OK, so I did lose my phone in Melbourne. But aside from that, Melbourne was the most fun I’ve had in a very long time – on land, at least. I met the most amazing and insane group of people, and somehow we all clicked so well that by the time we had to start leaving we really felt like family. No offense to my family back home – this isn’t a replacement, just an extension.

I’ve got mountains of photos from our shenanigans to post, which I promise I will do just as soon as I get something to eat and do the 400 other things I have to do today. Then I’ll have to write the stories to accompany them – what I can remember of the stories, that is. It’s true that my liver has seen better days, and today sitting in Christchurch on my own I do feel a bit lonely, but my heart has been buoyed up by the experiences of the last few weeks (what an excellent birthday everyone gave me!), and I’d like to shout out a big thanks to Taylor/Tanenay, Ashley/Ashliqua, Andy/Antwon, Chris/Chrizzone, Nils, Freek, Rebecca, John and Dave. It was a wild ride, but a great one. Also, many thanks to Brahim and everyone at the Friendly Backpacker for putting up with us!

So what’s the plan for Asia, people?

So I make it all the way through Asia – 4 and a half months worth – running around like a crazy person, and don’t lose anything important. Still have all my gadgets in hand. And then, my last week in Melbourne, a civilized country where I can take my time and get myself together in the mornings before dashing off to do whatever, I lose my mobile phone.

Sigh.

So any of you who’ve had updates to your contact information in the past 6 months or so – and any of you who’ve just given me your contact information while I’ve been traveling – please send it again. Thanks.

It’s been too long since I left, and since I’m cold today it’ll do me good to think about my time in the sun…

Gili Air, together with Gili Trawangan and Gili Meno, make up the trio of islands between the east coast of Bali and the west coast of Lombok in Indonesia. Surrounded by crystal-clear and temperate waters, drenched in sunshine and forested with lush palms and jungle undergrowth, with not a single motorised vehicle between them (taxis are horse drawn) they may be one of the last true island paradises. I spent several days (but not nearly enough) on Gili Air, diving and frolicking with the fine folk at Blue Marlin.

We all know that I’m a SCUBA junkie. We all remember about the day with the shark out at Chumpon Pinnacle on Koh Tao, right? Doesn’t even begin to compare. On our first day out, on my first dive in the Gilis, we went to a little site called Hahn’s Reef, just off Gili Air. After descending to about 18 meters, we headed over to examine a large rock – or, more precisely, to look under it, which is always where the good things hide. Hanging upside down, a few fingers on the rock to steady us, we looked and saw not one, not two, but three baby black-tip reef shark. On that first dive, I saw turtle and lionfish and mantis shrimp and every kind of wrasse and angelfish I’ve ever seen in a book. It was spectacular, and the remaining dives only got better.

In particular, there was the Wreck. Situated just off the Lombok coast in about 45 meters of water, it is a World War II Japanese patrol boat. We all reckon it must have been sunk intentionally, because it’s totally pristine and perfectly upright. It’s a dive you’ve pretty much got to do on Nitrox, because at that depth on air you’d have a looooooong time decompressing, and that’s nobody’s favourite way to spend their time underwater. Even at 28% Nitrox, maximum bottom time is only 20 minutes, so you’ve got to get down there as fast as possible too. This is one of the best things about diving this particular wreck: you don’t see it until you’re almost on top of it. Descending along the line, I kept an eye on my depth guage. Around 28 meters I started to squint ahead, trying to make out my destination. By 33 meters I still couldn’t see a thing. Suddenly, at about 39 meters, it appeared out of the murk like a ghost ship. Alena told me another diver had once compared it to an old (American) Wild West Ghost Town… after its ghostly appearance, upon closer examination the entire ship is covered in stone fish, lionfish and other poisons of the deep. It’s the outlaw center. You half expect a huge grouper to come out of the wheelhouse toting a six-shooter, wearing a ten-gallon hat. Lounging on top of the wheelhouse were five of the biggest lionfish I’ve ever seen, and on the forward deck Didier spotted a stonefish that must have been well over a meter long. Alena and I swam through an enormous, spiralling school of tiny glassfish off the port bow and the narcosis made it even more psychedelic than it already was. Twenty minutes didn’t seem nearly enough, although we did get in a few backflips and underwater kung fu, just because.

So right, the diving was astonishing. On my last dive, we saw 5 shark, 3 turtles, and more of everything else than I could be bothered to keep count of. But that’s not all there was. Alena and her family and the staff at Blue Marlin made the week so much more memorable than any fish could. On my last day, the entire family came out diving, kids and all, and everyone spent the night on Trawangan to see me off. I have only very rarely been made to feel so welcome by total strangers, and I cannot thank them enough. I can, however, share the love – just as dear Hein at Buddha View on Koh Tao did for me. So if you’re ever in Indonesia and feel like strapping a tank on your back, head for Blue Marlin and ask for Alena Conroy. Tell her Louisa (aka the Junkie) sent you. She’ll sort you out.

Okay people. I know I’m wimpy, and I know that all of you who’ve just had 3 inches of snow (sorry, Chicago) already hate me quite a bit, but I’ve got to tell you I’m freezing to death. Remember how in the summers in Chicago I whinge constantly about the heat and the humidity and long for autumn? Granted, I’m not as bad as Phineas, what with his annual plea for air tickets to Iceland or a brick to the head, but I never thought I’d actually get to the point where 90 (that’s 32 for you Celcius folk) in the shade would be an acceptable temperature for me. Nonetheless, now that I’m here in Melbourne, after some 4 and a half months in tropical climes, 20 (that’s about 68 for you Fahrenheiters) degree weather makes me want a parka and mittens. Seriously. I don’t know what I’m going to do in New Zealand. I can just see myself now, huddled in my sleeping bag in a tent up on a mountain somewhere, wearing every single piece of clothing in my backpack.

On a slightly less inflammatory note, there is a news flash: much as I don’t like jinxing these things with premature announcements, I’m going to go ahead and tempt fate. There is a chance that in the next six months or so I’ll be moving to Sydney. For now, let’s just say I’ve met a very interesting person who’s got some very interesting projects to work on (many thanks to Eric for the introduction!). So who’s coming with me?

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!