very large mountain and he was always whining and ticked off about something or another. He didn't make it to the top. Justice.)

We got a good night's sleep, got up at 2AM had a quick breakfast and prepared for the toughest part of the climb. We knew the top would be cold and windy, so we packed all of the warm gear we'd packed for our trip through one of the warmest places in the world. On Mr. Cham's suggestion, we'd bought gloves and beanies to supplement our rain coats, long pants, and warm socks. We started up at 3AM and quickly passed the already struggling hikers who'd left earlier. By the time we made it halfway through the last 2.5km, we were pretty much alone, well ahead of the pack. The going was tough. There were thick ropes to pull yourself up the steep rock faces, puddles of freezing water to accidentally step in, not to mention the unbelievable cold, the pitch blackness (we had lamps) and the ferocious wind that you can only experience on top of a mountain. Additionally, the thin air meant that every exertion made your heart hammer and caused you to gasp for breath. Despite our frequent and painful breaks, we summited Mt. Kinabalu at 4:50AM.

That's when the real ordeal began. My joy at finishing the climb was quickly replaced by the realization that I was freezing. Nathan and I huddled behind a rock, safe from the wind and began the wait for the sunrise at 6AM that was supposed to make it all worth it. I was wet from hiking up through a cloud so I wrapped a towel around my head and put my extra pair of dry socks on my hands and pulled my gloves on over them in a vain attempt to keep them warm. Then it started raining. I couldn't believe it. However, we believed that the sun would burn off the cloud and all the people on the other side of the rock we couldn't see would enjoy the incredible view that was supposed to make it all worth it. However, after 1 hour 15 minutes on the summit, with the sun brightening through a wall of raincloud, we realized that no one else was waiting up there. Everyone who'd made it up with us was already well on their way back down.

Thus, soaked through, with the temperature hovering just above freezing, and the wind whipping us violently we decided we needed to start down. And FAST. I was shaking violently and all the mirth of our shared misery at the top turned into a very real fear that we wouldn't be able to make it down the slick and steep granite in the condition we were both in. Luckily, with no little exertion, and a few falls on rubbery and freezing legs, we warmed up enough to only make the descent down to the rest house mildly terrifying. At the rest house, several cups of hot coffee and wrapping myself in a warm blanket helped to ward off danger and allowed us to find out from our fellow climbers that probably less than 1/3 of the people had made it to the top. The rain had caught almost all of them on the trail up and most immediately turned back. This, of course, made making it all the more special and we almost forgot the disappointment of not getting to see the ultimate Borneo sunrise...

We eventually made it all the way back down and back to KK by the afternoon. It was in the high 80s in KK, which was a stark contrast to the freezing rain and the 30s of the summit. It was amazing that less than 12 hours after wondering if I'd ever be warm ever again in my life, I was, in fact, perhaps too warm. But I forgot my misery, enjoyed another 5 star meal and prepared for white water rafting the next day!

The Land Below the Wind

KOTA KINABALU. If, while in my fetid pile of misery in that festering city of Medan I had tried to imagine what paradise was like, it might have been something like this. In fewer words: I am in paradise. This city is in Malaysia, located right on your desktop entitled "Google Earth" if I'm not mistaken. Just kidding... That was perhaps needlessly belligerent! KK as it's affectionately known is the capital of Sabah, the eastern Malaysian state on the island of Borneo. It's an old colonial capital nestled between the South China Sea (beautiful) and the mountains, of which Mt. Kinabalu is the most prominent (beautiful [adjectives aren't my strong suit...]).

It's called the land below the wind because this is probably the only place by the sea in the world where there is simply no wind to be had, and considering how close we are the the equator, it's probably the only place in the world that desperately needs wind. But it's ok, really, because unlike the rest of southeast Asia, this place comes standard with AC. Much like Penang, KK is about food. I have now been here for just over 24 hours and I have already had my top 1 and 2 lamb experiences, the best chicken I've ever had and two of the best coffees. And while I write this, I'm looking out over the city from my lofty perch on the 12th floor of the highest building in KK.

