Temples and Tuk Tuks

It was our longest train ride yet, from Butterworth (outside of Georgetown) to Bangkok, almost 24 hours. We had secured sleeper bunks and the train was modern so the journey was quite smooth. Lots of the usual—reading and napping.

Bangkok was beginning to feel like home at that point. How many times had we circled back here? Khao San Road was familiar to us, so much so that we really had really search over the place to find anything new and exciting. I remember that there had been a lot of rain and rats were out in the streets, sometimes washing up dead in the gutters.

Bangkok served as a brief layover on our way to Cambodia. We obtained Cambodian visas, which involved a lot more paperwork and hassle than the other countries we had visited in Southeast Asia. At this point in our travels, the whole point A to point B was becoming predictable. Shuffle the tourists between countries or cities without the tourists having much interaction with locals. We were catered to, so much so that the adventure was taken out of the process. I had pictured hitchhiking our way through places, riding with chickens and cows and whatnot, but a lot of the time were were merely herded together with other backpackers and dropped off at tourist spots in the cities. It started to feel repetitious.

Our entry to Cambodia was not without its headaches. First we were packed with a bunch of backpackers into a small van (and I'd like to note that this was totally not my preferred mode of travel, squished into a middle seat with sweaty young backpackers; my claustrophobic ways are strong in such situations). It seemed to take us forever to get out of Bangkok, the sprawling city that it is. The van driver was the worst I think I've ever encountered, heavily tapping the gas pedal in intervals, ensuring enough bursts of momentum to cause me nausea. Then there was the matter of being scammed, as Chris had come this way before, visiting Cambodia not once, but twice before, and he was on to them all, sniffing out scams left and right. My attitude was like "Fuck it, if they ask for a stamp, just pay for it." I was tired of sussing out if we were getting screwed over or not. Til this day, I'm not sure if we were scammed or not at the Cambodian border, but if we were, then so was everyone else we were with.

The strip of land between the Thai border and the Cambodian border was like some sort of no-man's-land. Lots of cement and barbed wire. It was a bit intimidating walking that stretch. The guards were a touch scary as they looked over our passports. We were entering a land haunted by the memory of the Khmer Rouge regime, one of the deadliest history has ever seen. The atrocities that were committed in this country defy comprehension. Perhaps that was on my mind as I nervously avoided eye contact.

The whole border process took several hours. Why it was such a hassle I have no idea. So many backpackers pass through this point, you'd think they'd make it more convenient. There was a lot of waiting around. Fortunately we were able to catch a bus without much fuss. This had been one of our main worries, as we had been told by guides that we should take a taxi to Siem Reap (an expensive option) or risk waiting for a bus to fill up, which could take hours. Perhaps this was another way to scam us. In truth, the buses filled up fast and before we knew it we were on our way.

Chris had inundated my thoughts with tales of dirt roads and abject poverty. I expected the worst as far as our commute to Siam Reap. However, a lot had changed since Chris' last trip to Cambodia. The dirt road was now paved and the bus was modern with movies and music videos flashing from a screen (though that in itself was not a good thing). It was obvious that tourism had made a huge impact on the economy. This could be both good and bad. Good in that we would enjoy a lot more conveniences in our travel, and bad in that a lot of the adventure was taken out of the experience.

The bus dropped us off outside of Siem Reap. From there we took a tuk tuk into the center. The sun had gone down and we were shooting along in the dark, which was quite a thrill with all the lights flashing by. Billboards abounded, along with large, upscale hotels on the outskirts of town. Somewhere in the dark we knew that Angkor Wat was looming. Just knowing it was nearby was giving me a tingly feeling. I felt like a kid on their way to Disney World—but not just yet.

Our guesthouse was more than satisfactory. Located a block away from the night market, which was part of triangle of streets which formed the downtown, it was ideal. A party atmosphere hung in the humid night air. Our guesthouse even had a nice outdoor sitting area where we could sit and enjoy drinks. But Chris and I were too tired from our long journey to venture out and instead crashed in our room.

The Guilt Factor

In the light of day, the streets of Siem Reap were crawling with tourists and beggars. Instead of being in school, kids had taken to the streets to beg. Chris had such a soft place in his heart of these children and engaged them in conversation. I was not as charmed by them. When refusing to give one little boy money he glared at me and called me a bitch. And there was a barefoot girl hanging out on a corner holding a baby in her arms. "No money," she told us. "Food for baby." And we believed her. How can one turn away from that? She said that the baby needed milk. Seemed easy enough, we would buy milk. She took us into the nearest shop to an aisle with baby formula. She asked us to buy this huge thing of baby food which cost a ridiculous amount of money. "That's not what we had in mind," we told her. "Then give me money," she said, holding her hand out. We realized that that had been her intention the whole time. How many tourists had she brought into this shop, and then cornered them, insisted that they give her money? The ladies at the shop counter looked unfazed as we left. They probably saw this a dozen times a day.

