The Angry Itch

Handmade Tara statue at the Norbulingka Institute in Dharamsala, India.

So, lately as I embark upon a slightly more spiritual path in my life and explore Buddhism and Hinduism earnestly (that is, without calling myself a douchebag in my head) I have, along side a growing sense of calm and contentedness, an almost animalistic urge to go traveling again. I can barely prevent my quivering fingers from tapping out the web addresses to travel sites and spending the last unspent chunk of credit card limit on a ticket to India or Bali.

I have been dreaming of the smoke filled chaotic streets of Delhi, the train station that I would have to navigate and conquer to find my way back to Dharamsala, high in the Himalayas and home to the Dalai Lama. Dreaming of landing in Hong Kong for a few days and then rushing through the traffic choked lanes to find the bus to the airport, barely making it in time for my flight to Denpasar, Bali where I would settle in the hills of Ubud and drink tea and drink wine and pet stray cats and commune all barefoot with my Buddha nature. Sigh.

About to set flowers in the Ganges in Varanasi.

Do I have a right to complain, and I sit here at my Summer job that countless other students applied for, in the middle of the luxury of being an adult scholar? I have pretty things, happy cats, fresh make-up and clean fingernails - but I just want to cash all of that in for a seedy room in some nondescript guesthouse, dirty feet and grubby fingers; for shots of blinding rice alcohol and heart thumping motorcycle rides and those moments when you breathe in and you're just - free and young and the whole world is just everything it is in that one moment. Y'know?

Alas, my schooling is more important and has to, for once and for all, get finished. And then I need to knock off my Masters, all in pursuit of my dream job. But, I have a feeling that this itch, this squirming, howling angry itch will not go away. I need to get back to crazy India. I need to go and meditate in the hills of that magical volcanic island in Indonesia. I need to live my true Buddha nature - as a traveler.

Bells at a Kali temple in the Chamba Valley, Northern India.

(And maybe you could help me and click this link so I can win a trip? It takes two seconds and I would be oh so happy!)

Up the Mountain, In the Dark: The Coloured Lakes of Kelimutu

Ahhh, the beautiful photo that I ultimately traveled 3 days (enduring livestock genitalia - read on) to see... Don't they look cool?

It's 4 am in Moni and cold – like really cold. I am bundled in yoga pants, 2 hoodies and socks with my trekking sandals (yeah, really.) While ten degrees Celsius would be completely tolerable in Vancouver I have acclimatised to the unrelenting thirty+ heat of Asia and am now shivering like mad. Even so, I seem to be in a better state than my motorbike driver, who is bundled up in a blanket with his sarong looped around his head (he looks sort of like Beavis acting like Cornholio.) He is smiling and waving at me as I climb the steps leading to the road from my menky guesthouse.

“Good Morning Mister! Now we go to Kelimutu!” His teeth are chattering as he says this. I manage a wan smile in return, the most that I can muster this early and look around for my helmet. “Helmet?” I ask him, gesturing at the white one he has on his own head.“OK, no problem! You take me.” He pulls it off and hands it to me.

Now, I don't feel super great about taking this poor man's head protection, but it is pitch black outside, there are no street lights and we are about to ride up a frickin' mountain. My mother's sternest expression pops into my head and my Grandmother's voice echoes in mind “Don't be schtewpid!” I take the helmet. It doesn't have a chin strap, but I figure it is better than nothing - S, behind me and straddling his own motorbike, has only his toque. I hop on the bike, careful to avoid the boiling hot exhaust pipe on the right hand side (something Brandon forgot to do on his trip, ending up with the famous “Southeast Asia tattoo”) and we get started.

We are up so early in the teensy village of Moni on the Indonesian island of Flores to see the multicoloured lakes of Kelimutu. Indonesia is the home of such heavy weight volcanoes as Krakatoa and Gunung Rinjani, but Kelimutu is special but for a different reason. Perched atop the mountain are three crater lakes, all bumping up against eachother, all dramatically different colours due to minerals and chemical reactions. That's not even the extra special part – every few years they change colours. Right now the lakes are a stunning turquoise, a dark forest green and inky black. A few years ago they were chocolate brown, rusty red and blue. And a few years before that....well, you get the picture.

Hot tea at the top to soothe my jangled nerves and frozen fingies.