I owe all of this to the fantastic patronage of Mr. Ronny Cham, the father of a dear friend from high school days. Mr. Cham, it turns out, knows all 800,000 residents of KK. At least the ones worth knowing. He went to school with the Governor of Sabah, is related to someone in every industry from pastries, to corn fed chickens, semi-legal lottery to (most importantly) travel organizers. This last one was particularly helpful when we found out that Mt. Kinabalu can only be climbed if booked MONTHS in advance. We tried three weeks in advance, were told that everything was booked and gave up. We mentioned this in passing to Mr. Cham and, within 30 minutes, we were booked for the next days hike. I don't want to reveal my methods, but the Minister of Tourism and the Chief of Sabah National Parks may or may not have been involved...

Anyway, I know this is all a bit disjointed, but I'm still in raptures at the kindness being shown to myself and Nathan. So more later about the city and the cultural stuff, I promise!

And if all else fails, just come to KK and see for yourself.

Travel Update

Dear Readers,

Just to fill the void between the last post and the next one without actually saying anything; a travel update!

We're finally leaving beautiful Indonesia and heading to Kota Kinabalu, Malaysia tomorrow. I was beginning to love it here in Padang-Padang, but Nathan and I just found out surfers were actually quite rude and one of the beach hawkers took my drying shirt and tried to sell it. True story... So we're ready to go! I'm planning on doing country summaries at the end, so suffice it to say Indonesia was lovely.

So, tomorrow will be a travel day (our last one!) so the update may be a little while in coming. As I've learned to say here: Live well, dear readers, live well. Far out. Peace.

Chris

The Children of the Sun

Well, not much to report from the shack by the sea in Padang-Padang. Beautiful sunsets, beautiful people, and cheap food have made this stay both enjoyable and uneventful. The beach here is a veritable Tower of Babel; Russian, French, Spanish, Bahasa Indonesia, and a number of languages I didn’t recognize all bandied about. Luckily, the lingua franca of the East is English, so we’ve lucked out. In fact, a Spanish gal and an Aussie are conversing amorously in English just outside my bamboo leaf walls.

So, instead of telling all about my sunscreen application techniques or the time I got sandy and swam for a bit then got sandy again, I’m going to discourse for a bit about the people I have met along the Southeast Asia backpacking road. Backpacking is a concept that I’m vaguely familiar with, having run across backpackers from Munich to Moscow and everywhere in between. However, these were European backpackers, usually in search of the European experience for a few weeks or months, enjoying the cultural adventure before heading back home. It is completely different here, for the most part. Different places here have different types of backpackers, but they fall into three main categories, with surprisingly few outliers.

1) The Tourist

Myself, Nathan and Meredith fall into this category. From all over the world (besides America apparently, ourselves excluded), this group of down to earth explorers is fine with following the beaten path, but do so in order to extract the maximum out of their limited time and resources. They generally seek to enjoy and experience the culture, but never forget that they are, in fact, not locals. I have found The Tourist most commonly in Sumatra (Bukit Lawang and Lake Toba) as well as Panang and Java (Yogyakarta and Mount Bromo). These places are generally cultural, fairly difficult to get to (only public transit) and lack completely any sort of stereotypical Western amenity. The Tourist is enjoyable to talk to, share experiences with, and get advice from.

2) The Spring Breaker

Short shorts, Ray Ban sunglasses, dumb tattoos, cheap beer in hand, these perpetual partiers convinced their parents that spending the summer in Ko Phi Phi or on Bali would be, “like, way more educational then that wicked awesome month in Miami with the other frat bros.” Whenever a group of these crazy dudes congregates, one can be sure to find an airport with direct service to LA and NYC, a Western burger joint and a night club with native fire-twirlers nearby. Generally staying at resorts and zipping around in private cars bought with funds siphoned straight from daddy’s bank account, these hard-partiers can often be spotted talking about how far-out it is vacationing in a third world country while using the free wi-fi at the pizza place. Back home, when asked about Thai or Indonesian food, they will say without irony that, “It’s just like here, man!” This group is living proof that, with enough money and a can-do attitude you can party like a frat star anywhere on the globe.