Still, the children were adorable. It wasn't their fault that their country had been through so much. Chris and I visited a children's hospital. Though we didn't get to meet any of the children, we were shown a video showcasing the plight of Cambodian children. Needless to say, it really pulled at our heartstrings. Despite the influx of tourism, Cambodia truly is a third world country where children die everyday from preventable diseases. This was an opportunity to give to the hospital with a clear conscience, away from the scams of beggars on the street.

After the children's hospital, we hired a tuk tuk to take us to the War Memorial a few miles outside of town. The cost of admittance to the museum was high at $5 per person. This is a lot of money in Cambodia, but we felt this would be an educational experience. Indeed, it was. There were no other tourists around, so we got our own guide. I don't remember his name, but he was missing an arm, so our heartstrings were plucked immediately. The museum was outdoors and featured things like tanks and helicopters and landmines. Not real landmines, but an example of what they look like. It's to be noted that Cambodia still has 8 to 10 million landmines from three decades of war. This was a sobering thought and a reminder not to be running through any fields.

Our guide had a very soft voice, but was engaging as he drew us into his stories. We weren't entirely clear about his story, how he had lost his arm. He told us that his parents, who had been villagers, had been killed by the Khmer Rouge, and he was made into a child soldier. Fighting under another regime (not the Kkmer Rouge) his arm had been damaged and amputated with a wire. It was hard to understand whose side he had been on, there were so many sides and the good and the bad were not always clear.

The tales of torture and death were a lot to take in. Chris and I walked around and touched things like Khmer Rouge scarves and helmets, wondering who had worn these and what their fates had been. Photos of victims were hung, and we tried to do them justice by absorbing them into our minds. This museum had the appropriate impact on us. Though Angkor Wat was nearby, there is so much more to Siem Reap than the temples. The horror of the Khmer Rouge and warfare infiltrated the whole country; it was only right for us to contemplate this a bit before we moved on to Disney World.

We didn’t expect to be asked for a donation at the end of the tour. We figured the entry cost would cover our guide's presentation. But here he was asking for more. Chris pulled some bhat out of his pocket and offered it, but our guide just shook his head in an offended way and said, "Too little." My heartstrings were not plucked at this; in fact I was quite agitated. "Just put it in the donation box" I told Chris, and we left. That had left a sour taste in my mouth. We were tired of being seen as walking dollar signs. Why could none of these encounters seem genuine?

Back in town, Chris and I went to find some grub. The restaurants were all outdoors, We sat on the street and ate noodles, watching the girl who had scammed us earlier use her spiel on passing tourists. Quite the little scam artist. You couldn't really blame her though. Everyone's just trying to survive in the third world.

The Land of Temples

We had bedbugs in our room. I knew this because the telltale bites were forming on my arms. We went to bed early in order to rise early to catch the sunrise at Angkor Wat. Sleep was an elusive thing as I felt bugs crawling across my face. Not ideal.

I had been waiting so long to see Angkor Wat. Back when I was a teenager, I saw these crumbling ruins surrounded by jungle in a book. At that time, Cambodia had seemed as elusive as the moon to me. I couldn't imagine that anyone could actually go there. Angkor Wat resided in my mind like a vision of Eden. I never actually thought I'd get to see it one day. But here I was, right on the threshold of something so massive and magical—I should have been beside myself with excitement. Indeed, I tried to muster it up as we waited for our tuk tuk driver at 4 o'clock in the morning. He was late and I slumped over with tiredness. When the tuk tuk driver arrived, he didn't seem like he was in good shape himself.

Sunrise at Angkor Wat (the main temple) is quite the thing. Everyone wants to capture that perfect moment. The crowds had gathered in the dark by the entrance, looking out over the giant stretch of grass towards the silhouettes of towers which were steadily emerging in the gray light. A hum of energy pervaded. Chris and I found a seat and watched as tourists around us set up their cameras. This was supposed to be the main spectacle, on par with watching The Rolling Stones take the stage at a concert. We waited and we waited, and then we waited some more. Since the sky was overcast, it was impossible to pinpoint the time of sunrise. In a slow progression, the tourists took their cameras down and dispersed. Sunrise at Angkor Wat had been anti-climatic.