I don't know why it has not occurred to me until this point just how dark it will be at 4am and just how winding the road is. We race along the narrow road, ascending switchback after switchback, the unguarded drop-off on one side of us tickling my brain with its horrifying possibility. As I often do when I am on a motorbike in a dangerous situation, I mentally compose my obituary:

“Violet Dear, acclaimed blogger and noted stylish dresser was hurled off of the side of a cliff today in a really backwoods-y part of Asia. Her helmet, serving mostly a decorative purpose, flew off of her head instantly as she flew through the air and finally landed on the sharp rocks. She will be remembered for her remarkable salad-making abilities, her knowledge of celebrity gossip – including British - and the fact that she finished every level of Legend of Zelda for Nintendo DS with no cheats.”

I'm snapped out of my daydream by the cold air that hurts my cheeks and rushes around the ill-fitting helmet to chill the back of my neck. All I can see in the black pre-dawn air is the silhouette of my driver and I in the orange headlight glow, eerily reflected on the side of the mountain. S is a few hundred metres behind us, and for forty minutes we weave up the dormant volcano's curvy roads.

Again, not many photos turned out, so....

We arrive at the top and as we are planning to walk down the mountain, we send our motorbike drivers happily on their way, having earned a roundtrip fare without having to wait around for us. Now we just have to find the path to Inspiration Point, where we will be able to see all three lakes at once and watch the sun rise up behind them. It is just starting to peek out now from the horizon, turning the sky grapey purple, deep tangerine and pale fuchsia. We start to hurry.

Which, of course – always makes things worse, yeah? There are no signs anywhere, even when the path forks into two. We make a random (and, I'll admit, tersely worded) joint decision to go right. We walk for about twenty minutes, finally realizing that this is the wrong way as the trail starts to slope dramatically downward. It is getting quite light out, the air that pale blue-ish of early morning, and we can now see the red arrows painted on the rocks of the jagged trail – they are pointing the other way, of course. “Awww, come on!” I shout. “What, is this Labyrinth? Where the f%$@ is Hoggle then! And where is Inspiration Point?”

We trundle back in the other direction, becoming aware as we go of the thick pea soup fog that is ensconcing the entire peak of the mountain – the peak that we have to climb to to see the lakes. “Aw Nuts!” I shout again. “Hurry, beat the fog! We have traveled for three days straight to get here! On buses that had all sorts of livestock strapped to the top with the luggage! I have endured a bus ride in which the goat strapped to the roof fell halfway off, right beside my face – his hind legs dangling away! Goat balls, S! I have survived the sight of splayed goat balls squished on my window for these lakes!”

I swear the black lake is there. It's not as much of a stretch as the next one, though....

Despite picking up the pace and remembering the squealing pigs (who were literally hog tied) and that poor, poor goat we do not beat the fog. By the time we make it to the staircase leading to the lookout the sun is up and the fog a thick blanket. We walk to the turquoise and black lakes and by peering up over their sides we are able to make out their colours – kind of. As for Mr Green Lake– it could be neon yellow now for all I know – I don't get a glimpse. We wait for an hour and it only seems to get worse. The few dozen of us that have scaled the top began slowly shuffling down, somewhat dejected but still happy to have seen Kelimutu, even partially.

See? What is that? The barest hints of blue allude to the fact that this is the turquoise lake.... Whoever google images this is gonna be pissed.

Our 3 hour walk down an incredibly steep hill to get back to the village is also ill fated. While fun and wholesome, filled with woodland critters (not like these, thankfully) and small rustic villages – I wake up the next morning and I cannot walk. Literally. I can kind of manage a crab-ish sideways shuffle, but normal steps are out of the question. S has to go and get me Indonesian muscle relaxants (grade? B minus) so that I can even get out of bed without ambling around like I have brain damage. My hip joints are so stiff, my tendons so tense and damaged that I resolve to eat an entire fish every day for the next week in order to get enough protein and healthy oils to heal me (this is a promise I often make. I love fish.)

Despite our difficulties, Kelimutu was an interesting science-y place with beautiful mountain scenery, endless green rice paddies and friendly people. You should definitely try to make it there - in the dark on a motorbike, of course. Some tips.

• Bring your own helmet
• Check the forecast for fog
• Pack a sweater. Or three.
• Mentally comprise a list of things for your obituary. Y'know. To pass the time.....

What is that next to S on the bus? Is that an upside-down chicken being held by the ankles by that old woman? Yes, it is.

Kelimutu (and the small town of Moni) is 2 hours from the major-ish city of Ende, which has an airport serviced by Denpasar, Bali. If you are arriving from your Lombok-Flores boat trip you can take a bus from Labuan Bajo to Bajawa (10 hours) and then on to Moni (7 hours) a few days later. Continue on to Sumba or Timor, or do yourself a favour and fly back, either from Ende or Maumere (3 hours away). You will not want to take these buses again (Goat balls. That's all I have to say.)

Ngada Villages: A Discussion of Bones, Horns and Gourds

Bena village.

