travel

As some of you might have noticed, this site was down for about 36 hours earlier this week. This would be because I am too retarded to remember to renew my domain registration. All is well now, though, even though of course I find myself once again without the time to do a real post. But I suppose a quick update wouldn’t hurt…

I’m currently in Noosa, on the Sunshine Coast of Australia. I’ve been here since Saturday afternoon and am going on to Brisbane tonight and Melbourne tomorrow. We won’t get into all the strange circumstances that led me here or their even stranger collapse – suffice it to say I got to spend some more time with a travel friend and touch up my tan, which had been shamefully faded by my time in Sydney. Unfortunately, this might be the last tanning opportunity I get until sometime in June, as it’s only in the high teens/low 20s in Melbourne and I don’t even like to think about the temperatures in New Zealand.

As for the other stuff I’ve been promising, I’m still promising.

It is good to be back in the Western world, even though its leadership seems to be fraught with even more idiocy than I had imagined. I’m in Oz now, and I’ve got to say I had no idea how much I’d missed the whole urban living thing until I set foot here. I feel great! There are museums and operas and parks and people on the street speak a language I can actually understand! Not only that, but in the 5 days I’ve been here nobody has tried to sell me something I didn’t want. I’ve walked past no less than a hundred taxis and not one of them has insisted I go with him or asked my why not. I bought stilettos and a jacket (it’s chilly – at least, compared to SE Asia it is) and didn’t haggle over the price. OK, the prices are pretty painful, but still. You get the idea.

This is not to say that I didn’t enjoy my time in Asia – I had an amazing time, and may go back there before long. I just don’t think I could live in a place like Bangkok or Chiang Mai or Hanoi for an extended period of time. Much as I like to think of myself as an adaptable and cosmopolitan chicky, I do have my limits. It’s just not in me.

That said, I’ve got a lot more to write about – but I’m tired right now and I’ve been replying to backlogged email for the past hour and a half, so you’ll have to wait. Look for upcoming installments on: the Gili Islands, the utter stupidity of war, nightlife and wildlife here in Sydney, etc. etc. But for now, it’s off to take a little nap before the evening begins…

After that long form post from a few days ago, I think I’m going to go the opposite way and stick to short little chunklets. First off, it is true. Look out everyone: Miss Weeza’s learned to drive a motorcycle, at long last. It took me about 30 seconds to figure out how it all works, and another 5 tries to be able to stop and start without jerking. I’ve just returned from an 80km ride out to Mt Batur (an active volcano, last eruption was sometime in the 1990s) and through tons of little villages and rice paddies and past beautiful temples and WOW was that fun! I think I might even stay here another day just to do some more riding – Gili Air, my next destination, is so small you can walk around the island in an hour. I think a motorbike there might be a little bit of overkill.

And now that I’m back in the same Internet cafe for probably the 4th time, I would please like to know what is up with these girls and old Bryan Adams. The last time I was in here, I had Summer of ’69 stuck in my head for a full afternoon. I walked in today and guess what was playing? On the other hand, I suppose it’s better than Britney Spears. But only just.

In other news, it was bound to happen sooner than later – I have found a local hangout in Ubud. I was beginning to despair of such a thing happening anywhere in Bali, largely due to the lack of people (everywhere is empty, and empty places do not comfy hangouts make, except for afternoon tea and reading). But the other night, I found myself in N O Late Bar – the N and O stand for something but I forget what – listening to (and singing with, unbelievably – I must have been drunk) a local blues guitarist whom I’d met down in Kuta and ran into subsequently here. As it happens, the guy who owns the bar/restaurant also happens to own the guesthouse that’s renting me my Princess Room. And thus began a beautiful friendship. Last night, it rained all evening and all night so the place was pretty dead, but I had some dinner and chatted with some locals and wound up behind the bar mixing old specialties de la Weeza. I even got to go with some of the guys to a local village fundraiser, which was amazing – all the people from neighboring villages get together and eat, drink and party in this festival hall to raise money to build a new school, temple, whatever the object of that event might be. This goes on for 3-4 days, during which something like 100 million rupiah (about $12000 US) is raised. All the people from all the villages go to all the events, it’s totally reciprocal. And lovely – not a black tie in the whole place.

