Volcanoes and Dolphins

I’m the ultimate procrastinator. But I do eventually get things done. It’s been about two years since the end of our world travels, and here I am, picking up where I left off. In Bali. In retrospect, this was my favorite part of the trip. Why I stopped here, I have no idea. It doesn’t matter—my memory is good, and I can check my husband’s past blogs for any details I may have missed. So even though I’m sitting in an apartment in downtown Juneau, Alaska, I return to central Bali.

 

Climbing a Volcano

 

Although we had been present on the Volcano Tour, we’d been far from actually experiencing a volcano. We had seen both the giant Agung and its brother Batur from a distance, but that wasn’t good enough. From Ubud, we scheduled a departure to Kintimani, into the volcanic heart of Bali.

There are no buses in Bali, which is a rather good thing considering the size of the streets. Minivans are the mode of transportation for tourists. We shared a minivan with a young French couple. It was the stuff of adventure, as the van bounced through lush jungle to an unknown destination. The guide book had been somewhat vague on how exactly to get to Toya Bungka, in the shadow of Ganung Batur. If we were to journey into Kintimani, the rest would come together somehow. Sure enough, after getting dropped off in the village of Penelokan, a taxi agreed to drive us the rest of the way. Unfortunately that taxi was actually a closed-bed truck, which we and the French couple shared with a horde of flies.

We couldn’t observe much of the scenery from the back of the truck, but we got the impression that this part of the journey was very different from the previous one. Penelokan had been located high up, with a sweeping view of the double caldera with the lake. We were now heading steadily down into that first caldera, the big one which had been blown into existence unknown ages ago. It wasn’t an easy journey, considering the pesky flies and the roughness of the dirt road. It’s one of those experiences you dread in advance, that this is the part of the trip where motion sickness rears its beastly head. I was relieved to make it to the bottom of the caldera, to the edge of the lake—Toya Bungkah.

We had read up as much as we could about the climb to the top of Batur. What we found left us little hope of making the climb on our own. It could be done without the help of a guide, but it would be done at our own risk. Back in 2000, a German couple had done the climb on their own, only to wander off the trail and find themselves on top of an explosive vent which promptly killed them. Although it wasn’t likely that Chris and I would be going out this world in such a fashion, we weren’t confident that we could navigate the volcano on our own. So we were somewhat relieved to be handed a tour upon sitting down at the only restaurant in Toya Bungkah. It was a pretty straight forward deal. An operator approached us and told us what we would be doing. No negotiating, no haggling, no BS. $35 each for a Sunrise Trek.

Toya Bungkah isn’t what you would call a party town. It is a simple village made up of fishermen. There is a tourist industry there, but it seems pretty minimal and little known to the Western World. The only tourists we ran across were French, and they kept to themselves, retiring to their huts at an early hour. Seen as how we were rise as 3:30 the next morning, we set in for an early night ourselves.

The climate in Toya Bungka is mild, and the nights can be quite cool. There was no need for a fan, temperature-wise, which was unfortunate, for a fan might have kept the flies at bay, or at least covered up the sound of their buzzing. It was horrific night for sleep. The quiet was so deep that any little sound reverberated throughout the valley, whether it was the barking of dogs or the cocking of a crow. Sounds haunted us throughout the night, and between the sounds, the absence of sound was just as jolting. Neither of us received a satisfactory amount of sleep, but we were up and ready to go by departure time.

Armed with flashlights and bottled water, our group of five headed into the darkness. Besides me and Chris, there was a French couple, and our guide Edwin. It was hard to know where we were going. With our flashlights it was basically one foot in front of the other. The trail was easy-going at the beginning and I had great hope that this trek wouldn’t be overly strenuous. Breaks were taken, but I felt them unnecessary. To me they were opportunities for vendors to sell us stuff. There was one particular vendor who tried to sell us soda. I told him that bottled water was just fine for me, but maybe at the top of the volcano I would need further refreshment. Chris cursed my words, but I was already tasting that victory Sprite.

At some point the trail changed. The trees were left behind and we began a pretty steady ascent. Chris was perturbed as Edwin took his hand and helped him with each step upward. The soda vendor took it upon himself to help me upward, and as the elevation grew, I began to be more and more appreciative. No aid was offered to the French couple who seemed to be struggling.

At some point I looked behind us and realized the height we had come. Far below were the lights in the valley. Above us the constellations were glowing brightly. It was the first time I had clearly viewed the night sky beneath the equator. How odd it was not to pick out anything familiar—no Big Dipper, no North Star. There were no patterns that jumped out at me. I was viewing an entirely different corner of space. How spectacular to have this experience on a volcano, even though I was out of breath and soaked with sweat.

 

With much hand-pulling and crumbling ground under our feet, we made it to the top. We were well above the clouds. There was just enough dawn to the east to make out the silhouette of Agung, the largest volcano on the island. It was time for that celebratory Sprite, and I had no problem urging Chris to fork over the money. Yes it was expensive, the equivalent of $2.50. It wasn’t even Big Gulp style. It was a single can, but oh my was it good. Sometimes when your energy is drained, and you’re craving liquid refreshment, water just doesn’t cut it. I appreciated the cold carbonation. Chris, on the other hand, grumbled his way through his sips. Then the soda vendor made a comment that perhaps our guide would appreciate a drink as well. Chris forked over another $2.50 with much curmudgeondry. Edwin partook heartily in his cold beverage, unknowing that this would be his only tip.

We walked along a ridge and came to a camp. Bedraggled backpackers crawled out of tents to usher in the dawn. It seemed as there had been a party on the volcano the night before. Everyone seemed hungover, or maybe it was just the altitude. There was no official heralding in of the sun, rather we rambled about. Behind our backs a cloud rose from the caldera. At first we thought it was steam, but it eventually overtook us and the view. Edwin informed us that we were now engulfed in clouds, and we had been fortunate to enjoy the view across the valley, as now it was gone.

We went on to a hut where Edwin made us a half-assed breakfast of eggs and bananas. He then told us the story of the volcano while we ate. What made an impression on me is that the Balinese believe that their god lives in the volcano. Sure, it may be a cute story, these people who have held to their traditions and beliefs. But not so cute is the fact that they still make sacrifices to this god, tossing goats, chickens and even dogs into the caldera. Edwin informed us that they kill the animals before tossing them in, but that hardly makes it better. I asked if he participated in this event, and yes, every full moon the villagers go up and make a sacrifice to this volcano god. This was horrific to me. All those poor animals. At least human sacrifice isn’t practiced.

As the sun burned behind the clouds, we walked along the ridge of the caldera. We came to an altar which was guarded by an ornery monkey with a beard and giant teeth. I tempted fate by approaching this monkey, but he hopped around on his rock, exposing his teeth. We backed away, leaving the monkey of the volcano to guard his god.

