( thank you )
Originally happy to get away from the election circus, I now find myself wishing I was with fellow citizens to celebrate. Not only is the world watching our country today, but they are also showing up to the polls as well. Below you will find a typical voting station in Indonesia.
The journey to Bandung was much easier than we expected. It turns out our new Canadian buddies, Cole and Terry were headed there too. Since Terry was on a much shorter trip than the rest of us, he offered to kick in the lions share for a private ride. Six hours later we tracked down a hotel with a hot shower. Our first since we stayed on mount Ijen. Ahhhhh. That night we also celebrated with our first steak since the journey began. Ahhhhh.
It was fun continuing to hang out with Cole and Terry and trade stories, like the time they were visiting Cole's brother, who now lives in Bali. They awoke to the sound of sirens in the middle of the night. Wanting to see what all the commotion was about, they stepped outside. Quickly they were told,to go back in -- this wasn't for them. Apparently two guys from a different village were seen trying to sneak a couple of scooters out of someone's driveway. Stealing in Bali is a HUGE no, no. The entire village fanned out and swept the area. One of the guys was caught hiding in a tree. Had he been from the same village, he would have merely been shamed and exiled. But since he wasn't, he underwent enhanced interogation techniques that would have made the folks at Gitmo blush. And then they cut his head off.
Getting back to the lives of the living; the next morning a knock on the door next lead us to a disappointing breakfast. One boiled egg and four pieces of white bread. After cursing the offering as lame we made a discovery. These were no ordinary pieces of bread. Turns out we were in the presence of a skimpy jam sandwich and.......wait for it........wait for it....a butter and chocolate sprinkle delight. We had no idea an 8 year old was running the kitchen.
In no time we rectified our lackluster breakfast with a couple of latte's from Starbucks. Yet another first. And with all the tea we had been drinking, the caffeine was a total shocked to the system. Having blown our daily budget on the world's most most popular narcotic, we spent the rest of the day window shopping. Bandung was much bigger than we expected (2.8 million people) and also the cultural capital of Java. Young hipsters with their guitars were everywhere.
We heard the city had wonderful sushi and zeroed in on the Green Groove. Dining family style, the four of us sampled and array of wonderful roles and then reunited with the friend we made in Yogya, Russ, who taught English in Bandung. He recommended going to Cloud 9. A hot new place that wasn't found in any guide book. A twenty minute ride up the volcanic mountain led us to an open air, multi-level place that felt like kind of like a ski lodge, and looked down on the twinkling lights of Bandung. It's was an amazing sight that our point and shoot camera just couldn't capture. Next thing you know, it's 4 am. And the taxi we had called an hour earlier had given up on us. It looked like we would have to take a very cold bike ride back into town. Nobody felt good about that, and so we stalled. Finally, one of the remaining staff kicked a bunch of snoozing locals out of their van and took us to a proper taxi.
Taking a sleepy train ride from Bandung to Jakarta we witnessed some gorgeous countryside. Although Heather did so with her eyes closed and mouth open. We were even treated to some nasty slums as we entered the city. Imagine living out the rest of your days under a rusted and torn tin roof, half a foot from the train tracks. Very sad.
Having heard horror stories about the hostels in Jakarta, and since we only intended to use the city as a jump point to Thailand, we booked a proper hotel before leaving the U.S. $50 will land you in a 4 star hotel in this neck of the woods. But it still can't block out the 4:15 am Muslim prayer that blast out of the local mosque's loudspeakers. It's the only thing we won't miss about Java.
Happy to take our journey out of the city, we landed in Pangandaran. A fishing village turned tourist town. Where restaurants, t-shirt stands and tattoo parlors pack the winding, beachside street. Hungry from our long day of travel, we found our way to "Warung Seafood 73", a quaint, family owned eatery that served us some scrumptious calamari, shallow fried in local veggies and homemade butter. Being off-season, we discovered Pangandaran to be a bit of a ghost town. Our homestay was the only bustling place we saw. Maybe it was because the rooms were cheap and comfortable. Or maybe it was because they offered the best homemade yogurt in the world! So tasty it prompted us to fantasize about creating our own creamy delights when we return to a slightly more routine life.
On our second day, we explored the national park. We spotted lizards that made you realize where dinosaurs came from. And had a photo session with a very nervous porcupine. Both animals were far more enjoyable than the monkeys who tried to bean me with unripe mangoes, while paying our entrance fee.