So that’s the news in brief. And it looks like we’re going to war. “How is the situation in America now?” I am asked by many locals here. I haven’t been home in a while so I have to guess. Does “shit” sum it up pretty accurately?

Over and out.

We are in Ubud, Bali. Ubud is the arts capital of the island, with more painters, sculptors, textile artists, musicians and dancers than I could shake the whole of the Schwartzwald at. It’s lovely, nestled in the hills, surrounded by rice paddies – and it even cools off at night. In short, I love it. A few highlights:

The Princess House
Before I came up here, I checked out a few web sites that purported to have the lowdown on pleasant budget accommodation here in Ubud. While it is true that luxury can be bought here for a fraction of the price you’d pay in, say, the Bahamas or even Thailand, budget digs are just as touch-and-go as they are anywhere else. There’s cheap places, but in a lot of them you get what you pay for, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I found one site that was poorly designed enough and featured so few places that I had to believe it was for real. One of the operations looked really nice – no swimming pool, but all the comforts of home, in a family compound, Balinese-style. I decided to check it out. I was not disappointed.

My bungalow (to which I affectionately refer as the Princess House) is built in traditional Balinese architectural style. Among other things, this means that most of the house is outdoors, with only the bedroom inside, to give maximum enjoyment of the garden that surrounds it. This garden, by the way, is chock full of tropical flowering and fruit trees, exotic birds with strange calls that sound like talking, and a walkway of which every square is inlaid with stones depicting animals and flowers. But back to the house. My veranda is roughly twice the size of the interior. Floored with gleaming pink granite, furnished with a low table and cushions on one side and colonial-style tea table and chairs on the other, it could easily host a gathering of 20. The low table, by the way, is perpetually full of fruit, tea, coffee and a thermos of hot water – one of the perks of Hai Homestay. The ceiling is supported by eight (2 rows of 4, one on each level – yes, there are multiple levels to my veranda. Sick, isn’t it?) ornamentally hand-carved teak columns based in marble. The ceiling itself is intricately woven bamboo interspersed with teak beams and hand-carved medallions. A richly carved double door leads inside. There, an enormous 4poster canopy bed with full mosquito net/draperies all around takes pride of place. There’s also a dresser and a wardrobe, but who the hell cares about anything else when you’ve got a bed like that?!? Anyway, out the back door is the bathroom and shower. These rooms are floored with smooth, loose stones of all colors and beautifully furnished with waist-high orchids and other plants. The walls dividing the rooms are stone, with carved faces and figures interspersed.

For all this, I pay roughly $7.50 US. You may commence the hatred now.

Monkeys Don’t Flinch
The legend of Monkey Forest says that at some point in the distant past, a part of the holy forest dropped out of heaven, with a battallion of the gods’ warrior monkey army inside it. Accordingly, temples were built in this sanctuary and the monkeys are revered and well cared for. This is where I spent my afternoon yesterday.

First off, the monkeys are Balinese long-tailed macaques. There are roughly 150 of them living in the forest, and one of the females is pregnant and will soon give birth to more. When I arrived in the central clearing, one of the staff was entering it from a different direction, carrying an enormous bundle of leaves over his shoulder. All the monkeys clustered around him, chattering. Lunchtime! I went over to watch, and he asked me if I wanted to feed them too. He introduced himself as Cris, handed me a bunch of leaves and I began distributing them. The pregnant female looked at me gravely before accepting my first one, gracefully and politely. The male leader sat in front of Cris, picking the choicest morsels out of the enormous bundle. None of the others dared to go near him. Ironically, he was one of the most polite of them all. The smaller, younger animals (clearly terrified of the boss and perhaps of me as well) would snatch and run, but he sat quietly on his hind paws, fixing me with a wise gaze, and accepted my proffered leaves slowly and carefully. I could have sworn he even nodded thanks.