But still, Angkor Wat is Angkor Wat, and it simply cannot disappoint. The temple, which is situated on a large square of land surrounded by a moat, is immense. There was no crush of tourists once we entered the temple. Chris and I lingered at leisure and snapped pictures without photobombing tourists. The ruins are quite intact, even though they date back to the 12th century. The artwork is intricate, carved into the walls. Lot of naked chicks with their boobs out. This makes sense, at it was originally a Hindu temple (and we all know how those ancient Hindus loved erotic artwork).

Coming back to our tuk tuk, we found our driver sleeping. He really didn't look well. Still, he seemed apologetic and started cycling to the next temple. It turns out that Angkor Wat is the main temple in a huge temple complex. There are so many temples that I cannot make sense of them. I'm looking at a map right now and I still can't figure out where we went. The roads between temples were long, passing through fantastically carved gates, and lined with elephants transporting tourists.

We came to another temple, this one much smaller. This one had the faces. Yes, the faces! I had seen them before and are a symbol of Bayon, another famous temple in the Angkor Wat area. Because this temple was small, we had to share our space with other tourists. These were mostly Asian, and although I risk sounding racist here, I will admit that Asians (and by this I mean, Chinese, Japanese and Korean) are my least favorite kinds of tourists. I say this because they have to take a million pictures of everything. And you can tell that the pictures aren't even going to be good. Why a husband would want to take a picture of his dower-faced wife in front of a garbage can, I will never know. So yes, they are annoying like that, taking up space. It's hard to get a good shot without an Asian in them if they are hanging about. But anyway, despite the annoyance of tourists, it was fun to ramble among the faces. The passageways through the temple were rambling enough to make you feel like you were on some kind of adventure, even if that meant waiting for a line of tourists to make their way down a ladder. Yeesh!

We visited one more temple after that, and this was the one with the giant tree roots. Ta Prohm. This was perhaps my favorite temple, as the trees had taken on a life of their own, determined to reclaim the jungle. I'm not entirely sure why the trees were so aggressive at this particular temple, but they provided great photographic opportunities (complete with Asian tourists—damn). Roots like elephant trunks draped over walls and roofs. I wonder how much longer it will be for the trees to completely take over, and for the temple to disappear into the mists of time.

Our tuk tuk driver seemed eager to get going. The whole thing felt a bit rushed for us. But we were tired so we didn't want to drag the whole experience out too much. It must have been 10:00 in the morning and we were on our way back to the hotel. On one of the back streets of Siem Reap, our driver stopped to puke. We felt bad for him. It looked like he was suffering from a massive hangover. He seemed like a nice guy though so we tipped him well. We then retreated to our room where we slept through the heat of the day (after changing rooms—no more bedbugs).

Living Large in Siem Reap

One of Chris' friends got in touch with him. John and his pregnant wife were in Siem Reap the same time we were. We agreed to meet up for a drink. Refreshed from sleep, Chris and I were ready to hit the town. Even if there wasn't much to the town, there was enough to keep us entertained for a night out. We first hit the Red Piano, a bar owned by Angelina Jolie. The drinks there were a bit more expensive than the other bars, but at least it was swanky, and lord knows it had been a long time since we had done swanky.

From there we continued to another bar where cocktails and beers were consumed. It's to be noted that I only drank beer out of necessity, as beer isn't really my thing. The cocktails in Siem Reap were fab, which meant that I was getting pretty tipsy. I felt bad that John's wife couldn't drink. She was heavily pregnant and sipped water all night. John and Chris were pounding Angkor beers and catching up. This was the second workmate of his to meet up with us on our travels. My goodness do those Brits like to travel.

Somehow we had found our way to a Ladyboy club. I'm not sure if this was intended, or if the drinks had swayed us. John wasn't feeling well. He and his wife hadn't been traveling as long, so they were still sensitive to Asian cuisine. They didn't stay long at the Ladyboy show, but Chris and I saw it through to the end. And may I say—I loved it. The owner was Australian and gay. That could have read as perverted, as these Ladyboys were on the young side, but he seemed like an alright guy. The Ladyboys really seemed to enjoy what they were doing. And they looked fabulous. Cambodians are attractive in general, with striking facial features. Their cheekbones are to die for. Most of the numbers were dance routines, but some of them were comedy. The comedy was nothing short of genius, with Ladyboys in bad wigs and intentionally bad makeup. One number was a Ladyboy with a short dress and a pantyhose with a line down the front, as if she were showing her minge (yes, I adopted that word from Chris). Lipsyncing the song from Pocahontas "Colors of the Wind" and tugging down at her dress—she reminded me of a drunk Tina Turner, and I don't know I say that, as I've never seen Tina Turner perform in such a manner. Anyway, the comedy was genius. We were in stitches. I think it was the hardest we laughed on the trip. It was a great way to end our time in Siem Reap.

