I've decided to move my blog to another site: http://jpackard.wordpress.com/
please continue to follow my story as I take on my au pair position in France.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Saying goodbye to my sister, Laura, a short 48 hours after she picked me up from the airport was depressing.
She will spend a semester in Fiji, studying marine biology, but I probably won’t see her until after my year in France, which means we will have spent two days together during the past two years.
Laura and I have grown close, as we’ve been apart.
Enemies for 17 years, we began to appreciate one another after I left home to attend Ohio University, 2.5 hours south of our hometown, Mt. Vernon. I rarely came home and the distance made us grow a fondness for one another that could easily be upset by spending too much time together again during holidays or summer vacations. Fortunately for the health of our relationship I was eager to set out and explore and spent few holidays in Ohio, and I then embarked on my year of travel abroad immediately after graduating. During the past four years Laura’s and my time has rarely overlapped.
Two days out of two years is a bit extreme, even for two girls who tortured one another, by stealing the bigger bedroom, taking the biggest piece of cake and telling mom that the other called her ‘stupid’. She vowed to hate me forever, and I promised that when I grew up I would never speak to her again. Now we still rarely talk, but I recognize her worth and she respects me. We convey a lot of love and understanding through the few words, and short amount of time, we share.
No one will ever grow up under the same circumstances I did and she is the only witness to my entire life (minus the first 16 months before she was born).
I guess our bond is bigger than the oceans and continents that keep us apart (cheesy, but true).
She will do great things abroad and I’m happy to support her, just as I know she is proud of the things I’ve done with my life.
Good luck in Fiji sis!
Home, Ohio
A month ago I decided to cease writing for my blog because I thought I wouldn’t have anything interesting to share until I landed in France and started my job as an au pair in Marseille. I’ve changed my mind. There are funny, disappointing, frustrating and exciting things happening daily -- even in my sleepy hometown in the state of Ohio – and you may be entertained by them.
After landing on the Columbus International runway on July 8, my life has transitioned seamlessly back into household chores, parental disagreements and rendezvous to Columbus, mainly around OSU's campus where a half dozen of my friends now have apartments and rental homes. These days I make more trips to the Short North and fraternize with "fellow professionals" who, like me, are graduated from college, entering the world of adulthood and upgrading from cheap, unpalatable beers and wines that taste like vinegar to martinis. We socialize in bars wearing skirts and slacks instead of slumming it in a frat houses wearing heels and flip flops that stick to the floor. Yes, my standards are improving. I’m surrounded by people in transitional phases of their lives and my moving and shaking around the world doesn’t seem to differentiate me from this crowd.
Sometimes I have to remind myself that just a few weeks ago I was on the other side of the world- fodder I fling shamelessly at my parents whenever they forget what if feels like to miss me. (Just joking, we actually get along well.) But really a month ago I was squatting over toilets that made the most basic plumbing seem luxurious and eating soup with whole chicken feet floating among rice noodles.
The first few days back in Mount Vernon, OH, were busy preparing my sister for her semester abroad in Fiji. Because of jet-lag I didn’t sleep for almost 48 straight hours. I stayed up past midnight helping her pack for her July 11 flight and attending last minute farewell parties her friends hosted, while my internal clock that was still set to Indonesian time woke me by 3 a.m. I was up doing yoga, cleaning the kitchen, reading, and baking chocolate, walnut biscotti before the sun came up.
Adrenaline allowed me to keep pace with everyone around me and enthusiastically recount tales from the road to family and friends, but I knew a crash would be inevitable because when I’m tired I don’t cope well with emotions, especially anything that is slightly frustrating.
Three days after my arrival the waves of exhaustion were hitting me like a psunami and I felt everyone wanted more of me than I had to give. I collapsed in tears in the shower, yearning for the freedom and seclusion of being alone on the road, where no one asked me to come visit or call or wake or sleep at hours that suited them.