3) The Children of the Sun

My least favorite fellow travelers. Considered ‘bums’ in the United States, these dreadlocked, sun darkened, spiritual creatures drift along the mainstream backpacker currents impressing the gullible and innocent with their wondrous tales of travel. Most gave up their comfortable lives in the West in order to ‘find themselves’ in the spiritual East. They seek to leave behind the materialism of home, declaring time and technology a capitalist construct. Generally, their hypocrisy knows no bounds. Instead of connecting with the natives, I have found most of these guru wannabees in the most commercialized, Western places I’ve visited. The closest thing these guys get to communing with locals is through the thoroughly jaded tattoo artist or the poor guy who’s teaching Mui Thai boxing to the 13th white kid that day. I imagine that 30 years ago, these type of people weren’t pathetic, probably actually finding a little jungle village and staying there for years learning their language, religion, customs and really ‘leaving it all behind.’ Not a lifestyle that I would choose for myself, but certainly respectable. However, Lonely Planet has made that dream accessible to the likes of, say, me, and instead of branching out farther afield, these trailblazers have become sheep, pathetic sheep in desperate need of a bath. One more conversation about some cannabis fueled exotic Eastern journey and I’m going to yank them by the dreadlocks until they wish they’d had some of that Advil they so gladly left behind.

Americans are extremely hard to come by. I have perhaps seen 10 outside of Ko Phi Phi in my three weeks here. I find this odd.

Toodles.

Bali: Underwater Paradise, Jury's Still Out on the Shore

I got my SCUBA diving license! Nathan and I went through the super intense course (we condensed the 4 pool dives to one and turned our four open water training dives into pleasure dives). The first dive was on one of those vertical coral reefs which was pretty incredible, especially for my first ever dive... Mangku, our instructor, would give us about 10 tasks we'd accomplish right under the boat, we'd do two of them then we'd spend the rest of the time swimming around in a sea of fish, coral, and other crazy things that fell in between those two categories. We saw lion fish, real Nemo fish and all sorts of creatures that I'm pretty sure went home at night and plugged themselves in to recharge the crazy assortment of blues glowing from their bodies. Pretty cool. The second day of "training dives" were at the wreck of a WWII transport sunk by a Japanese submarine in 1942. The diver in me was in awe of the challange and fun while the historian in me was absolutely in raptures as well. And presto! We were certified.

To celebrate, Nathan, Meredith and I had a bottle of Bali wine (quite good) and a few rum and cokes. Then Nathan and I went out to the beach and came across a pack of Indonesian men clustered around a camp light. Sure enough, it was a gambling ring with fistfulls of cash being thrown onto a roulette type apparatus and a ball getting rolled around over numbers. Nathan and I watched and even participated a bit with the aid of a helpful local, but we never did figure out the rules of the game... Needless to say, we limited our losses and headed home. And that was it for Lovina Beach, Bali! We just arrived at Padang-Padang on the south of the island and I think I'm in paradise. Pictures and description later, but I think we're staying in a tree house on the side of the cliff over the ocean. Not bad...

Pictures!

Belatedly, pictures have been added on most of the previous posts. Feast your eyes.

Regards,

Chris

A 2AM Wake Up, Ash Storms, and an Unforgettable View

Well, I’d say the title says it all. However, my trip to the volcanoes of the T------- Caldera started with little to no expectations due to my continued inability to read ahead in the guidebook and my habit of simply trusting my esteemed travel companions to choose excellent places to visit. All I knew was that they were ‘cool’ and that they were volcanoes and that was more than enough for me. I wanted to go.

We arrived at Cemero Lawang, the village closest to the volcanoes, at about 10:30PM and, considering it gets dark here about 5:30, it was pitch black. We immediately crawled into our warm beds and under the thick covers to keep out the considerable chill (about 10 degrees Celsius). We wanted to climb one mountain in order to watch the sunrise, then hike to the most famous volcano, climb it and then call it a day. In order to get to the top of the first mountain by sunrise at 5:20, we needed to get up pretty darn early to get to the top. We thought we had about 7km of hard climb, so in our desire not to miss the sunrise, we kept pushing up our start until we had a 2AM wake up and a 2:30AM start time. Should be sufficient.