The Man with a Stick

Cambodia is a small country, still it seems to take forever to get between places. Our next destination, Battambang, took an eternity to reach, but perhaps that was because of the videos being played on the bus. We were riding mostly with locals. Apparently the locals adore music videos while they travel. The music was blaring. If it had been anything remotely good I would have considered it entertainment, however it came across more like torture. Played continuously, it was on par with Chinese water torture. I can still hear it in my darkest of nightmares. The videos weren't much better with terrible soap operas being played out in cringe-worthy ways. That ride couldn't have ended soon enough.

Battambang is a large city which is less touristy than Siem Reap. There were no beggars in the streets. Instead, it seemed like the whole place was down to earth and didn’t cater too much to tourists. Chris and I loved it, as it was laid-back and we could walk the streets without being hassled. There’s some good food to be found in Battambang, from the old French bakeries to trendy cafes such as the Gecko Café, where to my delight, Mexican food was served as well as something closely resembling a frozen mojito (sans alcohol). Battambang provided some essential down time. Our hotel room was spacious and had a vague French colonial feeling to it. It was a great place to relax.

For a day we hired a tuk tuk to take us around the area. One of our destinations was the bamboo train. Our travel guide insisted that it was something not be miss. We had no idea what to expect. All kinds of images can come to mind when hearing "Bamboo Train." We were taken down a very dusty, bumpy road to the middle of nowhere. We were then taken to a lone railroad track. Our "train" was something like a wooden crate laid on top of wheel, like something children constructed. We were the only tourists. A woman and and a child hopped aboard, and then a guy started the engine and we were off. It was quite a thrill, moving so close to the ground, feeling the vibration underneath. We got up to a good speed, and at that point it felt more like a roller coaster, flying over bridges and such. Chris and I loved it.

At some point in our journey, we noticed another train coming at us. As there was only a single track, that meant we were at an impass. But no. We were instructed to step off the train. Then our conductor began to disassemble our train car. It was a swift process, taking no more than a few minutes. Once the other train passed, the car was put together and we continued on our way.

The end of the line was a village. Children surrounded us, but they weren't begging. Instead they made us jewelry out of blades of grass. They didn't ask money for them which was very refreshing. We bought a drink and sat there as a guy made friends with us. He spoke good English, telling us his story of the Khmer Rouge. He was bare-chested, sporting a long scar on his chest. Chris was intensely interested in his story, asking him all kinds of questions. So impressed Chris was that he asked to pose with him for a picture. I would like to say that this man was not telling his story to pull at our heartstrings. It seemed he genuinely wanted to share his experience.

As we drank our bottles of Fanta, the children set off makeshift petrol bombs. None of the adults seemed concerned that the children were playing with such dangerous toys.

There was no pressure to buy anything else, and soon we were back on the train heading back in the direction we had come from. There were waves all around as we pulled away. What a fantastic experience.

From the Bamboo Train we were taken to a temple in the hills, Phnom Sempeau. The day was extremely hot. We had the option to take a motorbike up to the top, but we decided to slog it. Bad idea. The climb nearly did us in. Still the views were good from the top, though the temple itself wasn't that big of a deal. The thing that stuck with me the most were the caves with the shrines. Though these were religious, they also carried the horror of the Khmer Rouge. One of the caves was called the Killing Cave, because so many bodies had been dumped there. There were paintings outside of the cave which depicted some of the horrors which had taken place there. Again, such a beautiful setting. It was hard to believe this had been such a different place just decades before.

Our tuk tuk driver earned his wages that day. He took us all around the countryside. On the way back to Battambang we came to a roundabout with a giant statue of a dark chap holding a big stick. Our driver parked the tuk tuk long enough to tell us the story about the town. The story goes that a long time ago, there was a farmhand who possessed a magic stick. With the help of his stick, he became king. Another king looked to take his place, but the guy with the stick didn't want him to get it so, according to legend, he threw it in the river. And it's never been found. The name Battambang literally means "Lost Stick."

Indeed, there was a little bit of magic to be found in Battambang. There was nothing outwardly showy about it, the way Siem Reap was, with all the wealth from tourism. Rather it was close to the real Cambodia, both rural and city. The people were genuine and some of the nicest we had encountered on our travels. Because of places like this, along with Chris, I had fallen in love with Cambodia.

 

Journeying North

In Bali we had come full loop, ending up in Kuta where the beer was cold and the waves were huge. A heat wave was on and Chris and I kept to the shaded parts of the streets as we walked back and forth from the beach to our hotel. This was one of the laziest parts of our trip. In fact, it's quite weird how time takes on another meaning when traveling for long periods. We spent eight days in Kuta, which is amazing, considering that we didn't do anything significant. Eight days meant nothing to us. We read books and hung out in the pool and watched the Olympics. Seen as how Kuta was much hotter this time around, we decided not to sweat it in our old hotel. We found an air-conditioned haven on one of the backstreets with cable. This was our chance to catch some of the Olympics which were being held in London. Unfortunately, I don't know if it was because of the time difference, but the only sport we seemed to catch regularly was table tennis. We also saw a bit of synchronized swimming, which was great for its entertainment value.