Edwin made it awkward for us. At the beginning of the trek he had lavished attention upon Chris, holding his hand and helping him upward. They had been buds at the summit, smacking high-fives and posing for photos. At breakfast, while the French couple shivered in the morning air, Edwin had draped his jacket over Chris’ legs. I wondered if there was any hint of homosexuality there. But for the decent, Edwin turned his attention onto me. He hadn’t said as much as two words to the French couple. It was actually kind of funny. The way down had some rough spots, where the footing was precarious and the scree was loose. I didn’t mind so much having Edwin’s hand to hold, but the price was having to put up with his conversation. I got an earful about the poor condition of Edwin’s shoes and how he didn’t have enough time to spend with his children. It was a story of woe, and I knew exactly what he was going for, why he hadn’t even bothered with the French. I was American, therefore I must be loaded. And Americans traditionally give outstanding tips. Chris and I had formed an aversion to tipping, especially for ventures such as this. $35 may be a fair price in the Western world for trek, a real steal in fact, but in Bali where a sit-down meal costs a mere dollar, it is an exorbitant amount. Though we realized that the majority of this would go to the operator and not to Edwin, he would still be doing well off it. We weren’t planning on a leaving him any type of monetary tip, though we had no way in communicating this to him, so we had to put up with his stories and special treatment.

The descent went slower than planned. At some point, Edwin bolted ahead, leaving us to fend for ourselves. He could barely be seen in the trees ahead of us. This would have suited us fine, if he hadn’t reappeared towards the end as we entered into the village. Then we couldn’t shake him off.

 

It was pure awkwardness as we reached the end of our trek. There was no expectation from the French couple. They had not been doted upon in anticipation of a tip. But Chris and I, hadn’t we been given special attention? As the French fled into their hut, Edwin hung out by our front door. I finally suggested to Chris that we should offer him the stuffed animals that we had received from our fast-food meals at the airport in Singapore. If his family was really as poor as he had made out, then wouldn’t his children be pleased with such gifts? Apparently not, as Edwin rejected these gifts with a shake of his head. Tired of this game, I turned to Chris and said, “Ok, let’s eat breakfast.”vAnd thus we were able to get rid of Edwin for good.
 

It had been a draining experience, this trek up the volcano. We lazed around the rest of the day, attempting to ease our muscles out of a state of shock. A good way to do this was to visit one of the hot springs in the area. It’s hard to believe it now just how thrifty we were in our travels, but we choose the cheapest of the three, which was pretty much a cement pool that reeked of sulfur. At least we shared it with the locals. We even got to talk with an older man who claimed to be in his 70s but had the body of a 20-year-old, thanks to visiting the spring on a daily basis. He drank the water, but we weren’t willing to go to that extent to regain our health.

The rest of our time was uneventful in Toya Bungkah. We made arrangements to journey on to Lovina to the North. It was time to head back to the ocean.

 

Where the Dolphins Come to Play

We got a private ride for the three-hour journey to Lovina. I would like to say this was glamorous, but it was riddled with diesel fumes and horrific hairpin turns. I braced myself up against the seat and tried not to puke.

 

It was a bit of a shame that we got dropped off before Lovina proper. The taxi driver knew a place (don’t they always?) and we trusted that we had made it into town. Where we ended up was a tourist string of bungalows and restaurants on the outskirts of Lovina. But whatever—the restaurants boasted fantastic menus and the ocean was right at our doorstep. Our bungalow was something out of Paradise Magazine (if there’s such a magazine in circulation). It came with a canopy bed with crisp white sheets and scattered rose petals. We had come to the relaxation part of our trip once more.

As darkness descended, we went in search of an ATM. Being dropped in the outskirts of the town, we had far to go to reach real civilization. We walked a stretch of sidewalk along the main road, and with the distance involved, we realized just how far out of town we were. Somewhere along the way, I made a wrong step off a curb and heard my ankle go pop as I went down. Yup, I had done it. Sprained my pesky ankle. For the third time. Damned ankle.

I was hurting pretty bad, so I stayed put while Chris walked on to find the ATM. I attempted to walk it off. Hopefully it wasn’t a bad sprain. In the past I’ve had horrendous sprains which last a month or two before healing. We had signed up to go on a boat at dawn to view dolphins, and I was fearing how I would accomplish any such activity. It seems silly now—how much activity goes into crawling into a boat? Still, I was worried that such an injury would hinder us. So far on this trip I had endured some pretty heavy stuff. It’s hard to say what an injury will bring. All these things played on my mind as I walked around in circles, shaking my ankle in disgust, waiting for Chris to return.

Several people stopped and ask if I needed help. The Balinese are so friendly, even when they aren’t out to make a profit. I was okay, though, just waiting for my husband. Town must have been far, it took Chris a long time to get some cash. When he returned, we continued back to our tourist strip where we stopped at a restaurant to receive the local offering of seafood and traditional dancing. I propped my foot up on a chair and the waiter brought some ice. Breezes came off the sea as Chris and I sipped on booze and watched the night’s entertainment. It was our first experience with Balinese dancing. Sure we had heard the dong-dong-dong music across the road from our bungalow in Ubud, and yes, Balinese dancing is ubiquitous all over the island, but it was our first opportunity to partake in such activity. Well, Chris partook. I sat and laughed. Chris didn’t hold back. It made some proper shapes on the dancefloor. Thank goodness only a few tables were occupied. There wouldn’t be any major embarrassment that night.

It was another early night, as we were rising before dawn. Fortunately our departure was happening just outside of our hotel complex. The boats were lined up in the early grey of dawn. Long and low to the ground, they resembled Polynesian boats. Upon research I can properly call them outrigger canoes, with support riggers to the side. We sat very low, four of us in a row from front to back. We shared our ride with a French couple who enthusiastically slapped at the water. This dawn excursion proved to be quite popular. One by one the boats took off from the shore, an engine propelling each one into open water. When we reached a certain point, the engine was killed and we floated in the still water waiting for something to happen. And then—something did.

I had asked what the chances were of seeing dolphins. I was told 90%, which sounded promising. In reading about this bizarre occurrence, where dolphins wake at dawn to swim with the boats, it sounded like they swim around in the vicinity of the boats. Cool enough, but I wasn’t prepared for the extent of dolphinicity. As the sun broke above the horizon and cracked like an egg yoke over the surface of the water, the water came to life. We could hear it in the shouting from other boats and suddenly the engines were running. Dolphins! They were everywhere! They were over here and they were over here and they were underneath us and to the side of us. During the quiet moments, the guides would blow whistles. They believed this attracted the dolphins. And maybe they did, for there would suddenly be a spotting of them. We would rev the engine and chase them, though it didn’t feel so much like chasing as the dolphins would swim alongside us. One of them surfaced so close to our boat they were within touching distance. There were a few that jumped completely out of the water, performing tricks. We were lucky, according to our guide. They didn’t always come out to play.