The most frustrating thing was few made an effort to accommodate my needs, everyone was eager to have me pay them a visit without considering all the other people who were making the same request. I was driving between aunts and uncles, mom and dad, grandparents and friends on a tank that was close to empty.
I began being more assertive, setting boundaries and requesting people meet me half-way. My body adjusted to the time difference and soon I was sleeping through the night- according to the Eastern Standard Time zone.
Now that I feel balanced again, it has been wonderful to reconnect with so many loved one and sleep in a bed that isn’t infested with bugs. I’m making up for every cold shower I took over the past six months by taking daily hot baths, and I’ve enjoyed driving on the right side of the road again.
I change my clothes a few times a day relishing in the variety of a wardrobe -- I refuse to wear the handful of items I wore, hand-washed, and maintained for nearly a year, I’m sure I’ll warm up to them again someday.
My mom has take me to eat ice cream (dairy isn’t popular in Asia), and I haven’t eaten a single grain of rice or chili.
The transition back to Ohio was mostly smooth, and not at all effortless, but I’m happy to be home.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Temporary Pause on Blog Activity
At 11 p.m. on July 8 after four long days on buses, trains and planes I walked off an American Airlines jet and into the arms of my sister, Laura. She came running at me down the vacant terminal corridor, both of us laughed and cried during a long embrace. It was eleven months since I boarded a plane taking me away from the same airport in Columbus, Ohio, and it felt good to be back.
For about one month I will be home enjoying time with my family and friends and working on getting my French visa, so I won't be updating me blog. I will resume writing in the beginning of September when I commence my job as an au pair in Marseille, France.
Please return to hear about my European adventures and the challenges of living, learning and working with the French.
For about one month I will be home enjoying time with my family and friends and working on getting my French visa, so I won't be updating me blog. I will resume writing in the beginning of September when I commence my job as an au pair in Marseille, France.
Please return to hear about my European adventures and the challenges of living, learning and working with the French.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Making my way to Munduk
The air is pregnant with the smell of incense burnt by locals making the daily offering to the Hindu gods. Women and men dressed in long sarongs and belts shuffle along the side of the road bearing their gifts of flowers, fruits, biscuits and cigarettes held in green banana leaf baskets the size of two adult hands cupped together. The women carry the offerings on trays atop their heads. Their stable necks bear the burden effortlessly after years of practice. Men place the gifts on alters, temples and idols on every street corner.
The ceremonial offering is conducted daily and as I’m driving by ritual I wonder who is giving to appease a deity and who is giving to worship. Or is it an automated activity with much of it’s meaning lost, like brushing your teeth or getting dressed in the morning?
Regardless of motivation, the fragrant ritual is beautiful to behold. It seems wrong that motorbikes and feet will squash many of the scattered offerings by evening. Ants will carry away bits of biscuits and the flowers will wilt on the hot pavement. The woven baskets will be flattened and look like litter tossed aside.
Good thing they are replaced every morning.
The smells and thoughts accompany me this morning on my drive north toward Munduk, an area with rolling mountains and lakes. The temperature is shockingly cool as my bike climbs higher altitudes and the crisp mountain air reminds me of autumn in Ohio when the sun is shining but the chilled air gives me goose bumps and raises the hair on my arms.
I left Seminyak, an area in the south of Bali where I’m staying with Diana, a local girl I met through couchsurfing, at 9 a.m. to make the two hour drive before noon. I intend to spend the afternoon driving around and exploring the rolling hills, lakes, villages and rice paddies before dark, which would make the return trip more challenging because road signs are sporadic and not very informative. Often they fail to mention some upcoming towns and most of the existing signs are conveniently tucked behind trees and none are lit at night. I find that asking locals is the surest way of getting around.
Looking for somewhere to stop and eat and local drives next to me (locals don’t find it bothersome to drive side-by-side on the roads and have conversations).
“Hello Miss where are you going?”