 

During the day we would read, nap, watch TV or hang out by the pool. In late afternoon we would walk down to the beach to watch the sunset. Kuta had been cloudy the first time through, so it was a real treat to experience not one, but several world-class sunsets over the course of our stay. The beach was crowded for these events, complete with guitar-players and young couples in love. There was a real hippie vibe going on. Chris and I sipped on bottled drinks and soaked up the setting.

 

We tried boogie boarding on several more occasions, but due to a super-tide or super-moon or super-something, the waves were fierce. Even the surfers were intimidated, and only a few were out past the break line. I took a few rides on some monster waves before I got knocked off my board and dragged across the sand. Reminded of my intense fear of the ocean, I retreated back to my towel and sat out the rest of the experience. Amazingly the massage lady who I had pissed off the first time through Kuta remembered me and came to visit my towel. I honored my promise and accepted a massage. Maybe I wasn't such bad luck after all.

 

Our experience with hawkers was much better this time through. Perhaps we had that knowing look in our eye. We were hardened travelers at this point; we knew all of their games. It was still funny to see them chase down someone green who had just arrived in town. We seemed to make our peace with them. Not only that, my faith in the Balinese was completely restored after I had accidentally left my wallet at an internet cafe. I didn't even realize it was missing until the next day. In a frantic search, we retraced our steps to the cafe where I asked if a wallet had been turned in. Not only did they hand over my wallet, but all my cards and my money had gone untouched. This completely undid the disillusionment which had come with the shady moneychangers on our first night in Kuta.

 

To wrap up our Bali whole experience: Bali is nothing short of phenomenal. The culture, the people, the food, the temples, the ceremonies, the volcanoes, the paradise-vibe—it's the whole package. It's the best of the best.

 

Singapore Revisited

 

We literally retraced our steps back to Bangkok. These were some long steps though, as the journey is a very long one, and this time we were going overland the whole way.

 

Singapore had been amazing, not to mention, too short, the first time through. This time was intended to be even shorter, as we went straight from the airport to the bus station, where we were to take a direct overnight bus to Georgetown in Malaysia. However, because of a misunderstanding of what a bus station was on the map, we ended up staying longer. Heading down a hot stretch of payment with the equatorial sun directly over us, we came to a large parking lot with buses. Though there were buses, there was no depot and nobody around to help us. We came to discover that the parking lot was just what it appeared to be—a place where buses came to park. This was one point in the trip where I thought I would crack. We had to walk back down that hot stretch of pavement with our heavy bags. Hot and frustrated, I threw off my pack and sat down in a patch of sun. At that point I really felt that I couldn't go on. Perhaps it was part of travel fatigue, the endless walking with our rucksacks in a hot climate. After some arguing, it was agreed that we would spend the night in Singapore and find a bus the next day.

 

Our first time through, we had stuck mostly to Chinatown and the Indian areas. This time we stayed in a more modern section. Though the hotels were outside of our budget, we found a lovely hostel where we had a room all to ourselves (no Filipino workers and no bedbugs). Also, there was a rooftop lounge (complete with a jacuzzi) where we could sit and look out over the city.

 

While we were checking in, we found out that an extra day stay in Singapore was the best thing that could have happened to us. The 47th anniversary of Singapore was on for the next day, with a whole range of activities scheduled. We had secured a ride on a bus for the next evening, so that left most of the day to partake in the celebration.

 

I wonder how we had missed Marina Bay the first time through. Marina Bay is the modern heart and financial district of Singapore, with world-class shopping centers innovative skyscrapers and sculptures. The downtown area surely rivals any city in the Asian world—Shanghai, Hong Kong, even Dubai, I was particularly impressed with the Marina Sands hotel. Made up of three separate buildings, which from the side resemble the Greek character pi, the roofs are as spectacular as the structures. Gardens, parks, even an infinity pool grace the tops of these buildings. For free, we could ride the escalators up and walk through the Sky Park. Looking around, we were reminded that Singapore is called the Garden City. Marina Bay is comprised of many parks, some of them traditional with flowers and trees and conservatories, and some of them completely artificial. A futuristic forest, reminiscent of Pandora, stretched behind Marina Sands. Solar-powered trees, some towering 160 feet overhead, provided a touch of whimsiness. Up above, people walked the catwalks between trees. This reinforced our idea of Singapore as some kind of city-wide Disney World. Everywhere we looked there was the wow-factor, but there were some really innovative, progressive ideas. If only American cities could take this approach.