I was focused on recording what I could. I caught some action, but I also missed a lot. It was one of those spiritual-like experiences, communing with nature. Nobody understands why the dolphins come to that spot every day at dawn. They certainly don’t have to, and they don’t have to play and swim with the boats, but there must be some kind of enjoyment in it for them. There were many times in Asia where I felt we were taking part in the exploitation of animals, but this was not one of those times. Those dolphins were partaking willingly in this activity. They had come out to play, and for us it was a rich experience. Well worth waking up early for.

Our stay in Lovina mostly centered on dolphins, though we did spend a fair amount of time in the resort’s pool and on the porch of our bungalow. The only downfall to our stay, besides my sprained ankle, was the cat which passionately yowled day and night in the plastic water bottle pile on the edge of our bungalow property. It sounded like an adolescent kitty, and it sounded like he was in a terrible state. I tried to rescue him several times but he always ran away. So we had to endure his yowlings. Also, the mosquitoes in Lovina were from a different universe. I had never had bites which oozed in such a nasty fashion. And the itching! I hobbled on my sprained ankle and scratched at monster bites. As much as I loved the laidbackness of Lovina, something was eating at me and I couldn’t figure it out, for the mosquitoes seemed to come into our room at night. In the morning I felt like I had been feasted upon. It wasn’t until I noticed the tell-tale brown streaks on our crisp white sheets that I realized that indeed something had been feasting upon us. Bedbugs, again!

Time to move on.

A Town Called Ubud

If you've ever read “Eat, Pray, Love,” you know exactly what to expect in Ubud. The book (and the movie, really) depict it perfectly. Ubud is green. Ubud is culture. I confess, if it weren't for “Eat, Pray, Love” I don't know if we would have ventured to this far-off land.

Chris and I had gotten into a pretty serious fight in Kuta (these things are bound to happen on long travels). Because of this we weren't talking on the minibus to Ubud. I had to pee in a way I've never had to pee before. I couldn't communicate this to anybody. I dearly wanted to lean over to Chris and tell him I was dying, but I stubbornly sat upright, too proud to announce to anyone that my bladder was in the throes of exploding. Instead I hopped out when the van stopped for some gas. Bladder drained, I continued my speachless stoicism, all the way to Ubud.

Even on the outskirts, you can tell that Ubud is a cut above the regular tourist town. Workshops abound. Stone statues, of the Easter Island quality, stare down at you while you're gawking. This is the land of weirdness. But the weirdness is culture, and you want a part of it. Strange demon faces used to scare me while staying at my grandma's (she was a traveler not unlike myself). In Ubud, strange demon faces are the thing. Stock up while you can. No scariness; it's all cultural.

What Money Can Buy

Our bungalow only cost £12 a night. What in the Western world can get you £12 a night? In Ubud it got us our own private world, complete with koi pond and altar. Our bungalow was decorated like a temple, with scary masks on the wall. Chris and I couldn't believe our luck. More than that, we were situated across from some community center which presented daily performances of Balinese music and dancing. Every morning we'd hear a few poundings from a drum, then in the evening we were serenaded with music, much of the dong-dong-dong variety. We were in Ubud. There was never any doubt.

The food—oh the food. There was hardly any Western fare in Ubud. Restaurants abounded, usually the kind where you sit on mats with your legs curled to the side. There was a laid-back quality to everything. Everywhere you went were fountains and koi ponds and dong-dong-dong music (seriously, the only TV we found in Ubud played Balinese dancing with the ubiquitous dong music; no Olympic coverage here). Back to the food—fish was the specialty. Pepes. Marinated fish steamed in banana leaves, served with a salsa and rice. It was like an orgy in my mouth. Fifty Shades of Grey has nothing on Balinese food (and I use that as a reference because I was reading the first book while in Bali). I nearly went through the roof with pleasure. Did I mention that most meals cost about £1 each? Add the local drink, a mix of lemonade and rice whiskey, you come to a meal that cost £1.75. Seriously, I could live here for a very long time.

Monkey Business

Just down the street from our bungalow was the Sacred Monkey Forest. I'm not being funny; this is the actual name. After side-stepping the daily offerings (every business has an offering put infront of its door, consisting of rice, flowers, and sometimes, Snickers bars) and trying not to sprain an ankle on the sidewalk tiles, we made our way down to this forest, just on the edge of town. The entrance fee was something like $2, a pitiance considering what was being offered. It was Indiana Jones. The moss-covered demon statues, the bridges connecting banyan trees, temples guarded by angry monkeys. It was too perfect. I can't make this stuff up. You just have to go.

The monkeys were bearded and looked like wise old men. In fact, some of them, the elders among them, looked pretty wise. They minded their own business, tolerating the tourists, but not messing with them for food. The young ones were a different story. They were cheeky. We ran into a few of them in the temple harassing pretty tourist ladies. They'd climb onto a tourist's head, making them squeal, getting a kick out of their own antics. I could tell the adolescents were trouble, just like in any community really. I steered clear of the pesky youth. Just minding my own business, though, walking along the path, I felt something hard hit my shoulder. Instinctively I yelped and jumped to the side. Chris saw the monkey before I did. He was perched up on a branch above, with the smuggest of faces. Beside me rolled a half-eaten potato. It dawned on me soon enough that this little bugger had chucked a potato at my shoulder. Perhaps he had been aiming at my head. Perhaps he had been out to crack my skull. His little joke over, he made his way across the branch and disappeared. I stood in mild shock. If I had been on my game, I would have gone after that little monkey tail and flung him through the trees. I would have swung a monkey. I really would have.

The “Volcano” Tour

It would be a crime to come to Ubud and not sign up for a tour. There are so many things to see in the area, and renting a bike wouldn't get you very far. Chris' birthday was coming up. He wanted to see a volcano. Batur and Augung are the giants in the region. Ideally we wanted to climb a volcano, but we were sold on a tour out of our hotel. Dubbed “The Volcano Tour,” it sounded just like what we were looking for. A few temple stops, then a drive through volcano land. We charged up our cameras and aimed for an early start.

On the minibus we were joined by a pair of Brits and a Danish/Korean guy. We instantly gelled as a group. We didn't really have a guide, just a driver who barely spoke English. He dropped us off at the sights and we were left to explore them on our own.