Sure enough, we were up and at ‘em after only three hours of sleep and in our eagerness (and desperate desire to keep warm in our thin fleeces and windbreakers- I mean, come on, we’re practically at the equator!!) we left around 2:20. Spoiler alert: the hike wasn’t 7km and over half of it was the fairly flat approach to the base of the mountain. The three hours of time we’d budgeted to get up the hill seemed a little silly when we stumbled across the lookout point only 55 minutes after setting off. Within 15 minutes, the sweat had dried and we were left to contemplate to a long couple hours with only body heat and humor to keep us warm.

But it was so worth it. Because we’d arrived during the previous night and hiked up before dawn, I had no concept of where I was or what I was going to see when the sun came up. I was surprised that the road up to the mountain seemed to be rather ashy, but the light form our headlamps only served to light our immediate path and nothing farther than 20 feet in any direction.

So when the sun finally began to come up, with blues and reds and oranges to set the heart aglow with wonder, it came up on a scene that my Floridian soul could hardly comprehend. The first thing to catch the red glow of the sunrise was a massive black cloud in the distance to the west. Soon the glow from the horizon illuminated first one, than two, three, and finally four towering volcanic peaks, all clustered together about 4km distant. One was visibly spewing ash high into the air, creating the black cloud that we’d seen first. By the time the sun actually peeked out from behind the mountain we were on, it fully revealed the fantastic scene. The mountain we were perched atop formed one side of a massive caldera. Farms stretched out below and mountains on all sides dropped suddenly into a very large, very circular lake formed by a massive volcanic eruption from hundreds of thousands of years ago. The lush green that edged this waterless lake only served as a contrast to the ashy desert in the caldera itself. And rising from the bottom of this flat desert were the volcanoes.

Once we’d recovered our senses, we hiked back down to the village and had our breakfast, and we started the next part of our trek that would lead us to the edge of the erupting volcano’s crater. This volcano, Mount Bromo, is perhaps Indonesia’s most famous, and just had a major eruption about three months ago, so it was still rather unsettled. We didn’t quite realize this from afar, but as we approached its base across the shifting and featureless desert base of the caldera, it became more and more menacing. The final 75 or so meters to the rim of the crater was supposed to be easily reached by 253 steps (according to the lonely planet guidebook). However, by the time we reached base of these steps, we realized that three months of eruptions and heavy ash fall had buried these steps under a thick layer of ash, making the extremely steep assent very difficult. After much exertion we made it to the top.

The massive amounts of ash spewing from a volcano’s bowels are rather more impressive from 10 yards away. We sat, gasping for sulfuric air, perched on the rim of the crater and just listened. Listened to the rushing of the ash going past, the rumblings of the boiling lava far below, and, rather surprisingly to Meredith losing her breakfast right next to us (this is actually quite hilarious, honestly, what a majestic and dignified place to get violently ill. She’d been sick for a day or so, but characteristically uncomplaining. There we were perched on the edge of a massive and ancient volcano, burying partially digested egg, rice, etc. in volcanic ash. The humor of the situation may be lost on you, my dear readers, but we have since laughed long and hard). Then the ash rain started. An unfortunate wind had blown a heavy rain of chunks of ash right back down on us, coating our clothes, hair, faces and cameras. Yet we couldn’t tear ourselves away from the surreal beauty, that is, until the ash building up on the insides of our sunglasses began to threaten our vision (sight being a rather important sense when a false step could send you to your immediate and, I imagine, rather painful death in the depths of an active volcano).

We beat a hasty retreat down the side of the cone, made our way through an inconvenient sandstorm across the 2km back to the edge of the caldera, made our way up the side and back to the homestay. Not even the breathtakingly cold showers could keep us from at least attempting to get the fine black dust off our skin and hair and by the time we were done, the bathroom floor was black with dirt. Even today, two days later, 300 miles away and on the beach in Bali, I’m still getting volcanic ash out of my ears.