Down by the water, the anniversary festivities were kicking off. Crowds gathered in a sea of red, the color of Singapore. Music played and flags waved. Chris and I found a seat on the ground where we blended in with the crowd. From there we had an excellent view of the air show. Unfortunately we felt the tug of time and the reminder that we had bus to catch. We had to weave our way through the crowds back to the metro station. As we were leaving, we heard an engine roar above us. Everyone on the sidewalk looked upward to find a plane heading directly towards a skyscraper. Bracing ourselves, just for a moment, 9/11 flashed through our minds. It wasn't only us; everyone on the street gasped. But we had misjudged the distance between the building and the plane, and it soared cleanly over. That got our hearts pounding.

It was hard to break away from Singapore. It may have been my favorite city in Asia. Not only was it clean and modern, but the vibe was good. With the mix of cultures, the government was promoting acceptance and tolerance, setting up slogans and signs all over city. Perhaps there is a dark underside to Singapore with repression and conformity, but we never saw evidence of it.

It was dark by the time we boarded our overnight bus. We had missed the fireworks display, though we caught a glimpse of it on TV. Like everything else in Singapore, it was epic. As our bus slid through the streets onto a highway, we passed by Marina Bay for the last time. Lit up like a jewel, it shone beautifully in the night. It was bittersweet, leaving Singapore.

Jim's Place

Our bus was first-class with wide reclining seats. It was better than some of hotels we had stayed at. We slept pretty soundly as the road hummed. We passed through Kuala Lumpur without stopping. This was kind of nice, leaving the past behind us like that. By this time my eye was much better and my vision was steadily returning.

Our destination was Georgetown, or Penang, a city on an island on the western coast of Malaysia. Though we had visited many regions of Malaysia before, Georgetown was completely different. We could see that immediately as we stepped out of a taxi (the bus hadn't taken us all the way). For one thing, Georgetown looked really run down. Gone was the modernity we had seen in Singapore. It looked like a place lost in time—and that time was something like the 1960s. Indeed, there was that hippie backpacker feel to the place. I suppose it was only fitting that we stayed at Jim's Place, which was more of a love shack than it was a hotel.

Sir Jim—how can one describe such a character? Part philosopher, part egoist, part ladies' man, part pervert, part bullshitter. He was an older Indian guy, though he wore dreadlocks and walked around without a shirt on. For an older guy, he had a pretty good physique. I'm sure this was due to some regiment of yoga and bullshitting. Did I mention that this guy was a total bullshitter? At least he kept us entertained with his stories. Apparently, women could get pregnant just from sitting in a chair he had sat in. Needless to say, I made sure to keep clear of his chairs. Sir Jim, as we called him, was alright despite his overt sexuality. Perhaps he was creepy, but this seemed fitting in a town with a street famously called Love Lane. Still, there was something gross about sleeping in our bed for the night, wondering how many babies had been made in Jim's Place.

Our room was awful. One of the worst we had on our trip. Not that it was dirty, but it was spartan with just a bed crammed between two walls. There was no air conditioning, just two fans to fight the humidity, and get this—no windows. A true hell hole. There was no sleeping that night, as it was hard to even breathe. Besides that, the Indian food we had eaten earlier that day was not sitting right with me. I must have sat half a night in the shared bathroom. At least the bathroom had a window and there was some airflow. However there was some activity going on in the mosque behind Jim's Place and there was some guy reciting what I can only imagine to be the Koran over a loudspeaker. I must have heard the whole Koran being read while I sat on the toilet (such are the drawback for eating Indian food).

Georgetown, like much of Malaysia, is a mixture of cultures. Indian, Chinese, and Muslim, with a touch of colonialism. Walking through the streets was like walking through several countries at the same time. The streets were dingy, though not entirely dirty. There was nothing really touristy to be found. Even Love Lane didn't have any standout features. We did wander around Fort Cornwallis for awhile, which boasted canons and haunted-type prison cells to get our dose of Britishness. Other than that, we sat around in bars and watched the remaining events in the Olympics. Georgetown definitely had a laid-back vibe. An itinerary wasn't needed, though we did schedule a day-trip outside of town to visit a Buddhist temple.

Kek Lok Si is a Buddhist temple to end all Buddhist temples. Located in the misty mountains of Penang Island, it really is like a scene that could be painted on a fan. It was the full Buddhist experience with joss sticks and wishing ribbons and Buddha bellies to rub. Architecturally it was a photographer's dream with rounded doorways and pagodas and large Chinese script. We took a cable car to the top of the mountain where the Mother Goddess of Mercy sits, in all her 100-foot glory. My goodness, what a setting. The air was lovely, rising above the heavy, dusty Georgetown humidity. It was like being transported to heaven for a day.