The first stop was a temple just down the road from where we were staying. We were made to put on the obligatory sarong and sash, males and females alike. It was interesting, having been to different religious sights through Asia, finding each religion to have its own dress code. For mosques it's shoes off, legs and arms (and for women—heads) covered. For Buddhist temples it's the same—shoes off and arms and legs covered. For Hindu places of worship, it's perfectly okay to keep shoes on, and really it seems that anything goes. For Balinese Hinduism, a sarong and a sash are required. They're provided at the temple entrance for a small fee.

The temple complexes are huge. To be honest I don't know what to make of them. They look very similar to a Balinese family compound. There are really no statues to behold or kneel before. There are lots of tables, and you get the sense that this is a place for the community to come and participate in celebrations. The temples are really just really big arts and crafts workshops. As Chris and I were wandering around, one of the keepers drew us in and showed us a few of the buildings. One of them housed a gong, another held a mosiac of a god. “One god,” the toothless man told us, pointing upward. “Only one god.” This fit into my understanding of Hinduism, as they believe in a whole pantheon of gods and goddesses, yet they're merely symbolic. It's really not very different from Catholicism, considering the trinity and in extension to that, angels and saints. Christianity as well has a whole family of beings up in heaven. Same with Islam. One god maybe, but lots of other stuff going on as well. Perhaps Hindus just take that stuff into consideration a bit more.

Our second stop was Elephant Cave. The cave wasn't as spectacular as the walk to the cave. The flowers were in full bloom in the garden, and there was a stream and a waterfall. It was Eden, right in the middle of Bali. In fact, I would like to say a word about paradise and chosen lands and such. If there was a universal god, and I'm talking a completely wise all-knowing god that is in control of everything—why, according to a particular religious book, why would he pick a people to represent him, promising them one of the crappiest scraps of land in the world? And for this crappy scrap of land there would be wars and problems galore. If I were god, well to be honest with you I wouldn't pick a people to represent me in the first place, but if I did, I'd pick the Balinese. I'd say, you guys are the happiest people in all the world. I've put you in one of the most gorgeous settings. Share your joy with the world, show them my goodness. I don't even need to send a prophet. You guys already have it made.

Moving on, we came to a place I would rate as one of the best sites in Bali. Its name is Gunung Kawi, and it's full of mammoth-sized stone carvings. It's an ancient Hindu site, and indeed you can feel the age of it as you walk along. The setting is fantastic, down in a valley surrounded by rice terraces. It's a great place for wandering, as one temple leads to another, to another. It had the grandeur of Machu Picchu, or what I'd imagine it would be (I've never been to Machu Picchu, so I'm not sure how I made the connection, but I definitely did). We watched a priest prepare an offering on one of the long tables. Incense filled the air. This was religion at its best, this mixture of ancient beliefs and architecture. You could tell the priests have been making offerings in this setting for centuries. It was a place stuck in time, though you don't have to go far in Bali to encounter that same feeling.

As we rolled up to the next place, we started to get the impression that we were on a “temple” tour instead of the “volcano” tour we had signed up for. But the variety in temples had kept us interested. We had come to “Holy Springs,” a pilgrimage site for the religious to wash themselves clean. There were two main pools. Devotees took up one of the pools, lining themselves up under the spouts. The second pool was empty, so Chris and I took turns dipping our heads under a free-flowing tap. It felt magnificent, cooling ourselves off in that manner. A lady came by to lay down an offering. Everywhere you went there were offerings. Whether these offerings were being presented to a universal force or to ancestors, it was never quite clear. The Balinese are very animistic in their beliefs. They believe that there are spirits everywhere. Some good, some bad. The spirits must be appeased in order to have peace and prosperity. It's not disimiliar in the rest of Asia. Most houses in Buddhist households have an altar dedicated to their ancestors. Well, I'd like to think that my ancestors are watching over me, fluttering around my house, but I just can't picture it.

Our next stop was a nice treat. We had come to a coffee plantation. We got to learn how coffee was grown, roasted and ground. The most interesting aspect to this plantation was the little creature scampering around in a metal cage. It was a luwak, better known as a weasel who fancies feasting on coffee cherries. This is how the process works: The beans inside break down in the weasel's stomach, the acid playing a special role in the procedure, then the weasel poops the beans out whole, and then those beans are washed (thoroughly, I hope) and roasted, then made into the most expensive coffee known to man. Luwak coffee. A cup cost around £3, which isn't bad considering. We had all kinds of coffees and teas placed before us for tasting. It didn't cost anything to taste, and we would have been quite happy just sitting there in the beautiful setting sipping away at ginger or vanilla or chili flavoured coffees. But it was Chris' birthday. This occassion called for something special, so we ordered Chris a cup of Luwak Coffee. A deep smooth brown, it had a peculiar smell. Everyone in the group was apprehensive about tasting it, but Chris loved it. I had a small sip, and dare I say, it carried the subtle flavor of, well, something different. One sip was enough for me. Chris was hooked. He now craves the taste of weasel shit which is unfortunate as it's very hard to come by.

Finally we came to the volcano part of the tour. Our minivan climbed some steep winding roads. Suddenly we found ourselves in a completely different landscape. We were in the region of Kintimani, the land of volcanos. Agung was half-hidden behind clouds, but Batur stood out in all its glory, its giant bulk dominated the landscape. Down below was a lake. From what I could understand, Batur was a double-caldera volcano. The first crater included the lake (which made it a very big caldera). The second caldera was the one that stood tall in the sky, a perfect cone. Our group was very excited, finally getting a glimpse of these beasts. We asked the driver to pull over so we could get some shots, but he told us we'd stop further down the road. This was a cause for agitation, as we were driving further away from the scenic viewpoints we wanted. The driver did stop, but at the destination of his choice. This was a restaurant. Granted, the restaurant offered fantastic views of the valley, but it also offered up overpriced buffet-style meals. We found ourselves trapped. It was obvious that we were expected to buy something. I read later in Lonely Planet that drivers were notorious for doing this. The restaurants charged double the regular price, only for the driver to recieve 50% commission. We were well onto this game, and none of us wanted to play. The whole group decided to get up and leave. The disappointment was obvious on our driver's face. Not only was he not getting his commission, he was also not getting a tip from his grumbling passengers. Such is the game.

We were taken to another temple, but by this time we were all templed-out. The group went in search of street food. Chris and I settled for some instant noodles from a nearby shop. It was a perfect lunch. At that, we left Kintimani. The volcano portion of our “volcano” tour was over. At least it gave us a taster. The region was beautiful, particularly that lake. Chris and I agreed that we'd have to go back, this time on our terms. Maybe we'd even get to climb one of those volcanoes.

The tour ended with a rice-terrace stop. This was more like it. The scenery was outstanding; post card perfect. Curved around us, like an ampitheatre, were the greenest rice paddies I've ever seen. It's impossible not to come across rice paddies in Asia, but hillside ones like this have to be seen to be believed. They are gorgeous. Too bad for the pile of dog shit I stepped in while trying to get that perfect shot. I wiped it off the best I could then climbed back into the minivan. Our tour was now complete.