On our loooong journey from Labuan Bajo to Kelimutu S and I stopped for a night in the lovely hill station town of Bajawa. We arranged a trip the next morning to two of the nearby Ngada hilltribe villages.

The Ngada people of central Flores are, like most indigenous tribes in Asia, the product of a long and convoluted history involving colonialism, subjugation and migration. Their strange funeral customs and animal sacrifices link them to tribes in Sulawesi, Malaku and Sumatra – and even as far away as China, Laos and Burma – yet here they are plunked down in the centre of Indonesia's most Catholic island.

Pig jawbones. Someone is loaded around here....

The Dutch missionaries moved into Flores in the 1920s and converted the Ngada people enmasse, enforcing a rigid caste system and banning marriage between Ngada and other locals. While ostensibly a Catholic people, the Ngada's fierce animism has never been abandoned or even toned down. Therefore, images of Jesus and Mary with their eyes rolled skyward mingle with buffalo horns and pig jaws (a symbol of wealth) and effigies of ancestors.

Did someone get hit on the head around here?

Our first stop was Luba, a small village of about 20 thatched, stilted houses set in a square configuration surrounding a central courtyard. The courtyard was filled with the the raised tombs of important ancestors and umbrella shaped straw canopies that represent the male – ngadhu. Bhaga, to represent the feminine, are mini little carved houses that sit perched atop the actual houses, along with doll-like wooden images of men and women, representing family both long dead and recently deceased.

Concentrating on her ikat.

From the porch of each house peered wrinkled men, ancient women and dirt-smeared toddlers – everyone else either working or at school. We were waved over by the toothless old village head and asked to sign the guestbook that he produced with a flourish, along with a small donation to support local causes. Once we said our “Selamats” and “Hello Misters” we wandered amongst the dwelings looking at the beautiful ikat, colourful woven tapestries and sarongs.

Graves and piles of rocks and crosses and effigies.

The village of Bena was twice the size of Luba and built in the more traditional style of two rows of houses facing one another. Like in Luba, the space in between the parallel rows was filled with the familiar variety of totems, grave mounds and ngadhu.

She is deep in thought trying to decide what to charge us. Note her indigo dyed blue feet.

The cackling old ladies that sat on each stoop were beautiful in their strange appearance, their teeth streaked with blood-red betel nut juice, feet blueberry coloured from the indigo dyes of their ikat, long grey hair twirled up into buns and affixed with shiny decorated sticks.

As we spoke to them in our broken (very broken) Bahasa they lifted their heads and cackled, more betel flying out from their creased mouths. We bought a few lovely pieces of weaving, and as I tried mine on as a scarf the woman began to howl with laughter and shaking her head, gesturing that it should be worn as a wide sash. I obliged her, and didn't even barter....too much.

Lookin' good, Uncle Peter.

At the far side of the village there was a Virgin Mary shrine atop a small hill overlooking the nearby smoking volcano peak of Wawo Muda and the deep ravine below. The view, of both the village and the mountain, was breathtaking.

Bhaga. Are they feminine because we're always lettin' people in to walk all over us? Zing!

“I can see the fascination people have with sort of thing,” I said to S, “ I can see why someone would want to be a cultural anthropologist and live and study here on an Indonesian island.” He nodded.
“It definitely has similarities to Tana Toraja. That would be interesting to study.”
“And think about Papua – over 250 languages spoken on the Indonesian side alone. Think about all of those villages! And tribes! And penis gourds! Let's go there too!” He sighed.
“One day, dear. One day....”

Little kitty asleep below the ikat.

Big bone-y (and horn-y) display of wealth.

Thar Be Dragons - A Boat Trip From Lombok to Flores

(I tried to post this entry a few days ago, but it got all garbled. Here it goes again - I promise it is fixed! Read me! PS - any comments that got left on this one got deleted, please re-comment!)

The route - Lombok, Sumbawa, Komodo and Flores

As much as all travelers dismiss the Lonely Planet, mocking it relentlessly and pretending that we do everything completely on our own – that is pretty much a load of crap. Most backpackers have, shoved deep in their packs a Lonely Planet or similar, clandestinely consulting it on buses and in the safety of their guesthouse rooms far from the (often extremely) judgmental gaze of other, more hardcore backpackers. My general rule of thumb is “don't always do what LP tells you to do, but don't ever do what they tell you not to do” (don't do what Donnie Don't does.) Basically, if they advise strongly against a brand, business or hotel they probably have good reason and you should avoid it.