Back at Jim's we got moved into another room. This one was in the front of the house and it had two large windows which opened. This was a vast improvement over our previous room. It was more of a bedroom than it was a hotel room, and again, the idea of Sir Jim and his seedy ways (pun intended) was on our mind.

As if we hadn't experienced enough culture in Georgetown, we came across a Hindu celebration on the last night as we wandered through the streets. There was a fire procession. Lots of music, lots of noise. We followed it to a temple where the fire was carried inside. By this time we were quite celebrationed-out, though I'm glad we got that last dose of culture before moving on.

Our travels were winding down. We were to continue north to Thailand, then looping through Cambodia, Vietnam and Laos. Though we still have several months left to go, it was starting to feel like the end. And in a way, this was nice as a return to American life was looming—an adventure in itself.

Cremation Ceremony

Returning to Ubud was like coming home. There was something so familiar and comfortable about the place, from the broken red tile sidewalks to the dong-dong-dong music that permeated the air. We returned to our bungalow on Monkey Forest Road, across from the green where kids played soccer. Starting to feel travel fatigued, we dragged ourselves out into the heat to observe the festivities, as the Cremation Ceremony was gearing to kick off. The main ceremony was to take place the next day; still the preparations were in full swing with music and crowds and a general feeling of festivity throughout the streets. Chris and I stopped at the main temple which was an open-air hut at the end of Monkey Forest Road. There paper-mache, life-size, anatomically correct bulls were lined up. We had read up a bit on the cremation ceremony so we knew that the remains of the dead were to be put inside these bulls, and then the bulls were to be set on fire. So much work had gone into making these bulls, it was hard to imagine that they were just going to go up in smoke, but cremation is a sacred element of the Hindu/animist religion of the Balinese. This ceremony is a huge part of their culture. Doing our best to be participants in this most holy celebration, Chris and I both bought batik sarongs. It was our way of honoring the occasion.

Walking away from the hubbub, we came to a lovely valley where we ate dinner out on a patio overlooking the river and the jungle. I don't remember much from this dinner other than there was a rich American guy eating at the table next to us, and his conversation was a source of irritance. I think he was slamming liberals or something like that, which had gotten Chris' hackles up. It had been such a long time since we had to hear the whole liberal-conservative debate, it was a jolt to the system. It was a reminder that these things exist. Despite the conversation, the food was very good as we ate upon pillows with candles softly glowing. It's hard to feel completely irritated when one is surrounded by paradise.

The Main Event

The dong-dong-dong music had taken on a new life. The town was alive. Chris and I tried to gear ourselves up for the culmination of our Bali adventure. The only thing was—neither of us were feeling great. Still, we struggled with our sarongs and resupplied the batteries in our cameras. On our way to the celebration, we ran into Nana in the driveway, and she was giggling at our get-up. Apparently there was a proper way to tie the sarong, and we had sorely missed the mark. Nana took it upon herself to unwrap us, unembarrassed to see us in our underwear, and rewrap us in the correct manner. It was a lovely gesture and we thanked her for her thoughtfulness.

Crowds had already gathered on Monkey Forest Road, thickening as we headed towards the noise at the end of the street. We figured that the temple would be the epicenter of the celebration. The crowds were so dense that we had to elbow our way through. We thought we'd be lucky to catch a glimpse of any activity. Climbing onto a patio, I attempted to rise above the crowds. Somehow, perhaps through inertia, Chris and I found ourselves on the street, right into the very heart of the celebration.

The celebration was on the move. We found ourselves in a flow of human traffic, suddenly part of a procession. A bull, about ten times the size of the regular bulls we had seen the day before, was erected on a platform. A group of men carried this bull on a bamboo platform. Dressed in ceremonial garb with sarongs and bandanas, they would run with this bull, hollering and shouting as the music played all around, only to come to a dead stop. A young boy rode on the back of the bull. We couldn't help noticing that the makers of this bull spared no detail, down to the bull's butthole.

It was hard to understand what was going on; Chris and I were swept up in the whole thing. We walked with the procession. Most of the people on the street were Balinese, but tourists with their cameras perched on rooftops and terraces, and a few, like us, were walking with the procession.

With all the noise and commotion, it took us awhile to figure out what was going on. The bulls were on parade from the temple to the ceremonial site. Behind us, towering into the sky like an antenna, was what could only be perceived as a phallic symbol. Along with the bull, it was carried on a platform by men who were whooping and hollering and sweating under the weight of dead remains and a burning sun.