“I’m just here to explore Munduk, no plans really, but I could use some lunch.”
“you want to see a giant tree near my village?”
“Sure.”
The conversation doesn’t make much sense, but that’s how it goes when I know a whopping ten words of Bahasa Indoneisan and he speaks a bit of English.
Acutally, Gede’s English is pretty good and he tells me – over a plate of noodles – that he works for a cruise that leaves from Miami, which he doesn’t really like and is shocked by American prices.
“I bought noodles that cost me $8!, “ he explained as I enjoyed by food that cost 80 cents.
Next we drove toward his village, 4 km outside of Munduk, and met his family who were in the midst of a five-day cremation ceremony. They gave me tea and traditional sweets – pastries filled with sugar and coconut and sweet sticky rice that was black and caramel colored -- and we all smiled at one another in lieu of words.
Four families were participating in the ceremony (four people had died around the same time so the families join together to share the ceremony and costs), and like most family gatherings everyone was dressed up, circling the food tables and passing around small children.
I met Gede’s wife, Madi, and their six-year-old son. Madi’s younger brother had been killed four months earlier in a motorbike accident and this was a celebration for him (and the three other deceased who were all elderly). I also met Gede’s younger brother who drove me up to see the giant tree while Gede changed into his ceremonial wardrobe- a long sarong, shirt with belt and a head scarf.
Two hours later I left the gathering with promises to return. In two days they would conclude the ceremony by taking the bodies and the boxes that housed their spirits up a hill to be released. I was honored to be included, but hesitant about making the long commute again. Gede and Madi offered to house me, but I didn’t want to impose during their time with family and friends.
On the drive back I stopped to photograph some of the lakes and hills that I’d passed on my way into Munduk and decided this is definitely a place I could revisit, so why not see some spirits set free?
The ceremonial offering is conducted daily and as I’m driving by ritual I wonder who is giving to appease a deity and who is giving to worship. Or is it an automated activity with much of it’s meaning lost, like brushing your teeth or getting dressed in the morning?
Regardless of motivation, the fragrant ritual is beautiful to behold. It seems wrong that motorbikes and feet will squash many of the scattered offerings by evening. Ants will carry away bits of biscuits and the flowers will wilt on the hot pavement. The woven baskets will be flattened and look like litter tossed aside.
Good thing they are replaced every morning.
The smells and thoughts accompany me this morning on my drive north toward Munduk, an area with rolling mountains and lakes. The temperature is shockingly cool as my bike climbs higher altitudes and the crisp mountain air reminds me of autumn in Ohio when the sun is shining but the chilled air gives me goose bumps and raises the hair on my arms.
I left Seminyak, an area in the south of Bali where I’m staying with Diana, a local girl I met through couchsurfing, at 9 a.m. to make the two hour drive before noon. I intend to spend the afternoon driving around and exploring the rolling hills, lakes, villages and rice paddies before dark, which would make the return trip more challenging because road signs are sporadic and not very informative. Often they fail to mention some upcoming towns and most of the existing signs are conveniently tucked behind trees and none are lit at night. I find that asking locals is the surest way of getting around.
Looking for somewhere to stop and eat and local drives next to me (locals don’t find it bothersome to drive side-by-side on the roads and have conversations).
“Hello Miss where are you going?”
“I’m just here to explore Munduk, no plans really, but I could use some lunch.”
“you want to see a giant tree near my village?”
“Sure.”
The conversation doesn’t make much sense, but that’s how it goes when I know a whopping ten words of Bahasa Indoneisan and he speaks a bit of English.
Acutally, Gede’s English is pretty good and he tells me – over a plate of noodles – that he works for a cruise that leaves from Miami, which he doesn’t really like and is shocked by American prices.
“I bought noodles that cost me $8!, “ he explained as I enjoyed by food that cost 80 cents.