Hence it was with an extreme sense of trepidation that we set out on a 4 night/4 day cruise from Lombok to Flores with a company other than Perama. The Lonely Planet and the Rough Guide and your small Indonesian grandma were uniform in their advice: Do not, under any circumstances, book with the myriad other companies plying the backpacker trade in Bali and the Gilis. Go with a trusted name. Do not get stuck on a floating rustbucket in the middle of nowhere with only rice to eat and conniving crew with sticky fingers breathing down your neck. And if you do – don't blame us.

But – on the exact day we needed, for the exact price we could afford, traveling the exact itinerary (Lombok, 2 stops in Sumbawa, Komodo, Rinca and Flores, with a few snorkeling stops on the way) we wanted was another company. Kencana. Shudder.

The transportation to shore...

S did not want to book, fearing cockroaches in our beds and mealy plates of rice on the table. “Can we fly?” “Flights are booked.” “Can we go overland?” “It involves a 24 hour busride.” “Can we skip the dragons?” “No.”

Kencana it was. We boarded the small minbus that was to take us the 3 hours to the other side of Lombok from Sengigi and immediately met Will and Jo, two lurvely Brits on their own epic journey around the world. Slowly the bus filled up and we set off. Things looked promising.

Zee amazing incredible tiny boat - 24 of us lived here for four days.

We arrived at the boat and I assumed that it was the boat taking us to meet the real, larger boat. Until I saw the eighteen thin matresses lined up on the upper deck. No, this tiny boat was to be our home for the next 4 days, along with 6 crew. 24 people on a vessel that I would estimate could comfortably sleep 8. S glared at me. “Well, look at it this way – we have no beds or tables, so your fears can't come completely true!”

S having a go at some pishing. He caught no pish. Puck pishing.

The boat, once we settled in and made friends, turned out to be just fine. Yes, the slow put-put motor meant that we sailed late into the first night and all the way through the second, making sleep a precious luxury that we were forced to seek in the afternoon. Yes, the meals were repetitive and completely lacking protein, with the exception of the three live chickens kept aboard the boat and killed daily (if you are planning to do this trip, bring A LOT of yummy snacks. If you are vegetarian bring tofu. A lot.) And yes, it was baffling how the “pishing” never actually resulted in catching “pish.” But we snorkeled some beautiful reefs, saw loads of Komodo dragons and met some really great people.

So, as usual Lonely Planet – stick it in your ear.

Neat!

The highlight of the trip was undoubtedly the two stops we made in Komodo National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage Site and the last remaining habitat of the fearsome (just ask Sharon Stone) Komodo Dragon.

Arriving on Komodo. Note to self - long hair and hat = Kim Mitchell.

There are approximately 1300 dragons living on Komodo Island, and another 1100 on nearby Rinca. Komodo was our first stop in the region, and we did see quite a few (not to mention about a gazillion horse-sized huge deer) but they were mostly found lazing their fat bodies near the snack stalls.

Six lazy guys - that is, until a bird landed....

The following day on Rinca we saw dozens more. Some were lazy 'retirees' mooching near humans, but also a lot of guys (and I do mean guys - male Komodos outnumber females 3.5 to 1) hanging out in their natural desert-y habitats. Their huge lumbering weight is incredibly impressive up close, and they look sluggish and slothful. That is, until we saw a bird touch down near a group of six - it was then that I realized how potentially dangerous these beasts are.

Sharpening their claws. K, I'm gonna go over here....

Surprisingly fast on land, faster in the water and with an ability to scale trees easily they actually deserve their frightening name. Komodos are also conniving beasts, biting huge water buffaloes and then creepily lurking around until they die weeks later from their extremely toxic saliva. Not surprisingly, a ranger guide is compulsory at all times. They carry big sticks. My request for one was turned down....

A Komodo (a bit camoflauged) near it's nest.

All in all - taking the Lombok - Flores boat trip with a non-reputable company is a gamble - and in our case it paid off. Well, that might be too glowing - it was more like a draw. But it reminded me that comfort is sometimes a luxury and I don't always need it. Give me a thin mat to sleep on, some lukewarm Bintang to sip and plate after plate of plain noodles and I'll be happy. For a few days, at least. Well, as long as there are dragons....

Um, Violet...there's uh....a Komodo Dragon right effing behind you.....

Confusing Photo of the Week #5

Because Mademoiselle Poop went out of business last week.

Any evidence you need that the urine-based pastry market is on the wane can be found here at the Mr. Piss Cart in Tana Toraja, Sulawesi - sadly now out of business. Blame the world's shaky economy when you can't find a steaming hot mouthful of Mr. Piss on your nearest corner. Damn you, George W.

Paradise on Gili Meno

Ready Set Relax, A-type personality style.