A Place Like Home

We stayed in Ubud a good five days. Staying in the same bungalow, we enjoyed a little patch of heaven. The people running the place were so accommodating. The old lady was a little senile, but we loved her just the same. We named her Nana (we had had Mama in Samui). As we were paying up at the end of our stay, Nana informed us that a ceremony was taking place in about ten days time. It was the cremation ceremony, performed once every three years. We had seen them preparing for something down at the community center. Life-sized bulls were being lined up side by side. We hadn't understood the significance of these bulls, but now it made sense. Bodies that had been preserved over the past three years were now to be placed inside these bulls to be burned. Highly religious stuff. We couldn't turn down Nana's invitation to return to Ubud for the festival. I was very happy at the prospect of returning. Ubud is one of the most cultural places I've ever visited. It's absolutely overflowing with color and customs. The culture isn't even on display for the tourist, rather it's on display because the Balinese love their traditions and do all they can to keep them alive. We caught Nana and other members of her family watching TV one night. What were they watching? Balinese dancing with that dong-dong-dong music. They love the stuff. They can't get enough. That's what's so special about Bali. Ancient traditions aren't practiced for the sake of tourists and bringing in dollars. The Balinese practice their traditions because it's who they are. And you have to respect that.

Upon leaving our bungalow, I skirted around the koi pond. As I turned back to talk to Chris I noticed a giant spider dangling from a tree branch. I'm talking the biggest spider I've ever seen. I had noticed that there were spider webs covering the tops of several of the koi ponds along the path. I had thought to myself, those must be some big-ass spiders trying to catch fish. Well, yes, I was looking at a big-ass spider that was as big as my face. I'm really surprised I hadn't freaked out, considering I had walked right past it, probably even brushed up against it unknowingly.

With that, we left Ubud.

Life Below the Equator

If it was exoticism we were after, we certainly got it in Bali. The very air felt different after stepping off the plane. The climate was cooler, the scenery lush and volcanic. The bustle was unlike anything we had experienced in Asia so far. The men wore sarongs and cloth hats. The women carried baskets on their heads. Strange wood carvings and stone faces gave us the impression we were in Polynesia. The sensation was immediate—I knew I loved Bali.

There were a few games we had to learn before we even left the airport. Taxi drivers were persistent, surrounding their prey who were fresh off the plane. Asking for 400,000 rupees to take us to Kuta, they weren't open to negotiation. “Very far,” they would say, or “Traffic bad.” Those were always the excuses. It's hard to judge, just arriving in a place. Do you trust them or not? Well, it turned out—not. Thank goodness there was a Westener around who informed us that we shouldn't pay more than 50,000 rupees. There was a taxi booth right down from where all the taxi men were gathered, and there they were selling tickets for the appropriate price. Our first lesson in Bali—don't trust the locals. They'll clearly cheat you with a smile.

The narrow roads were clogged with traffic. Perhaps because Bali is just a tiny island, there aren't highways. Getting from point A to B isn't a clear-cut path. It's a zigzaggy path, many times involving driving the wrong way down a one-way street, skirting pedestrians and souvenir booths. I loved it. We arrived in the evening, and the streets were lined with activity. Chris and I were wide awake looking out the windows. It was as if we started our vacation afresh. The thrill of travel was back.

Our taxi nosed its way down a narrow alley, parting pedestrians and motorbikes. It amazed me that they allowed vehicles on back roads like this. There was literally just enough room for a vehicle to get by. Tourists had to press themselves into walls or step into a booth to avoid getting hit. Lots of horn honking. Lots of tourists looking over their shoulders.

We had picked a hotel out of Lonely Planet. We needed something, less we get dropped off at some out-of-the-way place that was owned by a relative of the taxi driver. Fortunately the hotel was perfect. Our own bathroom, a balcony, breakfast brought to our room in the morning. The price was the cheapest we had encountered in a long time. Our love of Bali was alive and growing.

Kuta is a tourist hub, something on the par of Khao San Road in Bangkok, except larger. There was no shortage of restaurants or tourist shops. Everything was cheap cheap cheap. Chris and I splurged a bit the first night. Just down the road from us was a place called Tubes, which was geared for the surfer crowd.  A surf board was stuck to one of the restaurant walls, and you could stand on it and pose for a picture. Chris did this. I didn't. I was more interested in the Mexican fare being served at the restaurant, particularly the margaritas. After Malaysia, which isn't booze-friendly by any means, it was nice to get back to cheap cocktails. Chris and I may have gone overboard that night, ordering dessert and cigarettes (cigarettes are sold on the menu along with the food) ontop of food and drinks, but the atmosphere was so relaxing. There was gentle music playing, and waves crashing on giant screens around us. There's something so satisfying about stepping off a plane and arriving in a destination and going out for that first meal. You feel you've made it to where you want to be.

Another Sleepless Night

I was hoping to follow up our relaxing meal with a relaxing night of sleep. After all, it had been a long time since I had gotten a decent night's sleep. It started in Kuala Lumpur where Chris and I had shared a dorm room with two Asian princesses. These girls had taken up the eight-bunk room with their crap, draping clothes and accessories over every inch of space. These girls were a pain in the ass from the very start, playing their music (despite Chris' snarky remarks) and doing themselves up into the late hours as Chris and I were trying to read. They tottered out in their whorish garb just as Chris and I were settling into bed. I knew they'd be back drunk in the wee hours of the morning, and of course I was right. They not only turned the light on, but they sat on their beds talking to each other about god knows what, until Chris asked them to turn the light off and shut the hell up (good man). One of the girls was on the phone for what seemed like forever. Then she disappeared and never came back. This was very weird behavoir for a hostel in Kuala Lumpur. Were these girls travelers, or prostitutes? We'll never know. Anyway, we didn't receive a whole lot of sleep that night.

Singapore was a nightmare sleep-wise for me. First we had those creaky bunk beds, then I had the bed bugs dropping down on me. I just wanted somewhere quiet and bug-free.

Bali looked like the place. It was geared towards relaxation, bubbling fountains and koi ponds and massages. The air was cool and bug-free in Kuta. Chris and I sat up reading for about an hour in our nice airy bedroom. As I sat there, it occured to me that down the road from us construction was taking place. I could hear a drill. “I hope that's not going to go on all night,” I told Chris. Silly me. The drilling stopped. We went to bed. I dozed off. Around midnight a truck rumbled down the narrow alley, and then the REAL construction began. Drilling, backhoeing, dynamiting... I don't know what the hell they were doing. But the noise moved closer and closer until they were right outside our hotel. I simply couldn't believe this was happening. I looked outside to see a work truck parked in the alley, several men asleep in the back. How were they able to sleep with all that noise? It looked like it was going to be an all-night operation. I went to grab some earplugs. Up til then they hadn't seen out the outside of my rucksack. I popped them in and the construction was lessened to just a mild roar. Along with the workmen outside, I eventually dozed off.