Next we drove toward his village, 4 km outside of Munduk, and met his family who were in the midst of a five-day cremation ceremony. They gave me tea and traditional sweets – pastries filled with sugar and coconut and sweet sticky rice that was black and caramel colored -- and we all smiled at one another in lieu of words.
Four families were participating in the ceremony (four people had died around the same time so the families join together to share the ceremony and costs), and like most family gatherings everyone was dressed up, circling the food tables and passing around small children.
I met Gede’s wife, Madi, and their six-year-old son. Madi’s younger brother had been killed four months earlier in a motorbike accident and this was a celebration for him (and the three other deceased who were all elderly). I also met Gede’s younger brother who drove me up to see the giant tree while Gede changed into his ceremonial wardrobe- a long sarong, shirt with belt and a head scarf.
Two hours later I left the gathering with promises to return. In two days they would conclude the ceremony by taking the bodies and the boxes that housed their spirits up a hill to be released. I was honored to be included, but hesitant about making the long commute again. Gede and Madi offered to house me, but I didn’t want to impose during their time with family and friends.
On the drive back I stopped to photograph some of the lakes and hills that I’d passed on my way into Munduk and decided this is definitely a place I could revisit, so why not see some spirits set free?
Monday, June 7, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Life's a party in Kuta
In need of change from the solitude and quiet of Bingin Beach, I moved to the noisy, dirty, tourism capital of Bali: Kuta, where shops line every inch of the windy roads and drunken 20 year olds can be found at any hour of day or night. Kuta is chaos
wearing a bikini and a party hat. But I didn’t feel my trip to Bali would be complete without experiencing the epicenter of Bali tourism.
Something about the place is appealing, for a short while at least.
Here I can find Gado-Gado, one of my favorite dishes that is sautéed
veggies with a creamy peanut sauce, tofu and tempe (fermented and
fried soy beans) for less than one dollar, knock-offs of every brand
and gadget and more foreigners than locals.
The crowded beach, endless streets of vendors and the buffets of parties was entertaining for a few days, and while I was in town I made some local friends through the Indonesian couchsurfing network. They showed me some local spots including a salsa club and introduced me to arrack- local liquor that is similar to vodka and made out of coconut.
I shared accommodation in a swanky resort with a pool and free breakfast with Maxi, my friend from Bingin and his two friends from the Basque country (northern Spain) and together we took on the town.
Now for me the party is over and I’m taking the ferry to Lombok – the island below Bali.
I will take my motorbike, surf board and backpack and hit the road in search of the island’s beautiful beaches, local culture and maybe a hike up a volcano.
wearing a bikini and a party hat. But I didn’t feel my trip to Bali would be complete without experiencing the epicenter of Bali tourism.
Something about the place is appealing, for a short while at least.
Here I can find Gado-Gado, one of my favorite dishes that is sautéed
veggies with a creamy peanut sauce, tofu and tempe (fermented and
fried soy beans) for less than one dollar, knock-offs of every brand
and gadget and more foreigners than locals.
The crowded beach, endless streets of vendors and the buffets of parties was entertaining for a few days, and while I was in town I made some local friends through the Indonesian couchsurfing network. They showed me some local spots including a salsa club and introduced me to arrack- local liquor that is similar to vodka and made out of coconut.
I shared accommodation in a swanky resort with a pool and free breakfast with Maxi, my friend from Bingin and his two friends from the Basque country (northern Spain) and together we took on the town.
Now for me the party is over and I’m taking the ferry to Lombok – the island below Bali.
I will take my motorbike, surf board and backpack and hit the road in search of the island’s beautiful beaches, local culture and maybe a hike up a volcano.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Day Trip to Ubud
At 5:30 a.m. the sun was just beginning to break through the dark morning and a few cars were emerging on the road. Vendors were gearing up for another day, women were shopping for fruit and veggies at the markets and slowly the day was filling with life.