I was scared of the Gili Islands. Well, not necessarily scared, but wary and incredulous. The three microscopic islands off of the coast of Lombok, a mere 4 hours from Bali are a recent backpacker discovery, but time is relative and the four or so years that I had been hearing about them was more than enough time for some major damage to have been wreaked by tourism.

Gili Trawangan, the largest of the three, is known to basically be an extension of the sprawling, belching tourist complex that is Kuta/Legian/Seminyak – the main beach resort in Bali. I wish I could say that the amazing beaches of either Bali (or Trawangan, from what I have heard) make up for it, but I was unmoved. The sheer number of cigarette butts that you find mixed in with the greyish mica specked sand make the playa as inviting as a big mall ashtray in the eighties.

That is not to say that Bali is without charm – whimsical tinkling prayer bells soften the sounds of the traffic whizzing by and the colourful Hindu displays of devotion are magical. Ubud, away from the beaches, is an enchanting artist's retreat nestled in the mountains and terraced rice paddies, a mystical place that is somehow unblemished by it's own roaring tourist trade – the closest that I found to the enchanted island that Perry Farrell promised me. But back by the sea you could open your eyes and literally believe that you were anywhere on the planet, a generic mishmash of Irish pubs, surf shops and Pizza Huts. (Although, a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf frappucino is always welcome, even at 4 CAD a pop....)

I had heard from enough travelers that Gili Trawangan was “fun, yeah – but the beaches are pretty bad and it's constant party party party” to know that I wanted to skip the place. Brandon even made the decision to stay in Ubud longer and skip Lombok entirely based on his weariness at the Aussie drinking teams making their ways through Kuta. It was with some amount of hesitation (and still some romantic hope on my part that the enraptured descriptions in old guidebooks may still somehow hold true) that S and I decided to spend 2 nights in the Gilis on our way to Lombok and then Flores.

Of the coast of Gili Air.

We booked a transfer to Gili Air, avoiding Trawangan completely, and set out on our eight hour journey (half bus, half decrepit ferry) finally arriving just after dark. I gazed at the white sand paths lit by the full moon, stared out to the dark blue ocean and looked up at S. “Does it strike you that perhaps this is exactly the island we've been looking for all this time?”

Yes, this boat's proud name is Xanadu. Not so much now, jerks!

We chose to stay on the West side, because though it had jankier beaches it is completely deserted, a half an hour walk across the island, which has no motorized vehicles (none of the three Gilis do) to the smattering of shops and restaurants in the East. Walking to and from the East we would run into only a few other tourists, and only a handful of the 1800 locals that call the island home. “The Lonely Planet was right,” I thought to myself, “for once they were correct. It is a beautiful island off of the main tourist track. Well I'll be a horse's uncle....” I kept expecting the onslaught of glowstick waving French raver-hippies (the worst kind) or North American frat dudes chugging Bintang beers but it never happened. Maybe this is in part due to the Muslim locals celebrating Ramadan and canceling parties, but I'll take it any way I can get it. It was relaxing. It was calm. It was....perfect.

To make things even dreamier we decided to book a snorkeling trip, one of our favourite activities. It was the best value we have had thus far for the same sort of trip at only 70,000 Rupiah (7 CAD) per person for the whole day in a glass bottomed boat, including mask and fins, with five snorkel sites and a stop for lunch on Gili Meno. We swam above turtle feeding sites and a massive coral garden – it was a beautiful day (not quite as good as Ko Phi Phi in Thailand but with way less urchins, of which I am irrationally terrified. Win.) I was excited to get back to Gili Air and spend the following day on the one small but lovely stretch of white sand where the tide going out doesn't mean an eyeful of slimy rocks and gooshy seaweed at 4pm.

I was excited until we alighted on Gili Meno and saw the beach here. The tiny island is ringed by a thick swath of pure white sand that stretches far out into the sea, making the water clear pale aqua, darkening gradually into sapphire blue. The slightly dodgy warungs and bars on Gili Air are replaced by clean swept outdoor cafes and pleasant bungalows. Where on Gili Air there are maybe 30 options for restaurants/accommodation, here there are about 6. We finished our lunch and I quickly talked S into it. We booked a cottage for the next night.

No really - that is all there is to do here. My Uncle Lorne would be in heaven.

Maybe because the prices are higher than Gili Air and much higher than Trawangan (but still affordable – my beachfront bungalow with a fresh water shower is about 25 bucks CAD/night – a splurge, but still within budget if we are frugal with other stuff) it keeps out the young backpackers. The “let's drink bhang lassie and vodka buckets and skinny dip in the water at midnight” crowd. The kids that read the 'Electric Kool Aid Acid Test' because of its title and thought it was a glowing endorsement for hallucinogens. The glow stick waving French raver-hippies.... None of them are here!