After feeding the beasts, it was time to explore the forest. As I set off own a path marked “Holy Spring Temple”, it began to rain. The canopy, though, is so thick that I only caught the odd drop here and there. The stairway was long and led down toward the river – I could hear it rushing before and below me. The steps are carefully carved and edged to prevent slips…

Across the water and through an ancient banyan tree so gnarled and intricate that I can’t tell whether I’m passing through branches or trunk, then down a second staircase with sea serpent balustrades all the more realistic for their covering of bright green moss. Before me, opposite the base of the stairs, sits a pukel-man-Buddha figure. I bow to him and descend the last step. To my right Ganesha and his concubines pour an endless bath in a basin worthy of the gods. In the center, underwater, sits a carving so ancient I can’t make out what it is. Beyond the bath, a small complex of altars is fiercely guarded by woman/ogres. The gate is closed. I do not enter. Off to my right, half hidden by overgrown foliage, there is another set of stairs, descending along the vertical river bank. I am high above the water here – maybe 50 meters – and the bank is reinforced by a stone wall. I follow the steps downward. Past a small altar on my left, the stairs narrow even more, still hugging the bank. As I turn the final corner, getting close to water level, I see two stone columns overgrown with moss, on the other side of the river. It is not until I reach the exact opposite point that I can see the alter set between and behind them. It bears the swastika, symbol of the and chaos of an ever-changing world, symbol of the power and beauty and contradiction of divinity.

Back at the top of the complex, I pass by the serpents again, to explore the other side. I wonder which side they’re meant to protect – the temple or the forest. A path heading away from Ganesha’s bath leads to another staircase descending along the riverbank. This one, much shorter, leads to a partial enclosure guarded by a pair of Komodo dragons (stone) perched on top. Under them are twin springs feeding down into a shower, overlooking the rushing river. One bath for the gods, I thought, and one for the humans.

There is a magic, a secret life, in the temples of this island that I did not experience in Thailand or Indochina. It is not unlike the feeling one gets in an ancient cathedral in Europe – it’s the power of belief, faith, trust and love. It’s the power of the divine in people coming together and focusing. This place was alive with magic and spirit, and it spoke to me. And I felt blessed.

I am torn. Bali is a magical place. Physical beauty aside, there is a sense in the air that magic is possible, that your hopes, no matter how absurd, are not unfounded. There’s just one problem: it’s deserted.

I’m in Kuta, the tourist destination on this tiny island. I hadn’t planned to come here, but it’s the closest town to the airport and it was so damned late by the time I got in that I figured what the hell. I thought, a night or two of civilization will be just fine as I acclimate to a new country.

There are surf stores the size of a Gap superstore here. About 20 of them. There are, by my count, 3 McDonald’s, a Wendy’s and 3 KFCs. Also a Pizza Hut, and I’m certain I’ve missed as many as I counted. There are more bars and restaurants than you can shake a small forest at. There’s even a Hard Rock Cafe, Hotel and Superstore. There’s an Armani A/X store, a Versace boutique and I can’t even count the number of places with D&G and Stussy on their signs. It’s everything I heard it was – tourist hell. There’s only one problem: no tourists.

I heard the warnings, I read them. US CITIZENS ARE ADVISED NOT TO VISIT INDONESIA DUE TO POLITICAL INSTABLITY AND TERRORIST ACTIVITY. Everybody did. I assumed that those who knew this island would ignore them. But having gone out tonight in search of a chat over happy hour, and having combed the entire town in that search, I realize I was mistaken. It’s 11:45 now and I’m back at my hotel, planning to head up to Ubud tomorrow, hoping against hope that the dearth of visitors will be less obvious and less heartbreaking there than it is here.

New York got bombed by terrorists. Nobody issued a no-tourist warning. People, in fact, came from all over to see the place where it happened. I walked past what used to be Paddy’s and Sari Club and Maccaroni today – which even now amounts to a few empty lots with some rubble scattered about – and there were wreaths and banners from well-wishers and mourners, but that’s it. It’s not that people are oblivious – it’s just that the only people I saw walking by that corner (one of the biggest corners in town) live here. The pain is part of their lives now.

At every t-shirt stand, there are shirts that weren’t there last year. “Bali Cry” they say, or “Bali Black Day” or “FUCK TERRORIST” or (my favorite), “Osama Don’t Surf”. I wish I could afford to buy something from everyone. They need it.

The thing that’s hardest about all of it is the people. Their smiles beat the living hell out of any I’ve ever seen, and they’re the only people in Southeast Asia I’ve seen so far who will let you go without buying someting, without being angry about it. The terrorists who did this, who are themselves Indonesian, did an incalculable amount of damage to their own people. I do not mean to trivialize the deaths of the Australian, European and American victims of the bombing, but the aftermath, I fear, will last much longer and will affect most those who have the least recourse.