But it’s a lovely reminder of the day I stood on the edge of the entrance to the underworld.

So Many Batik Salesmen, So Little Interest

We finally left the City-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named (Medan. Whoops...) and landed several hours later in the bustling metropolis of Yogyakarta (or Jogjakarta as it’s pronounced, rather confusingly). Our immediate impressions were that it was way better than Medan, at least as far a quick comparison of airport bathrooms can be trusted. The impressions held up upon further investigation.

It’s been a few days and I really don’t know what to say about the city, so I’ll just hit the highlights. Jogja is known as the capital of Javanese culture and also the epicenter of the batik making and sales. Batik, as far as I could tell, was some sort of traditional fabric made on a loom and colored using wax and natural dyes. Everyone who comes to Jogja buys batik, which of course ensures that there is absolutely no way to get a fair price or not get harassed by every local trying to get you into their “homemade, cheap, local priced” batik shop. The prime local trick is to pretend to be a guide at the sultan’s palace or other such site, demand no fee for their services, and then steer you blindly into their shop. We didn’t get nabbed but it was very, very annoying.

Other than that, the exciting parts of Jogja were the Sultan’s palace (the sultan here still has some political power), his water park pleasure baths, and some pretty cool museums. Probably the most awkward museum award goes to the Vandenberg Fort, the Dutch colonial fort in the middle of the city turned independence museum. We were talking to the ‘guide’ who registered surprise that we weren’t Dutch, as most European visitors to the museum were. This didn’t seem so odd until we had gone through hall after hall of dioramas depicting the independence of Indonesia from Dutch control, who had their capital in Yogyakarta and not Jakarta. Naturally, museums of this nature are rarely kind to the colonizer, especially one as unpleasant as the Dutch. This museum, however, went above and beyond. Diorama after diorama depicted the Dutch troops bayoneting Indonesians or depicting how the “merciless Dutch fighter planes downed the Indonesian aircraft bearing a red cross. And the main European visitors are Dutch?? Wow…

Anyway, we left the next morning, with another delightful 12 hour bus ride to East Java, which I spent trying not to cower in terror as our bus driver demonstrated that you can use the emergency brake on a vehicle that size to great effect.

Medan: City of Broken Dreams (and Open Sewers)

I am in a murder house. Don’t worry mom and dad, I’m not likely to be killed tonight in my sleep, but if I were looking for a quiet place to smother someone with a pillow and have no one notice, it would be here. Now, you may accuse me of being melodramatic or expecting too much from a room for three costing $7.50, but this is particularly unpleasant. The guidebook said, “clean, the whitewashed walls make it appear even more so.” I would like to believe that this was written in 1960. Then I could blame the intervening half-century for the mildew, the rust, the broken toilet, the cockroaches (I was fine with it until he showed up) and the couch that looks like it’s seen its share of triple homicides. But I bore you with my complaints. I have no Internet now, so when I post this in the morning before my flight, I will have survived (hopefully) and all will be forgotten.

Of course, that is my most fervent hope for everything regarding this city. This is my third time in Medan in a week and my first night spent here. The grates in the sidewalk to keep you from falling in human sized holes that lead to the sewer are all gone. Walking along the sidewalk in Medan at night or on a bike would lead to death or serious injury. I certainly wouldn’t issue health insurance to someone living here. Even the tomb of the Sultan, who died in 1998, had one side of its marble rim broken off and in the trash heap behind the cemetery. All this in the Grand Mosque next door which I had to pay 5,000 Rupiah to see. I cannot wait for my Batavia Air puddle jumper to wing me away from this mosquito bitten, cockroach infested city of millions.