But in a way, it is extremely strange that the beaches are not crawling with the families, the wealthy couples and the upwardly mobile young people who feed on Bali like a bloated tick. Like the backpackers, none of those types are here either. Instead there are empty chaise lounges all over the stunning beaches. No Pizza Hut, mind you, but pretty close to paradise (and about twenty times better than anything I saw in Bali.) The only explanation I can think of for this lovely lack of development and its crowds is that the main ferry drops off on either Gili Trawangan or Gili Air and you have to spend a night and take a small local boat here the next morning. But could that really be keeping people from this jewel in the East Indies? In any case, yay me!

Even in the haze it is stunning...

I almost don't want to tell you guys where I am, for fear that you'll tell people and the next time I come here it will be overrun with Shangri-La seeking sun worshipers. Like me.

Because really, I don't think I am gonna leave. I think I am gonna sit right here until my visa runs out in 2 weeks and even then you might not be able to get my ass off of my chaise lounge. S is thinking about getting PADI certified (diving) and I might get my locks corn-rowed and work on this outrageous “Aussie-woman-in-her-fifties/Aaron Neville” cocoa tan I have been acquiring. It's that kind of place.

Now, don't tell anyone.

Fresh red snapper every night - four bucks Canadian (so like, 10 Euro cents) each

Trampling Through Bali - The Catch 22 of Tourism

We visit the places that stroke our imaginations only to find out that thousands of people have shared our dreams and now our dream is ruined. We read about a near deserted perfect beach in our two year old Lonely Planet and when we arrive it is teeming with European hippies and British families. We stroll down country lanes and are harassed to buy trinkets or take transport to the point that we feel harried and annoyed. Idyllic little islands are now covered in the plastics and trash necessary to keep young travelers in the comfort that they demand, and the beaches are murky with the sewage of a thousand extra people per night.

It is the communities that have the most tourism that are the wealthiest, but in order to gain that higher standard of living they also must give up their traditional way of life. Out go the local restaurants and green areas, in comes the Billabong shop and the bars hosting foam parties. On the other hand, it is easy for us to gripe about the loss of “authentic experiences” when we get to go home with full bellies to our sleek modern homes in the West. If tourism equals money, which in turn equals a better life, they want it at almost any environmental cost.

On the Perama bus from Seminyak to Candidasa yesterday I was privy to a variety of outrageously ignorant conversations. A young tennis playing stud from London told a wide eyed German girl that if “you go to South America, they've never seen blonde hair and on the bus they will cut off your ponytail to keep it! Seriously!” They then went on to discuss how gross squat toilets are. A Scandinavian dude dressed like a member of Blink 182 with a wide brimmed cap and neck tattoos exclaimed how happy he was to finally “get to the Gilis so I can get fucking wasted.”

Most disturbing were the women seated behind me – at first glance they seemed like nice typical middle-aged crystal gazers, perhaps headed to the beach for some yoga or meditation. “Ugh, I know. They way that they try to sell you things is disgusting. Don't they know that it annoys us? People will stop coming, you know. It is shameful how they carry on...”

Those women were lucky that I hadn't had a glass of wine and wasn't in a pub rather than drinking warm water trapped on a bus with them. See, if circumstances had been different, I would have been quick to call them out, maybe mention that the mere sight of the wads of cash we carry, the exorbitant sums we waste on Western food, the casual way we overpay for just about everything – it must make locals mad.

Well, not necessarily mad, but it would certainly make them think. We barge into areas like Bali waving handfuls of US dollars and demand a perfect holiday while staying at hotels and eating at restaurants owned by foreign investors or the local elite. But when the people who actually live there get uppity enough to start trying to get a piece of the pie we get annoyed. We call them shameless.

I'm willing to bet that they don't give a damn what we think. Taking no for an answer when selling keychains sounds well and good, but remember that the money that is worth practically nothing to us (they know what the conversion is and that we are paying pennies for things that cost dollars at home) can literally feed their family for the day. Maybe Grandma can rest instead of working. Their kids can go to school. And the more they sell, the more of those silly pieces of paper practically falling out of our wallets they can get, the happier and healthier their lives will be. If this was the case for you, would you care about annoying some washed up hippie's delicate sensibilities by pressuring them to buy a magnet?

Tourism drags ancient cultures from their traditions and disrupts the way of life and the environment, yes (there are responsible ways around this, but from what I've seen over the past year those are mostly a myth unless you have a lot of money....) but it also puts food on the table for people who might go without otherwise. While it's well and good to patronizingly dream that people are completely sustained by their quaint customs and should be willing to stay poor in order to keep them exactly as they have been for centuries that's just not going to happen. Especially if you are one of the willing masses who want to pay to see those customs in action. See what I mean? We could go around in circles forever. If we go, we ruin it. If we don't, people lose jobs. What is better?