Like a Surfer

We could have been on the Gold Coast in Australia. Anyone with blond hair and board shorts in Kuta had an Australian accent. Just a short hop over from Oz, Bali was the destination of the kangaroo people. I found it interesting. Just like Americans in Cancun, or Brits in Ibiza, the Austalian youths headed to Kuta for their partying. Hearing “Summer of '69” sung loudly in an Aussie accent outside our hotel at 1:00 in the morning was no different than hearing the any wanker closing down a pub on Manchester Rd back home. The urge to shout “Shut the fuck up!” was strong in me. One thing I've realized on this trip—I have a general dislike of young drunken party-goers, regardless of their nationality. I don't find them witty or cute. I don't even find myself dredging up old party memories from a decade ago when gazing upon them. No, at best I just tolerate them these days. I'm getting old.

But not every Austalian was in Kuta to party. A good number of them came to surf. Understandably so. Kuta Beach is famous for its waves. Huge honking waves that can take a novice out. Girls and boys alike with gleaming trim bodies could be seen carrying boards through the streets, the most gorgeous people you could imagine. I felt like such a frump in my gypsy skirt and tank top get-up. To make it worse, I carried a boogie-board. But I didn't even care. Boogie-boarding I could do. Boogie-boarding was a good time. I wasn't going to die boogie-boarding.

Chris and I each took turns. One would boogie-board while the other sat on the beach. On the first day out, I went first. What a thrill it was. I don't even care if that sounds lame. The waves were ideal for boogie-boarding. I had mastered this little skill before back on a vacation to South Carolina. I had spent three days in the water before I got the hang of it, droppin the board down just a split-second before the wave hit. Timing was the key, and I got it right time after time after time. A few times I rode a wave completely in, sailing past swimmers and waders, coming to a stop on the wet sand, rolling awkwardly off. It was exhilarating when this happened, and I'd rush back out into the water to do it again.

I'd get braver, going deeper out into the water to catch the bigger waves as they crashed. There was a line of surfers out past the break-line, just chilling out waiting for a really big one. It was always exciting to see when one was forming, the surfers would come to life. I'd get my boogie-board in gear and together we'd all try to catch that big one. There were some exceptionally good surfers out there. Some were crap, falling off their boards immediately, but some knew exactly what to do. I'd never seen surfers up close before. It was quite thrilling to be there among them, riding along with them, watching each wave come rolling toward us.

Beware of the Hawkers

When my turn boogie-boarding was over, I squinted over the beach, trying to find Chris. I had traveled quite a bit over but I knew we were next to a flag. Everything blurred without my glasses. I looked for a solitary figure on the sand. What I got was a blurry group of people waving at me.

I did an inward groan as I walked over. Chris had attracted a whole group of hawkers. They had actually made themselves comfortable, sitting around him like they were good friends. They greeted me happily. Chris looked happy, but only because he saw his escape, grabbing up the boogie-board and heading to the water. I awkwardly sat down next to our new “friends.”

It was all, “Where you from? What you name? How long you here?” I absolutely can't stand these conversations. They're all a lead-up to, “You want massage?” or “You want sarong” or whatever else they're trying to sell. We had encountered hawkers in many places in Asia, but these Balinese ones took the cake. The conversations lasted forever, talking about family and life ambitions and such. They talked with such seemingly sincere interest, though, it was hard to break them off. And with dread you knew the question was coming, “Maybe you want…?” So awkward, especially after hearing about how their husband was out of work or their children didn't have shoes.

The women that surrounded me were annoying to the max. I must have said no thanks to them at least a hundred times. The most persistent was an older lady who was wearing like five layers of clothes (she was cold, she said, though I was sweating in the sun). She was dead bent on giving me a massage, even giving me a taster. I wasn't opposed to a massage. I might have wanted a massage very much. Just not then and there. I told her maybe later. Good price, she said. So I asked her how much, out of curiosity. The price she gave was okay, so I told her I'd consider it, maybe get one later. I couldn't shake her after that. The other ladies wandered off, realizing their time was wasted on me. The older lady stuck with me to the end. Chris returned with the boogie-board and I was so happy. But here was the keeper of the money, and the lady turned to Chris. “Your wife want massage, yes?” Chris and I both got up, ready to leave the beach and get away from the hawkers. “Another time,” I told the lady, not sure how else to be polite. She turned nasty then, realizing her time had been wasted. “You asked how much. You don't do unless you buy.” I hadn't signed up for her game anyway, so I don't know why she was calling me out for cheating. “You bad luck,” the lady said, walking angrily away. “You bad luck, you bad luck.”

God, I hated these hawkers. Perfectly charming people, but they couldn't understand the meaning of no. I saw lots of tourists just ignore them. “Where you from?” was met with downcast eyes. Chris and I just couldn't do that. We'd always give out a “no thank you.” But in Bali, no thank you is just another way of saying yes. It was exhausting.

The people were so unbelievably friendly. It created problems because you didn't know if there was sincerity there. If there was, and you were rude, you just looked like an ass. Chris and I errored on the side of kindness, and for this we were pestered to death. But we did interact with the people, and for that I give ourselves credit.

The only time we ran into problems with this kindness was at a money changers. The guys there were jokes and laughs right from the very start. While Chris changed the money, I sat outside and talked with a friendly young man. The friendliness was overflowing. Chris popped his head out to ask if I had 10,000 to make the exchange easier. I complied, but it was still jokes from the money changer, and we were laughing along. We walked away from there thinking, wow, those guys are great. Chris actually thought we had gotten a good exchange rate and we were laughing about that. Well the joke was on us, as we later found out. At dinner Chris counted out his wad of cash and realized that we had either spent way too much in the past few hours, or we had gotten ripped off at the money changers. Well, we had failed to heed the warning from Lonely Planet. Money changers in Bali are notorious for ripping off tourists. They count the money in front of you, then cause a distraction (like, “hey, you have 10,000 rupee note?”), then pocket a good chunk of the money while you turn away. It happened to us.

I was pissed off, and a little disillusioned to be honest. We had had such a good time with those guys. They were full of crap, ripping us off while patting us on the back. I was so angry that when we passed that way later that night, I spouted off to the guy standing there. He was the guy that had entertained me outside. I figured he had been used in the distraction. “Thanks a lot for ripping us off,” I spat at him. He seemed deeply hurt, saying he was just a shopkeeper, he wasn't even the money changer. The money changer wasn't around. I walked away from him feeling confused. Had he been part of the scam, or had he been genuinely nice to me? As much as I loved Bali, I hated that aspect of it. You didn't know whom to trust.