Not that the trip here was fantastic either. After the joy of finding ourselves in a private car from Bukit Lawang to Lake Toba, I think we got a bit spoiled. Although we managed to end up in a bus with as many people as seats, the driver inflicted the agony of Indonesian music on us. This music, which I’ve heard (and been able to escape) virtually everywhere defies categorization into my catalogue of music genres. So, I’ve come up with a new one: electro-ballads. We listened to four and a half hours of raspy crooners accompanied by keyboards, key-tars, and what may have been a key-saxophone. All just a few decibels too loud to be ignored…

One positive, though, was that the bus driver was determined to stick the three foreigners in the back with the lack of leg room while the four Indonesians got the spacious middle and front seats. However, we rebelled and simply pretended that our politeness dictated that we let our fellow passengers in first, only to be herded past the folded up seat into the back. The driver did his best, saying what I’m sure was “no! no! you go in the back!” But we just smiled and insisted they lead. Foreigners 1, Locals 0. Well, that’s not quite right… Let’s try again: Foreigners 1, Locals 7. Shucks…

Funniest part of the whole trip: the woman in front had live chickens in a cardboard box on her lap. First amusing bit was realizing about halfway through the trip that there actually WERE live, clucking chickens in a cardboard box on the bus. The second was when we hit a particularly rough patch on the road and I saw the top of the cardboard box lift repeatedly as the poor chickens inside were slammed repeatedly into the top of the box. Priceless. I fear my humor has become less sophisticated in my absence…

The Moterbike Diaries

Well, today was pretty exciting. With some apprehension (on my part at least), we decided that the best way to see Sirosam, the massive island in the biggest lake in Southeast Asia (Lake Toba) on the third biggest island in the world (Sumatra) was by motorbike. This island in the lake on the island is so big that there is a pretty sizable lake right in the middle of it. A tad confusing, I realize, but I have a high opinion of the deductive logic of my readership. So, as you can imagine, to see the island a motorbike was a far superior choice to, say, a real bike, or heaven forbid, walking.

So, this morning we rented our bikes (they gave us the keys, told us how to start it, asked “Do you know how to drive? Yes? Good.” and then told us “LEFT, LEFT, LEFT” because Indonesians drive on the wrong side of the road. They then told us about ten times that there was no insurance so we shouldn’t get in a wreck. Thanks…). We had three destinations in mind, the furthest being 45km down the road, and we had seven hours to accomplish it. No problemo.

We started off (a little shakily) but we soon got the hang of it, and the drive was STUNNING. The only road on the island circles it, never more than about 200 yards from the lake edge with its turquoise water and crystal clear depths (this lake is about 1500ft deep, a half a kilometer), while the other side of the lake is ringed with volcanoes and lush vegetation. The people here are Batak, a people famed for their highly advanced culture and the fact that they didn’t stop eating each other until 1825. They ceased their cannibalistic ways because, after killing the first 30 or so missionaries that wandered into their villages, a German Protestant arrived, achieved boy band fame status and now Samosir Island is literally filled with sober protestant churches.

Of course, some beliefs die hard, and at the first village we visited, next to the massive Stations of the Cross garden were the stone chairs where just over 100 years ago criminals sentenced to death were cut, chili and garlic was rubbed in their wounds before they were finally beheaded. Hallelujah.

Surprisingly, we are three of about 30 Westerners on this massive island so every little kid (literally EVERY LITTLE KID, and there’s a lot of them) says “Hi! What’s your name?” even as you’re zipping by at 40km/hr. One older lad even came up next to me on his motorbike and said in good English, “Hi! My name’s Franz. What’s your name?” I think I got out my name and where I was from before he correctly deciphered the look on my face that said “Terribly sorry, but if we keep carrying on this conversation at speed on a winding road, I’m quite sure I’m going to kill us both.” He sped off after attempting to shake hands with me (attempt failed).