It boils down to this - locals want the things that we have, both luxury items and basics such as our educations – and they are willing to piss you off to earn them, one keychain at a time.

Borobudur in a Flash

Yes, that is a blonde tuft of Brandon's hair poking out there....

The "Big Three" of Southeast Asia: Angkor Wat, Bagan and Borobudur. The three largest ancient sites packed with ruins and history that draw backpackers and package tourists alike to poke their fingers into the far past and dream of the Ramayana, masked dancers and sacrificial offerings held in the moss covered spots that they now stand.

We visited Angkor Wat in May, Bagan in June and now in August we arrived in Jogjakarta, the artistic capital of Java and the site of Borobudur, the largest Buddhist temple in the world. Despite Java's overwhelmingly Muslim population, the temple is respected as a historical monument with special meditation spots reserved for Buddhist pilgrims visiting from around the world.

Amazing graffiti and art everywhere you look in Jogja.

I was on my way to Vancouver that afternoon, and the idea of getting that close to Borobudur and missing it was unbearable. We woke up early, and after dashing to the airport to confirm one final leg of my journey we headed off.

K, on three let's look like sweaty backpackers. 1, 2.....

Once we arrived our limited time made a guide seem really necessary, and at 50,000 Rupiah (5 USD) for an hour it was a good deal. He led us through the huge temple one step at a time, explaining how each of the nine levels represents a Buddist godplane. 72 large buddhas sit ringing the circular levels, most missing their heads. I suspect that this means that they were sacked as antiques (or out of religious spite) but the guide seemed anxious to have us believe that it was all due to age..... I didn't really buy it.

I'd lose my head if it wasn't.....oh.

Several huge restoration projects have taken place over the last few centuries after Sir Raffles (yes, this guy) then governor of Java, was informed of it's existence - until then it had been hidden by a thick swath of curly jungle and volcanic rocks for over 800 years. Once declared a UNESCO site in the nineteen seventies the Indonesian government funneled money into further restoration (including taking the entire thing apart, piece by effing piece to put in irrigation system and then putting it back together. Our guide confided that like nearby Prambanan there is a storehouse of pieces that didn't fit back in....fail) and it is now the largest tourist draw in Indonesia.

Leftover temple stone. "Hey guys, wanna ruin history today?" "Resounding YES."

The setting itself is as beautiful as the temple, green rolling hills covered in thick vegetation lead down into a bowl, and in that bowl sits the monlithic temple. One thousand years ago it must have looked very similar to the way it looks today.

I love the spirits floating on the clouds above Buddha's followers...

I must admit, after the spooky setting of Angkor and all of those huge tree roots snaking their way through the crumbling temples, and after the sheer massive area that the Bagan temples occupy - Borobudur was a tad underwhelming. It is a humongous structure, but the plains immediately surrounding it are devoid of any other interesting sites (Prambanan is quite far away). I did, however, find the endless stretches of intricate stone frescoes depicting Buddha's life to be fascinating.

Remember what the dormouse said....

Jogjakarta is an amazing artist's enclave and Borobudur is the icing on the cake (the cake is made of rice, so.... well, so is everything here.) A lot of people roll into town, see the temple and leave (people like me - but not on purpose!) Definitely visit, but remember to stay and check out the batik, the music the galleries and yes, the graffiti.

Lap-topless in Ubud

This is what happens when I try to use a pen and paper.

The charger to my laptop just emits this high pitched screaming sound now and no blinky light comes on when it is plugged in. I try again every few hours just to see if it has magically fixed itself. It has not. No swan.

I realize now, as I sit in an internet cafe to write this, that I have lost my ability to write with a pen and paper. I think I may still be able to take notes and write a grocery list by hand, but when it comes to prose (a better word than the dreaded poetry) essays, blogs and fiction (yes, I do that too...) I need to type. My brain is now connected eerily to a keyboard. I cannot write without one.

I am in Ubud, Bali - historic land of temples, art and culture.....and not a single electronics supply shop. The sweat that drips from my forehead on a regular basis is a mix of the heat and stress from the fact that I cannot get any of these random, strange and wonderful things out of my head. Some of them robustly stick around and morph and change and self-edit and end up more cohesive and interesting than when they started out as little thought-lets, but I just know that some of them are lost and gone forever.

I am a writer. I get squirrely when I do not write.