And yet, a voice tells me, take heart. There is beauty here to behold, and joy to live in!

I’m leaving Thailand tomorrow. It’s strange, but with all this back-and-forthing, certain places are beginning to feel like second homes to me – Koh Tao is definitely one of these.

The night before last, my last night on the island, some of us went out for a last supper at this incredible little restaurant called Cafe del Sol. We had smoked salmon and medium-rare t-bone and gnocchi and 3 liters of wine between 5 people. Then we had a backgammon tournament, at the end of which I think my official title was “Master of the Universe”, thank you Hein.

So, to Tasja (one of the loveliest, brightest and all around best people I’ve met in a very long time), Hein (my instructor, fellow dive junkie and friend), Melissa (dive buddy extraordinaire), Sebastien (master of the late-night debate), Fran (thanks for the bikini!) and Nine, Alex (who got out of bed at an ungodly hour to say goodbye) and Cameron, and all the rest of the gang, my most heartfelt thanks. I’ve had a great time and I hope I’ll see you again.

In Bangkok, thanks to Gaew and Dave, who between them have made everything easier and more pleasant, for friendship and support in abundance, thank you too.

Tonight, it’s another last supper, and tomorrow I’m off to Bali.

Farewell, Thailand!

On Tuesday, a bunch of DMTs (Divemasters in training), instructors and other folk (like me and my dive buddy) all chartered a boat and headed off to Sail Rock, which lies 45 KM off of Koh Samui, about 1.5 hours by boat from Koh Tao. For reasons which I don’t fully understand, I didn’t take any pictures of Sail Rock itself – alright, it’s not that interesting above water – but I did take a bunch of the people and the party on the boat.

Sail rock is a pinnacle that goes from the surface down to 36 meters at the bottom. Above 17 meters, the visibility was stunning. Below that, it was like swimming through mud. Imagine standing on top of a mountain and looking down into clouds – it was like that, only with sand and other particles. So, staying above the sludge line, we saw tons of beauty. 6-banded angelfish and highly poisonous rockfish (both rare, apparently, in that area); tons of damselfish and hex grouper and sweetlips, schools of jack and other fish. Some of the fish were so blue it was hard to believe they were real. Most of the day was incredible. And then there was much rejoicing. Also much beer. If for some reason you’re not seeing the photos in their flimstrip at right, click here to have a look.

Koh Tao is coming into its own. The season is in full swing here, and it’s even more beautiful than the last time I was here. So is the diving.

This morning, 3 groups of Advanced divers went out to Chumpon Pinnacle for our Deep Skills Dive. Since our group was so small (only 3 + instructor) it only took about 3 minutes to do all the skills (math at 30 meters? surely you jest!). Afterwards, we had plenty of time to swim off on a bit of a shark hunt. While the other dive groups stuck close to the pinnacle (and the boat), hoping to see the odd barracuda, we headed straight out into the open water. 500 meters out, hanging in the endless blue, they came. First, there was a King Mackerel. Then, two black-tip reef shark (about 1 meter long). And then, the payoff. The grey reef shark, all around 2 meters long, took notice of us and got curious. Most kept a distance of about 15-20 meters, but a few were more adventurous. 4 meters off on my right side, I had an unobstructed view of one attacking fish for his breakfast, while 3 more of the gorgeous creatures circled just at the edge of our field of vision. Just when we thought we couldn’t possibly get any luckier, one shark began to approach us. It swam closer and closer – I think we all must have been holding our breath – and then passed directly underneath, only 2 meters from our dangling fins. It parked for a second or two, as if posing for us, and then slowly swam off into the distance.

We stayed down until half of us were seriously low on air, and then began our ascent. By the time we got to the surface we were so far from the boat that they had to come and pick us up. Comparing notes with the other groups, we discovered that of the 3 groups diving at the Pinnacle, we were the only ones to see any shark. We saw 8.

Later, on the second dive, white-eyed moray eels, who customarily hide in little holes and crevices in the rocks, lounged on top of the reef, feeding.

It was a fantastic morning. And tonight, there’s a night dive. I think I need a nap.