Lunch was an interesting affair as well. We stopped at a little wood lean to that looked like it might contain food, went in and performed the international signal for food, the hand to mouth while saying “food, food?” A vigorous nod and a big smile from our hostess and her older neighbor who showed us some pots simmering in the back (I think we might have stumbled on family dinner rather than a restaurant). Anyway, it was a big bowl of noodles and some veggies and red things on top, served with 5 hardboiled eggs. The younger lady showed us how to unshell the eggs and, of course when I’m finally presented with a food I recognize, I immediately managed to rip the egg in half and get egg yolk pieces all over the table. My sheepish grin and “whoops” delighted our hosts and the old lady very patronizingly opened another egg and plopped it into my noodles. It turns out the soup was REALLY spicy, a fact I didn’t appreciate until I had already inhaled it. The sweat pouring from my face (it’s been a cool day) and the tears on my cheeks were about the funniest things I think these two ladies had ever seen and they just laughed away. It took a hot water and a sprite to quench the flames. Not bad for a $1.80 meal for three!

We finally reached our destination, after seeing some traditional Batak houses, boats, dancing, and obstinate water buffalo that just won’t get off the road no matter how much you honk. The destination was some volcanic hot springs, but we were so hot and tired and rain threatened so we left the deserted springs and began the long trek home. Long story short, we made it, but I can barely sit and my forearm muscles are still vibrating.

Moral of this story: motorbikes are not comfortable vehicles.

Jungle Eddy

I’m determined to catch back up, so I’m going to relate the happenings of our jungle trek in Bukit Lawang a few days back. It was mostly just extreme exertion punctuated by moments of near death falls along the extremely steep and treacherous jungle trails, so I’ll keep this fairly short. Our guide, as the title suggests, was Jungle Eddy, a local guide/cook/nature expert and on the second day, Captain Eddy our guide as we tubed back down the rapids the 10km back to Bukit Lawang.

We trekked with two Aussies and a Kiwi, all doctors, all awesome. We’ve actually spent quite a bit of time with them since (they’re here on the island with us as well) so all in all a good group. The jungle was legitimate jungle. Trees as high as the eye could see, massive poisonous centipedes as long as my forearm, and water, water, everywhere, even when it wasn’t raining (which it’s done every night I’ve been in Indonesia).

The brief highlights: Orangutans. Lots of ‘em. Most were wild, so we couldn’t get too close, but they were majestic creatures, slow moving, swinging from branch to branch with their incredibly expressive faces. Jungle Eddy recognized each one and called them by name, as the ten or so we saw all called the area home. Black and white gibbons. Only a few of these made an appearance, but apparently they’re incredibly rare and everyone was really excited to see the first two. Unfortunately the last two we saw about 5 hours into our trek and everyone was really just too tired to take out their cameras. Sorry gibbons.

The best part of the whole trek, however, was getting to the river after the grueling first day and literally falling into the cold, fast flowing water. That is bliss. Then, after a fabulous Indonesian dinner of rice with tofu, chicken and vegetable curries we chatted with our guide for a while. Eddy was about 30, married with two boys. He had married his wife after knowing her for three months at around the age of 19. Unlike most of the other young men in Bukit Lawang, he had completed two years of high school, but it was too expensive for his family, so he didn’t graduate. A massive flash flood in 2003 that killed 289 villagers from the already small and economically depressed area carried away much of his extended family. It was an event that probably barely caused a ripple outside of North Sumatra, but it was painful and sobering to see the devastation wrought by Mother Nature on such a personal level.

Back to the trek: the next day, heavy rains precluded us from trekking another grueling 10km through the jungle so we were forced to sit in the sun by the water all day and play cards. I don’t think a single one of us was disappointed. Luckily, we were still able to return via tube along the river, an event that actually turned quite intense in a few white knuckle, white water parts of the river. We returned safe and sound.

"Mistah, you like local now"

Sorry for the delay- the jungle is more remote than I imagined... This is a post from three days ago, I'll try not to get too far behind and get up to date tonight or tomorrow. I'm in a guesthouse on Lake Toba, a MASSIVE lake that formed from a volcanic crater that has an island the size of Singapore in it. That's where I am. Not bad... Anyway, without further ado!

What a fifteen hours it’s been. To frame it, I woke up this morning in the air conditioned heaven of the Old Penang Guesthouse, had a breakfast of toast and blackcurrent jam, and got on a bus to the airport. As I write, I’m sitting in a mosquito net teepee on the banks of a small river in the middle of a little jungle town in Sumatra, Indonesia. It’s been an interesting journey.