Down the street we moved, anxious to keep enough room between us and the looming phallic symbol. With the blowing of a whistle, the men would start up at a full run, threatening to mow down anyone or anything in their path. It was kind of exciting, these sudden bursts of activity. The whistle would blow and we were off, reminiscent of the running of the bulls in Spain.

We must have walked for miles in this stop-and-go procession. Finally there was a change of energy as the bull ahead of us turned a corner. A wall separated us from further activity. We wondered if only locals were allowed into the ceremony site. The tourists responded to this challenge by climbing a tree, and then onto the wall. Chris and I followed suit, frantically clawing at branches, scrambling to get over the wall.

We dropped down into a serene scene. The giant bull had come to rest in a large open area. I can only guess that we were in a cemetery. Tourists continued to climb like deranged zombies over the stone wall, dropping down on the grass around us. The scene had become more subdued than it had been out on the street. Crowds massed together, hushed in reverence, seeking out spots of shade. The sun was brutal. Chris and I were both feeling nauseous. We wondered how long we should stay before dehydration kicked in.

We must have stayed in that cemetery for over an hour, shifting our place on the grass to match the path of shade. The tourists gathered together, armed with cameras. It was hard to know exactly what to capture, as the activity had come to stand-still. Then the time came to erect the bull onto another platform, the altar. The crowds cheered them on as this was obviously an arduous task for the men lifting the statue. There were times where the bull teetered, threatening to topple over, and then a lot of shouting broke out as the bull was righted. Finally the bull was erected and an enormous cheer arose. Glued to my spot, I felt I was watching some ancient rite: the erection of the Golden Calf.

Our energy waning, we watched as some guy climbed the giant phallus. Once again the crowds cheered. It was hard to know when this whole thing was going to end. We had walked for miles and were now swooning in the sun. With enough pictures to sustain our quota for adventure, we left the ceremony and headed back out onto the streets of Ubud.

It was a long slog back to our bungalow. We had taken the backstreets, and we were sure that with each step we were slowly dying. Chris said he was coming down with something serious. His heart was palpitating and I was thirsting for water like a dying man.

I can't remember if we caught a cab the rest of the way; the memories start to blur after a certain point.

Sickness, Again

While a bull burned in the night, with crowds cheering and celebrating, I was busy puking and shivering in our bungalow. Sickness had come on hard, just as it had in the Perhentians. There was something to this sickness though that really concerned me. The body aches were unlike anything I had experienced before, and I was shaking so hard that I had trouble turning the pages of my Bali travel guide, trying to determine my diagnosis.

As it turned out, Chris was fine, though he had declared sickness earlier that day. He was slightly irritated that I was sick again, as if I had a choice over the matter. My teeth were chattering and I couldn't sleep.

"This is serious," I told him.

"No more hospital stays," was his reply.

My concern was the bites I had received in Lovina. Though Bali is supposedly mosquito-free, there always existed the possibility of malaria in Southeast Asia. Searching through numerous guides, I found that Lovina wasn't in the safe zone. Wonderful, maybe this time I really had caught it.

Besides malaria, there was the risk of dengue fever, also transmitted by mosquitoes. From what I read, dengue fever is nasty stuff, with a high fever and terrible body aches. It was the pain that concerned me the most. I was in terrible pain, as if my bones and joints had turned against me.

Though Chris didn't seem concerned, Nana was insistent that I see a doctor, as she put her hand to my head. She summoned her husband with his van, and with that, Chris and I were off to a clinic.

The clinic in Ubud was of a very high standard. You could tell that it catered to rich foreigners. Indeed, the price we were charged there was on par with Western health care services. After taking a blood test and sussing out my symptoms, the doctor informed me that I simply had the flu. It was both a relief and an annoyance. I knew that Chris wouldn't allow me to get sick again after crying wolf so many times.

 

Actually, upon reflection, Chris had his fair share of sickness. Though he claims I got sick a lot on our travels, I only got really sick twice, and then I had my eye problem. But Chris was sick numerous times as well, even if he didn’t end up in a hospital or clinic. He suffered food poisoning in Kuala Lumpur, and experienced malaise in the Perhentians and in other locations. So to say I was constantly sick is untrue. I’ve set him straight on that many times. Anyway, side note over.

Still, the flu is the flu, and I had a nasty strand of it. Thank goodness we were hunkered down in Ubud for several nights in a very nice bungalow. I got the rest I needed and within several days I was back at it.

Our last night in Ubud we hit the town, with drinks at a nightclub. It was great to feel tipsy again, running across the yawning green in the dark. Hopefully all my injuries and sickness were now behind me. 

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.