What I really need is a new laptop, as S and I have been hauling around his huge, heavy pimped out work one with all of its bells and whistles and VFX programs. He had it in India (when he worked there) and we just kept it from there, treating it like our precious entertaining baby. We watch dvds on it, download TV (alright, mostly It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and Gossip Girl.... low culture can be just as important as high, people!) and upload all of our thousands of photos. It is like a third person in our relationship. It allows S to go out snorkeling for 4 hours and know that I will still be plunked down writing something with a furrowed brow. It allows me to go out shopping and yoga-ing all day while S works on his movie magic. I love it. I miss it.

So, for the next few days until we get this sorted and charged (or maybe buy a new cute one for me? Eh? S?) there will only be short entries with no/few/other people's photos. I do have some neat entries on the horizon - shopping in Ubud, surf lesson in Seminyak - hell, even a poem (shudder - I hate that word! The only other word I hate as much is 'cuddle.' Excuse me while I go and throw up in my mouth...) and an interview with travel diarist/filmmaker Brook Silva-Braga (A Map For Saturday.) Until then....well, wish me luck. And a good memory.

My dream laptop. At heart, I am a teenaged Japanese girl....

One Fine Day - Lunch in Jimbaran

Balinese decoration, tinkling in the wind at our lunch restaurant.

It's actually kind of embarrassing how much I love food.

I know that it's pretty de rigeur right now to be a foodie, but trust me, not all of my loves are respectable. You can count poutine, Hawkins cheezies and Japadog in my list of guilty pleasures that I don't announce regularly when in fine restaurants. Thankfully, my love of fresh seafood, vegetables and spice redeems me, at least a bit (when I am not eating scrambled eggs and Cheez Whiz on toast.)

My love affair with crab is well documented on M&B (this is my first time calling it that. Is that lame? I think it's lame. This is the last time I am calling it that.) I don't know if it is my gutteral instincts coming through, but there is something about completely eviscerating the shell and pulling out all of the crabmeat, bits of guts splashing about and pointy things flying everywhere, that really makes crab eating half entertainment/half culinary experience. I love it.

Fingers covered in guts and shell - this is the life.

I landed back in Indonesia, to Bali, a few days ago after a quick visit home to Vancouver. S and Brandon met me at the airport and whisked me to our amazing Villa in Jimbaran, a beautiful beach close to the tourist hell of Kuta, but extremely laid back with 75% less hippie jank.

"D'ya, um...d'ya think we should, um, run.....?" Yes. 

We spent the morning and early afternoon on the beach - trying to get "cocoa" brown, smoking like guilty teenagers and playing in the ass kicking waves.
"Brandon - you know the signs of a tsunami, yeah?" He shook his head. "OK, if you see the water suck back and go out really really far - run. Run fast and climb something." He nodded.
"Yep - it's a post 9/11 world - you can never be too careful, man. Terrorists could be anywhere, brah." At that moment a wave picked us both up and slammed us into the sand.
"See?"

They served - I ate.

Brandon headed back to the villa (I will never get tired of saying that) and S and I went for one of the most amazing meals I have had on this trip - all for eight dollars.

The view as we ate.

The meal started with fresh fish soup and cucumber salad. We sat and watched the waves mercilessly pound the beach, not knowing what to expect from our crab. Would they be tiny little guys halfed and stirfried like in Kep? A big bruiser boiled until bright red? Covered in some kinda icky sauce?

The table cloth looks like Brandon's wardrobe...

The waitress walked over and began unloading her tray -amazing, wonderful things were placed on our table - 4 sauces, rice, potatoes, vegetable and....the crab. Our fellow had been grilled on an open flame - he was perfectly cooked served with a nutcracker (rare in Asia.)

Jocrab and his Amazing Technicolour Dreamsauce

These sauces were the most amazing component of the meal other than the crab itself. Other than their actual prettiness, each one was magical. Clockwise:  Crushed raw garlic, Bali Sauce (vinegar, chilis) Tomato and Lemongrass and a sort of Teriyaki Sweet Soy.

No words. Except perfect.

When the perfect huge claws popped open the meat was tender and juicy and a bit salty. I could eat it every day and be happy - I am the Bubba Gump of crab.

Greasy fingers, clean heart. Well, besides all that cholesterol...

It was one of those meals, like this or like this, that inspires you creatively, fills your brain with clear energy and makes your step bounce a little (not that I need more bounce. Eep...) I dipped my dirty fingers in the ocean and we headed back to the Villa (see? It never gets old) for an afternoon of Bintang, sunbathing and cooking.

Life, if I ever need reminding, is good.

On a completely separate note, look at this salad I made using the bare minimum of ingredients and utensils. Fuck you, Jamie Oliver!