The flight from Malaysia to Medan, Indonesia was only about 25 minutes, shorter than the Jacksonville to Atlanta flight, except international. We stepped out into the barely organized chaos of Medan, fought off the several extremely persistent cabbies and made it to an ATM. The exchange rate in Indonesia is about 8,500 Rupees to the Dollar, which, besides being incredibly hard to calculate and communicate, makes one feel like Richie Rich. Pulling out a cool one-hundred and fifty thousand in any currency is a nice feeling. It’s a pity that in a land of no ATMs or pay phones or running water, this may not last as long as I’d hoped. Oh well, we’ll survive. Maybe. Also, as for communication, you may know how to count to ten in lots of different languages but I challenge you to count from 1,000 to 1,000,000 by one thousands in any language other than English. It’s hard for everyone…

But challenges aside, we made it to the bus stations where the next leg of our madness began. We were headed to Bukit Lawang, near the entrance to the State Park we’re about to trek in (known for its Orangutan feeding areas) and the bus ride was to take about 3 hours. We were in a bus that probably sat about 9 comfortably but had been restructured to fit, well, 16 (plus one baby). Nathan, on the seat in front of me actually had a poor Indonesian woman, head shawl and all perched on his lap, while I had a young guy passed out on my shoulder. Not ideal, especially in the unbelievably sticky heat.

But the real drama was outside. Before we’d even gone a mile, traffic stopped and it was soon apparent rubbernecking was to blame. However, rather than the normal accident scene, there was a huge mass of people and stopped cars blocking half the road. In the middle of the mass of people, two men were yelling and very nearly coming to blows. Everyone was leaning in for a closer look, including the very entertained policeman who was more likely to be taking bets than stepping in restore order. Apparently, according to the guy on the bus who spoke some English, these scrums formed around arguments over taxi fares and car accidents and nearly always ended in fights, sometimes resulting in death for those who were particularly at fault. Considering the crazy driving (I have probably spent more time this week in the wrong lane passing and nervously praying that the driver would dodge oncoming traffic than most people do in a lifetime in the States) I imagine this scene was played out fairly regularly across Medan.

The pavement ended well before the city did, and thus began the really challenging part of the journey. We zipped along in our cramped bus, through hills and down river valleys, flashing past little hovels and massive palm oil factories. Every few miles or so, we’d pass a ‘school bus’ which was usually carrying about 30 kids crammed inside and at least another 15 clinging to the top, back and sides for dear life as the bus skidded around the curves. Not safe.

However, at long last we made it to Bukit Lawang, which was, surprisingly, nothing like I imagined it. Compared to the burgers, beer, and backpackers of South Thailand, this was charming, cheap, and backpacker free. We finally made it off the beaten path. Thanks goodness. The kids and locals all say hello, and I’ve been the subject of many a photo with the delightful local kids. The only bridges are wooden planks laid haphazardly over a rickety wire frame dangling over the fast flowing, shallow water below. Surrounded by mountains, jungle and with monkeys swinging from rooftop to rooftop, this is paradise.

After settling our plans for tomorrow, Meredith, Nathan and I headed to the river to go for a swim. Locals in all stages of washing were all along the bank but we jumped straight in, swimming against the strong current and dodging the sharp rocks. Within minutes, we were the center of attention for all the local boys who were jumping, swimming, and practicing their English with the fun foreigners who were brave enough to swim the cold and dangerous waters with them. They closest they got to getting my name right was ‘Kroos’ but it was an A for effort and we had a ball until the parents came and yelled at the kids. They all produced little packets of sample Pantene shampoo and began washing up. Nathan and I begged a little extra off of a little boy and we washed our hair with them (for the first time in too long…) much to their delight.

We finished up, dried off and had some dinner of spicy peanuts, capping one of the best, most enjoyable days I’ve had in a very long time. We leave for a two day jungle trek tomorrow, so we shall see!