I was driving my motorbike to Ubud, a town two hours north of where I was staying in Bingin beach, with Maxi (pronounced Mashi), a guy from the Basque country in northern Spain who was staying in the same losmen (cheap, basic accommodation) as me. We were taking a day trip inland to see the rice paddies, arts and culture of Ubud and taking a break from the beach.
We rolled into town before the information center was open. The men were still sitting around drinking coffee when in we came, dripping in soggy cloths -- It rained most of the day and the red of my dress bled into the white flower pattern turning it pink and staining my skin so I looked like a had a slight sunburn.
For two hours we walked through rice paddies, slogging through the muddy paths and by the end of our walk my feet were so dirty that when I sunk into the mud my feet came out of the mess looking the same as when they entered. I said good morning to the old women walking barefoot and carrying huge baskets on their heads and men working in the rice paddies. Ducks were roaming about, enjoying the constant rain.
We emerged just as the shower turned into a downpour and we made for an awning to wait out the worst of it. When it didn’t show signs of stopping we hopped on our motorbikes and headed out for food.
We feasted in a restaurant where we were seated in a raised platform with a roof and lots of pillows. We sat and ate veggie pizza, curry, rotti and mango salsa and smoothies for two hours while the rained continued. I had coffee and talked; Maxi had an extra smoothie and mostly listened because he said his brain was tired from talking in English.
The rest of the day we drove down random streets, took photos of locals and followed bus loads of Koreans on a tour through a temple, and finally drove back to Bingin by 7 p.m.
I was driving my motorbike to Ubud, a town two hours north of where I was staying in Bingin beach, with Maxi (pronounced Mashi), a guy from the Basque country in northern Spain who was staying in the same losmen (cheap, basic accommodation) as me. We were taking a day trip inland to see the rice paddies, arts and culture of Ubud and taking a break from the beach.
We rolled into town before the information center was open. The men were still sitting around drinking coffee when in we came, dripping in soggy cloths -- It rained most of the day and the red of my dress bled into the white flower pattern turning it pink and staining my skin so I looked like a had a slight sunburn.
For two hours we walked through rice paddies, slogging through the muddy paths and by the end of our walk my feet were so dirty that when I sunk into the mud my feet came out of the mess looking the same as when they entered. I said good morning to the old women walking barefoot and carrying huge baskets on their heads and men working in the rice paddies. Ducks were roaming about, enjoying the constant rain.
We emerged just as the shower turned into a downpour and we made for an awning to wait out the worst of it. When it didn’t show signs of stopping we hopped on our motorbikes and headed out for food.
We feasted in a restaurant where we were seated in a raised platform with a roof and lots of pillows. We sat and ate veggie pizza, curry, rotti and mango salsa and smoothies for two hours while the rained continued. I had coffee and talked; Maxi had an extra smoothie and mostly listened because he said his brain was tired from talking in English.
The rest of the day we drove down random streets, took photos of locals and followed bus loads of Koreans on a tour through a temple, and finally drove back to Bingin by 7 p.m.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Moving to France
I’ve made a decision about the next twelve months of my life…more or less.
The Grenet family, who live in Aubagne 18 km outside of Marseille, France, have hired me as their au pair.
From August 2010 to July 2011 I will live with Marie, a pediatrician who studied child development in Boston, Roland, who works in alternative energy, Delphine, 20, who is studying in Paris, Lucie, 17, who is now at the lycée (final year of high school), François, 14, who is in his third year of collège (high school), and Claire, 12, who is in her first year of collège.
Marie Grenet contacted me after I set up a profile on aupair-world.net, which links au pairs with families around the world.
They will pay me 400 euros a month, in addition to covering all my living expenses, to be a “big sister” to the kids and and “assistant” to Marie. I will take care of the kids after school and encourage their English skills. I will participate in family activities and help with all household matters such as cooking and doing my part to keep the house tidy.
I will also be taking French classes in the city a couple times a week.