After traipsing around in the sticky heat all day, the rash I had discovered that morning really sprang to life. I was distressed. It looked like scabies. A flashback to university, when my entire dorm became infested with a particularly resilient strain, dominated my thoughts. Every attempt to banish the skin mites only brought temporary relief, as they would just get passed back around. Heather and I would have to get all our clothes boiled, our packs deloused, and slather on some nasty cream. Maybe even more than once. I was totally bummed. We booked it to the tiny Apotek on the edge of town, hoping a pharmacist would deliver some good news. Right away, a customer wanting to sharpen his english chatted us up. It's certainly not the norm to lift your shirt at an outdoor pharmacy and show a complete stranger your mystery rash, but I was itchy and he was our translation ticket. He grabbed his "healthcare provider" who happened to be there getting supplies for her patients. The cross-eyed medicine woman, who could probably see the back of her own head, took one glance and pronounced something in Indonesian. Our new translator asked if I had eaten any crab. Ha. What a relief.
The fun really picked up when we arrived in Batu Karas. A neighboring, and much smaller fishing village/surf community. The few hotels get fully booked with local surfers on the weekend, but we decided to take a chance and head there on Saturday. We claimed the last room available in the entire town. It was a little shabby, only had a traditional bucket shower, and easily cost double what it should have, but it was a place to lay our heads and thus, worth it. We bumped into a Dutch guy we had met in Pangandaran, and met a couple of Bules from Canada. Saskatoon again. It turns out they had a goat-on-a-spit-party planned for that evening. Such luck. About an hour later, eleven of us sat on the beach and gobbled up a true, fire roasted feast. Complete with a bunch of delicious sides and two buckets of Arak for good measure. (For anyone wondering, a goats life, with all the fixins, can be bought for about 100 bucks in Indonesia). Despite the less than exceptional accommodations, the sound of the ocean lulled us into a deep and refreshing sleep.
The next morning we took a 6km stroll to the Green Canyon and got a boat for just the two of us. It totally exceeded our expectations. The ride went from lush surroundings and us spying a few three-foot lizards to mossy cave like walls that dripped cool water from above. As the Canyon narrowed, and came to some falls that no boat could pass, we hopped out for a dip. After the long, hot walk the water was Heaven. We swam against strong currents and made our way to a tricky little water fall crossing. Our guide even built Heather a make shift bridge. But after we all scaled the rock wall on the other side, our guide refused to jump. And his limited English explanation was far from reassuring. But eventually, youngest to oldest, the two of us leapt off the giant mushroom shaped rock.
By the time we got back to Batu Karas most of the crowd had cleared out and we switched accommodations, opting for the unusually modern Java Cove. It had a stylish front with comfy seating, a cafe, and English tunes. It felt like the small bunch of us from the goat party had the run of the town. We went into the back of our favorite warung to select our fish that night. The Dutch guy, Marco, was starring at a 1.5 Kg fish, slumped over the scale. He asked if they had anything smaller. The old lady grinned as she tossed a pathetic, paper thin, palm-sized swimmer on the counter and teased, "maybe you wan dees one?" Everybody in the kitchen lost it. All the locals were so friendly it really made you feel at home.
On Monday, with only a few souls in the water, I borrowed a board and paddled out. Thanks to a good lesson from our friend, Rebus, before leaving Hawaii, and to the choice beginner waves rumbling strong and slow over the shallow sandy bottom, the ocean was my friend. But it also made me wish I had started surfing sooner.
As we laughed away our final day and night in BK, we all agreed, it was going to be a little sad to move on. This was definitely a magical place.
And by batik, I mean a wax resist dying technique used on textile. Although it can be found all over the world, Central Java is where Batik flourishes as an art form. What better place to learn? For 10 hours straight, on our last day in Yogya, I sat on the floor and took a lesson from a local artist. It was tough to complete a piece in just one day. The tools were foreign and I kept spilling hot wax all over myself. But Jeff assures me it turned out. You can judge for yourself. I decided to go with a chicken. Probably because they're everywhere in Indo. And also because we had a lengthy conversation recently with some other travelers about what sound a roster makes. Frenchy said, "Cocorico." While the Spaniard argued for "Kikiriki!" But of course, as everyone in the south knows, a rooster most certainly goes "COCK-A-DOODLE-DOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
After Mount Ijen, our lengthy travels continued. We took the minibus back to Problingo. Only this time the trip lasted 6.5 hours, as we had to drop the Czechs off at the ferry to Bali. It was also slightly difficult to get our driver to take us to the main bus terminal. He felt it was in everyone's interest for him to provide transportation all the way to Yogyakarta.