The construction continued through the next few nights. I stuck my earplugs in and learned to sleep with this background noise. Like the hawkers, some things you just need to tolerate in order to experience the bigger picture.

 

Singapore Surprise

I'll confess, I didn't know much about Singapore. I know a few things since I've visited, namely that Singapore has to be one of the coolest city/states on the planet. Before that kind of knowledge, Singapore was only known to me in terms of Micheal P. Fay's caning case back in the 90s. This American twat was caught spraypainting walls in the pristine Asian city, and well, he got caned. And rightly so, says I. What kind of idiot tests the government of such a restrictive place, a place where you can't even chew gum? Moreover, why would you want to spraypaint in Singapore? Go to Europe, where they consider spraypainting an artform.

Singapore was meant to be a stopover place—a night or two before catching a plane to Bali. My expectations weren't only low, they were non-existent. This worked vastly in my favor.

All I could think about on our journey to the Malaysian/Singapore border was food. Since the advent of my Perhentian stomach bug, I hadn't eaten anything. And I do mean anything. I remember sitting in a Burger King at the central train station in Kuala Lumpur and turning my nose away from Chris' french fries. I didn't despair though. This was my opportunity to drop 10 lbs or so. However, I was starving. And I do mean really really hungry. By the time we walked out of Woodlands station in Singapore, going through customs and all that, I was ready to devour any walking man or beast. I grabbed Chris' arm, something I don't do a whole lot, and firmly declared, “We're eating.” Chris insisted on finding our hostel first. With this I tightened my grip, and with a determination I haven't used since walking away from a Jim Carrey movie, announced, “We're bloody eating.” Chris knew there would be blood if I didn't have my way. Wisely he conceeded to my decision to patronage Mickey D's. He was greatly rewarded. We both were. We scoffed down those Quarter Pounders like there was no tomorrow.

We headed into Little India in search of a hostel. Our first choice was full so we headed down the street to the next best thing. We got a dorm room that was air conditioned and non-smelly. That was all it had going for us. They had placed us in the world's squeakiest bunk bed. I mean really, you breathed and the bed squeaked. I felt bad for the other dorm dwellers. They must have thought we were constantly getting it on, when we all we were doing was getting comfy beneath the covers.

Disneyland Singapore

We had a few days to blow before dipping below the equator (Singapore is just a hair north of the line). After the travesty of Malaysia (we had been sick from one ailment or another the entire time we spent there) we were limping along, just waiting to get to greener pastures. Chris had mentioned a cable car. Anything to catch some breeze. Singapore was insanely hot. The sun was almost directly overhead, and it was relentless. It was the kind of heat where you dreamt of sticking your head into a freezer and leaving it there for an hour. You'd kill someone to get out of the heat. If the laws weren't so darn strict, more people would be doing drive-bys or other crazy kinds of shit. Yeah, it was hot.

The Singapore tranport system was a pleasant surprise. World class. It didn't hurt that everything in Singpore is written in English. The spoken language is Singlish, which is horribly pronouned English, but it's bearable. Stuff can be accomplished in Singlish. Takes lots of shouting and repetiton, but you get there in the end. The written langauge was our saving grace. Chris and I kicked ass when it came to tackling the mass transit system. We grabbed the metro by its horns and rode it hard. We rode it all the way to Harbour City where we boarded our Angry Birds cable car.

It must have been a slow day. Cable cars swung by empty, music and crazy laughter emanating from them, as we stood there on the 15th floor of some office building. It was like some kind of nightmare; the glass door shutting close on our car, being stuck with some birds glaring down at us. Can I just admit that I don't have a clue what Angry Birds actually are? They're part of a game, right? I just don't keep up on these things. We were given masks, and like we were six and it was our birthday, we wore them, while swinging over the treetops. Music played, and stuffed animals bore down on us with their angry eyebrows. It's like they wanted us dead. The good news was that the view was unbelievable. We swung upward to a vantage point where we disembarked and walked through Angry Birds merchandise to get to the actual viewpoint. We caught some breeze. The city of Singpore didn't look like much, especially in comparison to a skyline like Hong Kong’s. However there was a lot of sea. I got the sense that Singapore was a major Asian port.

The air was stiffling, even at the top of the world. We boarded another cable car, heading back from where we came, and swinging even further, as we had purchased an all-day pass. We rose higher and higher, the birds laughing even more crazily, as we approached Sentosa Island.

See, this is what I'm talking about in saying I didn't know a thing about Singpore. This certainly wasn't the caning experience I had read about. Singapore was nothing less than a theme-park. The whole fricken city. You didn't even need to pass through a ticket booth to enter the park. From the air you could see that the city was something a bit above the regular up-and-coming city of the century. Dubbed “The Garden City,” Singapore is a step beyond anything I've ever seen. The love child of Vegas and Disneyland, but sanitized to kindergarten standards (cutesy poems on billboards abound), this was the city of dazzlement. And there was nothing cheezy about it. Well, there was some cheese, I guess starting with the Angry Birds. Alighting on Sentosa Island, we found fountains and gardens and monuments to wow the senses. All we really cared about was aquiring some water, to be honest, but the sparkle of the place wasn't lost on us. I was impressed. For a city that I didn't expect much from (maybe some flush toilets and air conditioning) I was dazzled. Even back on the main island, the buildings were reminescent of Hollywood. We turned a corner off of the metro, and there we were at the Oscars. A building, like something out of Gotham City, rose infront of us, golden statues dominating the avenue from 20 stories up. I imagined celebrities and a red carpet. How the hell had we desceneded on this brand of themepark-acity?

That British Influence

Chris was adament about seeing Raffles Hotel, just a few blocks from the City Hall stop on the metro. Now Thomas Stamford Raffles was the British chap that founded Singapore in the late 1800's. He built a hotel and named it Raffles. We were thinking about kicking back there for awhile, sipping on Singapore Slings in the garden. However, wearing our usual backpacking garb, we weren't sure we'd be allowed to roam the premises or if we'd get chased off with garden rakes. The whole hotel complex was dressed in a pristine white. Very few people were about. For sure there was a garden area where a few foreigners were sipping drinks, but Chris and I quickly passed on by after we had caught a glimpse of the prices. We pretty much had the place to ourselves, to take pictures and crane our necks at the elegant balconies. It very much reminded me of Ricky's Cafe in Casablanca, where we had spent £60 on drinks not too long ago. It's the kind of place where you just want to sit down and listen to a man play a piano. You could feel refined and dignified by just being there. We hadn't gotten chased off with garden rakes, and for that I was thankful.