According to Marie, with whom I have been corresponding for two weeks, their house was built in 1650 and is located in a large park with everything for horse riding , and a swimming pool. The have four dogs, three horses and two cats.
I have the luxury of having my own independent room that is separate from the main house and includes a kitchen, bathroom and TV.
They have a house cleaner, Annie and a gardener Michel also who live with them who help around the house and property and take the kids to school when either Roland or Marie can’t. Since I don’t have an international license I won’t be able to do any carpooling.
They are a Catholic family, have a flat in Paris and a flat in the alps, enjoy music, sailing and horse-back riding and they have had au pairs since Delphine, the oldest child, was born.
I have skyped for a couple hours with Marie – Francois and Claire also made an appearance – and they seem to be a wonderful family. Best of all they are very excited to have me as their au pair.
It is comforting to know I now have a “plan” but the decision was difficult. There were many great families who contacted me and one in particular that caught my interest, but in the end my instinct took over and I’m going with the Grenets.
Now I will continue to enjoy Indonesia until July 14 when I will fly to Europe and meet my companions for the next 12 months.
This is a long commitment , but I’m thrilled about this upcoming experience. I’m planning on going home for a couple weeks around Christmas so I will be home again before too long.
Now I’m off to get paperwork and visas in order!
The Grenet family, who live in Aubagne 18 km outside of Marseille, France, have hired me as their au pair.
From August 2010 to July 2011 I will live with Marie, a pediatrician who studied child development in Boston, Roland, who works in alternative energy, Delphine, 20, who is studying in Paris, Lucie, 17, who is now at the lycée (final year of high school), François, 14, who is in his third year of collège (high school), and Claire, 12, who is in her first year of collège.
Marie Grenet contacted me after I set up a profile on aupair-world.net, which links au pairs with families around the world.
They will pay me 400 euros a month, in addition to covering all my living expenses, to be a “big sister” to the kids and and “assistant” to Marie. I will take care of the kids after school and encourage their English skills. I will participate in family activities and help with all household matters such as cooking and doing my part to keep the house tidy.
I will also be taking French classes in the city a couple times a week.
According to Marie, with whom I have been corresponding for two weeks, their house was built in 1650 and is located in a large park with everything for horse riding , and a swimming pool. The have four dogs, three horses and two cats.
I have the luxury of having my own independent room that is separate from the main house and includes a kitchen, bathroom and TV.
They have a house cleaner, Annie and a gardener Michel also who live with them who help around the house and property and take the kids to school when either Roland or Marie can’t. Since I don’t have an international license I won’t be able to do any carpooling.
They are a Catholic family, have a flat in Paris and a flat in the alps, enjoy music, sailing and horse-back riding and they have had au pairs since Delphine, the oldest child, was born.
I have skyped for a couple hours with Marie – Francois and Claire also made an appearance – and they seem to be a wonderful family. Best of all they are very excited to have me as their au pair.
It is comforting to know I now have a “plan” but the decision was difficult. There were many great families who contacted me and one in particular that caught my interest, but in the end my instinct took over and I’m going with the Grenets.
Now I will continue to enjoy Indonesia until July 14 when I will fly to Europe and meet my companions for the next 12 months.
This is a long commitment , but I’m thrilled about this upcoming experience. I’m planning on going home for a couple weeks around Christmas so I will be home again before too long.
Now I’m off to get paperwork and visas in order!
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Board Blues
After only four days of surfing I’m not the owner of a seven-foot faded turquoise long board.
I bought the surfboard today, because I broke it, or rather the waves broke me and the board across a big pile of rocks.
The board is repairable, but the owner was going to charge me for “irreversible damages” so it was almost cheaper for me to buy it, which I did with the hope of selling when I’m ready to leave Bali.
Maybe this is the travel companion I’ve been looking for? It barely fits in my motorbike board rack (it’s a rack and bungie cords attached to the left side of my bike).