The bus terminal experience went from OK to
slightly annoying. An originally-nice tour operator, named Toto, came undone when he
realized we weren't going to get suckered into buying an advance ticket
from him. 101 lies -- "Mr. Jeff, the bus no stop here, go out
front. Mr. Jeff, the bus almost full, buy ticket now. Mr. jeff, Mr.
Jeff" -- and three hours later, we boarded the local's ride. A non-AC,
milk run bus to Yogya. It was bloody hot while we waited to drive away,
which takes a fair bit of time in Java. You have to first endure the endless
parade of hawkers selling everything from pencil crayons and hats to
all kinds of funky food and beverages. For good measure, a group of
slightly drunk local musicians get on the bus and play a bad song
hoping you'll toss them some spare coin. Since night was about to fall,
the 8 hour bus ride was Ni-ple-y. Overall it was worth it, considering
we only spent 58,000 Rp a piece. But combined with the load of travel
over the last few days, we were wiped. Thank Allah for McDonald's. The
only thing that was open upon our 4am arrival in Yogya.
Later that
day we checked into a bomb of a place to stay, Setia Kawan Losmen,
which is run by a local artist. His murals and art work brighten every
wall. It makes for a really relaxing place to sleep, and with all the
little nooks for hanging out, a great place to socialize. We quickly
met an odd mix of characters. A high energy German doctor who now lives
in Amsterdam, a British girl who was trying to find herself (even if
she didn't know it yet), and a totally Zen guy from England, Russ, who
had been living in Indonesia for the past year and a half teaching
English. We really hit it off with him and his visiting sister. The
main lounge had a mini fridge run on the honor system. This is pure
speculation, but it might have been a little too convenient. The next
couple of nights we hung out and shared stories before hitting the town
for tasty eats, lots of laughs and a little nightlife.
Wanting to go see Borobudur, a large and once forgotten Buddhist temple steeped in story and tradition, we hopped on the local bus, which is a major savings compared to the plethora of direct tours offered at every corner. The temple was neat and made for some great photos, but it didn't captivate us like we expected. In fact, the best part of the trip was when a group of older Muslim women wanted to have their picture taken with me. They snuggled right up and giggled like little school girls. The "I want my picture taken with the White Tourist" never gets old.
As a whole, Yogya is extremely friendly, and easy. Everywhere you go people of all ages will chat you up for a chance to practice their English and tell you about their city. I was surprised by how much they knew about Canada, especially since most of the tourists tend to be European. Heather even gave a video taped interview on the Global Financial Crisis. Problem solved.
On some local advice, we managed to catch the classic dance performance at the Sultan's palace. It was like a slow, mechanical ballet with extra makeup. But the most interesting art practiced here is Batik. We scored a piece by the famous Jaka. And the last day of our visit even coincided with the unveiling of a major new talent.
The overnight bus was comfortable and we managed a few zzzz's. Eight hours later we arrived in Probolingo, a good 90 minutes before the sun did. Not liking the greasy little tour operator that we were dropped in front of, we started to walk. We got totally turned around, after some advice from a couple of locals, but got it sorted out after some solid info from a man in prison. Go figure.
We waited for our newly arranged ride to mount Ijen. Where we decided to go instead of the popular Mount Bromo. It was a tip we got from David (Le Canadienne) while on Mount Rinjani. Our wait included a nap on the hard floor of a coffee shop, where we had some super tasty Indonesian Kopi, and used some very unwestern facilities. It was a long, hot intermission, followed by a five hour mini bus ride to mount Ijen. 2.5 hours of which were up a totally decrepit mountain. Our driver gave multiple sighs of relief after the particularly rough patches. How reassuring.
That night we stayed at Hotel Arabica, in the lush coffee fields at the base of the volcanic peak. And made better friends with the 6 Czechs in our group. We were even treated to an authentic forest fire light show on the side of the volcano we would climb. We got up at 3:30 am for a little breakfast and headed out. It was suppose to take two hours, but after Rinjani, Heather and I had wings. We floated to the crater's rim in less than an hour.
It was sad, smelly, and absolutely amazing. Mount Ijen is a human powered sulfur mine. We descended into the bottom of the crater where a group of men pick at the huge, steaming, yellow boulders. If the wind blows the wrong way for even a second, breathing quickly becomes a painful chore. Another group of men load up the sulfer into their twin baskets and grind their way to the top, wearing only flip flops.The strongest will haul a spine crushing 100 kilograms (220 American pounds). At the top are two consecutive groups that the sulfur will be handed off to. Payment is 500 Rupiah per Kilo, to be shared. Three big, toxic trips can land each person a whopping 5 dollars a day.
Recent Comments