We perused a bookshop just across the road from the Raffles Hotel. It was a treasure trove for both of us. There were all types of books from my childhood, books I hadn't seen in absolute ages. There were Archie comic books, Little Golden Book Classics, even Scholastic books. What these were doing in a bookshop in Singapore I didn't know, but Chris and I spent a good hour there. I walked away with several comic books, glowing with a nostalgia I haven't felt in years.

An Ethnic Mix

Our hostel was situated in Little India, a colorful section of the city with charming wooden buildings. Lining the streets are shops with apartments perched above, sometimes three or four stories high. The buildings are adorned with balconies and brightly painted shuttered doors. Our hotel fit right. Chris and I sat out on our balcony, listening to the traffic below. A rat scurried past us in the dark, darting behind a potted plant. Indeed, it felt as if we were in India.

On our second day in Singapore we visited temples, one Hindu, one Buddhist. Walking through Little India (which is actually a sizeable neighbourhood) we came to the temple I had picked out from the others—the Temple of Kali. There's too much to Hinduism for me to get my head around. I'd really have to sit down and study the concepts, for that's what Hinduism is, mainly a philosophy. To say that there are millions of gods and goddesses isn't exactly true. Hindus believe in one god. The countless dieties are merely manifestations of that god. Still, in looking at Kali, I'm not sure what manifestation she's supposed to represent, with her human skull necklace and her vampire teeth. She's a bloodthirsty demon. Walking around the temple we saw several statues of her. In each statue, she was severing someone with a spear, her tongue out and streams of blood shooting from her mouth. How anyone could find peace in such a place is a mystery to me, but there were a few worshipers about. A priest handed out rice balls. Incense and offerings were given. Signs were posted not to pour milk over the statues. This is all probably deep stuff. Or maybe not. I'd always like to think that religion is deeper than its traditions. Hinduism is very ancient stuff, humans' ways of understanding the world. Still, with the likes of Kali, I'm not sure I'd subscribe to such bizarreness.

We had to hop on the metro to get to Chinatown. Having been to countless Chinatowns throughout Asia, we were pleased to find something quite different. Instead of labyrinths of stalls and spitting women, Singapore's Chinatown was very clean and orderly. The buildings were similiar in manner to those in Little India, with the balconies and shuttered doors. Chinese characters were used as decoration along with strings of red lanterns, all very picturesque. The only downfall was the rain, which had started as soon as we stepped out of the station.

The main temple in Chinatown is the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple. With a name like that you'd expect a tooth on display. For some reason I envisioned an elephant tusk gleaming in some golden light. It turns out that the Buddha tooth only makes occassional appearances at the temple. The tooth was not there when we visited. This did not dampen our spirits. The temple was like none other than I've ever seen. In all the Buddhist temples we've walked into, there was little going on other than mats and golden statues and a few monks walking around. I had trouble connecting to that kind of thing. This temple was Chinese and it differed from the temples we had visited in Thailand. Thousands of tiny golden Buddhas adorned the wall, like some 3D type of wallpaper. The altar area wasn't cluttered in the Thai fashion of statues. There was only one Buddha, and he was smiling in his gold and peaceful way. The outside of the temple was dark wood with layers upon layers roofs. I don't know why this all impressed me the way it did, but I connected with this brand of Buddhism the way I had hoped. Chris may connect with Thai Buddhism, but for me it's Chinese. It's orderly and dark and somehow more meaningful. It didn't hurt that there was some kind of service was going on. Monks, at least half a dozen of them, were chanting into microphones infront of the altar. Rows of women were sat behind them, chanting in a rapid pace, following Chinese characters from books. The room was filled with sound. It was theatrical. It felt like something important was going on. Why this strikes something in me, where nothing else has in my travels, I don't know. I've always related to Taoism, even back in the day I was a raging Christian. Perhaps this was the closest thing I experienced in the Taoist realm. I actually had tears in my eyes. Chris didn't feel a thing. Funny what we each individually connect to.

After our temple visits we stopped for some food. Prices were high in Chinatown. The rain poured down incessantly so we took shelter in a corner cafe where we hoped the prices were reasonable. They weren't, but the food was amazing. I had crab wontons. One of the best dishes on this trip so far.

Good Night, Sleep Tight...

We asked to change rooms. Two nights of the squeaky bunk bed had deprived us both of sleep. When we moved to the dorm the next room down, Chris and I felt we had hit the jackpot. Even though there were twenty beds available, we had the room to ourselves. Hitting the light at 11:00, we doubted anyone would be checking in later than that. We tucked ourselves in, fully expecting a good night's sleep.

I was somewhat aware that little creepy crawlies were dropping down on my face. I don’t know if I was awake for this, or if I was feeling it in my sleep. In any case, around 1:00 in the morning the light came flipping on, the room suddenly filling with bodies. They had all come in at once. I flipped over on my pillow, realizing that my sleep had been short lived. With the light now on, I noticed for the first time that there were several bugs on my pillow. Without thinking I flipped a few of them off. There was a fat one resting there, apparantly comfortable. I looked at it for a short while before I realized what I was looking at. I had been itchy in Singapore, it's true. I had attributed any bites to the fleas that jumped around the walls. It never occured to me that we were dealing with bedbugs. But the fat bugger I was looking at on my pillow had bedbug written all over it. I freaked out.

Seen as how we were all wide awake, I raised my head up Chris' level in the bunk above me. “Look at this,” I said, thrusting my pillow near his face. “I think that's a bedbug.” “So?” was Chris' response. “What do you want me to do about it?” What he did do, without my suggestion, was flick it. It exploded in a smear of blood on the pillowcase. Oh, just lovely. How on earth was I supposed to sleep now? The beds were now full of Filipino workers. The lights soon went out, but my eyes stayed wide open. The bugs continued to drop down on my face. How could I just lay here and be dinner for all these nasty creatures? It was one of the hardest nights of my life. I was pissed at Chris. He wasn't bothered at all. Every time he changed position above me, more bugs dropped down. My skin literally crawled with them.

The bites didn't appear immediately. Over the next few days they surfaced on my skin. All in all I had over a hundered bites. Easily. My skin was all bites, all except areas that had been tightly covered (such as my groin, thankfully). They got my face, they got my ears, they even got my knuckles. My body was one huge itch by the time we landed in Bali. After a string of ailments, it only seemed proper.

Chris and I loved Singapore. It came as a complete surprise. The bedbugs were a hiccup, but it wasn't Singapore's fault. Singapore is the cleanest city I've ever been in. Recycling bins are ubiqutious and manners are encouraged in positive messages around the metro area. We would be back in a month's time. Pushing on below the equator, we were about to discover a completely different kind of place.