What with the ticket fiasco, I’ve had to spend considerable extra time in Bangkok. Fortunately, I have made a few friends in Bangkok over the past few months (on my frequent visits), and this has been a blessing. Dave has been an excellent social director and endless font of information and support, and another lovely friend of mine, whom I will not name here for reasons which will soon be apparent, very kindly offered to let me stay at her flat so that I wouldn’t have to spend a fortune on guest houses. At first, I was reluctant – I’m always concerned about imposing on people – but after a night and a day of thinking about it, I accepted. This seemed like a good idea for everyone involved, and we did have fun gossiping and watching movies long into the night. Everything seemed fine, until…

My friend has a boyfriend, British, who’s currently in London for several months. I met him on one of my previous visits to Bangkok and he apparently decided – either because I’m tall or because he’s a total moron – that I’m gay. Now, that’s ridiculous but not immediate cause for alarm. What is alarming is that he’s apparently decided I’m trying to steal his girlfriend. He tried ringing her on Valentine’s Day, but she and I had gone to grab a bite to eat after she got off work. It had never occurred to either of us that this might be something to worry about, until last night – or rather 5:00 this morning. The phone rang (waking both of us), and the argument began immediately. First, he accused her of having a man in her house. Then, a lesbian. Then, she was having affairs all over the place. I was awake too, and she (being a reasonable soul) kept offering to let him talk to me, but he wasn’t interested. It did not escape my attention that 5:00 a.m. in Bangkok is 11:00 p.m. in London, or closing time at the local pub. They alternately argued and hung up on each other for almost an hour before she finally just shook her head and handed me the phone.

“Jason?” I said. “This is Louisa.”

[pause]

“Oh. I thought your name was Lisa.” What this has to do with anything is beyond me, so I ignore it.

“I object,” I continue, using my calmest, most rational tone, “to the fact that you’ve decided I’m gay without ever having had a conversation with me.” He insists that he doesn’t care whether or not I’m gay. I carry on. “Moreover, I highly object to the fact that you’re not only accusing me of trying to steal your girlfriend away from you, which is patently ridiculous, but also that she would even consider such an offer. She talks about virtually nothing but you, and she’s just spent the last half hour telling you how much she loves you even though you’re being abusive and irrational.”

[another pause]

“Well,” he says, “this wouldn’t be a problem if it hadn’t happened before. Women coming and offering her all sorts of things -”

“Really? Well, that’s none of my business. Your girlfriend very kindly offered me a place to stay when I was in a minor crisis because my ex-boyfriend lost my plane tickets, and the only thing I’ve ‘offered’ her in return so far is a chocolate bar and a grilled squid. But I won’t bother you anymore after tonight. I’ll leave in the morning.”

[long silence. I suspect it’s at this point that he begins to realize how badly he’s behaving. He repeats something about this having happened before, but now it sounds like a lame excuse.]

“Well, then I guess there’s nothing I can do but let you talk to her again.”

Twenty minutes later, he apologized. Amidst protests from my friend, I left this morning and am back in Khao San Road.

I ask you, what is wrong with men?

That’s right, folks. It’s time for that simpering, odious Hallmark-brand holiday again. That special day when couples smugly trot through town showing off, or break up in a flurry of clothing flying out windows. That day when single folk are made to feel like cloven-hooved monsters for not having found a suitable mate. But there is something worse than Valentine’s Day in America.

They have Valentine’s Day in Thailand.

This is wrong on so many levels that it’s hard to know where to begin. For starters, they don’t have Hallmark here. They also don’t have Catholicism, which means no saints, which means no St. Valentine, after whom this whole circus is allegedly named. Yet every stall on Khao San road is festooned with pinkness, and the Pizza Hut in Siam Square is actually serving heart-shaped pizza. Every restaurant in a 10 mile radius, in fact, has got some kind of V-Day promotion happening. It’s enough to make me unsure whether to laugh, cry, or vomit.

So go off and hug your Valentine, or curl up in a ball and cry, or glare at the smug couples – whatever your preferred method of celebration may be. I’ll be here amongst the millions of already unbearably cute Thai people, now even more unbearably cute as they gaze into one another’s eyes.

On second thought, maybe I’ll stay in tonight.