I bought the surfboard today, because I broke it, or rather the waves broke me and the board across a big pile of rocks.
The board is repairable, but the owner was going to charge me for “irreversible damages” so it was almost cheaper for me to buy it, which I did with the hope of selling when I’m ready to leave Bali.
Maybe this is the travel companion I’ve been looking for? It barely fits in my motorbike board rack (it’s a rack and bungie cords attached to the left side of my bike).
Sunday, May 23, 2010
A Traditional Balinese Hindu Performance
Last night I went to a Hindu temple to watch a traditional Balinese dance.
The “Kecak Ramayana and Fire Dance” was a combination of ancient ritual, dance, drama, a choir of chanting Balinese men dressed in black pants covered in a black and white checkered skirt, a few women elaborately costumed and painted, a man in a monkey suit and some audience participation.
I was invited to the event by Wayan, who I rented my surf board from and who happens to be a member of the chanting party.
The whole performance was in the out-door auditorium section of the temple which sits a top a cliff looking out over the ocean with neighboring cliffs banking the view to the right and left. The show started at 6 p.m. just as the sun was setting. The view was the best part of the evening.
The hour-long dance, which is more of a five-act drama, told the story of the goddess Sita being tricked into captivity by the god Rhawana and then being saved by her beloved god Rama. (The tale is also told in the movie “The Little Princess” by the main character.)
I had a hard time telling where one act ended and the next began and I never would have understood what was going on if I didn’t have a brochure of information. The costumes were impressive and they chanting continued through the hour—I’m shocked anyone here could have the lung capacity for such a task! They smoke like chimneys starting at the age of eight. My first day in Indonesia I sat with two local guys in an internet café for two hours (there was a routine power outage) and they smoked a whole pack between them. Yes, there are ash trays at every computer and smoking anywhere you want is legal. Your taxi driver will probably be smoking with the windows up and the air-conditioning on.
The performance was colorful, but a bit cheesy at times when they tried to include the audience in the act. I prefer to see a performance stand on it’s own without my or the obnoxious Aussie teenager’s help. But for 70,000 rupee ($7) I experienced some traditional Balinese culture and I felt good about getting off the beach for an hour to enhance my cultural experience.
The “Kecak Ramayana and Fire Dance” was a combination of ancient ritual, dance, drama, a choir of chanting Balinese men dressed in black pants covered in a black and white checkered skirt, a few women elaborately costumed and painted, a man in a monkey suit and some audience participation.
I was invited to the event by Wayan, who I rented my surf board from and who happens to be a member of the chanting party.
The whole performance was in the out-door auditorium section of the temple which sits a top a cliff looking out over the ocean with neighboring cliffs banking the view to the right and left. The show started at 6 p.m. just as the sun was setting. The view was the best part of the evening.
The hour-long dance, which is more of a five-act drama, told the story of the goddess Sita being tricked into captivity by the god Rhawana and then being saved by her beloved god Rama. (The tale is also told in the movie “The Little Princess” by the main character.)
I had a hard time telling where one act ended and the next began and I never would have understood what was going on if I didn’t have a brochure of information. The costumes were impressive and they chanting continued through the hour—I’m shocked anyone here could have the lung capacity for such a task! They smoke like chimneys starting at the age of eight. My first day in Indonesia I sat with two local guys in an internet café for two hours (there was a routine power outage) and they smoked a whole pack between them. Yes, there are ash trays at every computer and smoking anywhere you want is legal. Your taxi driver will probably be smoking with the windows up and the air-conditioning on.
The performance was colorful, but a bit cheesy at times when they tried to include the audience in the act. I prefer to see a performance stand on it’s own without my or the obnoxious Aussie teenager’s help. But for 70,000 rupee ($7) I experienced some traditional Balinese culture and I felt good about getting off the beach for an hour to enhance my cultural experience.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Resting in Bingin
From my balcony I have a panoramic view of the ocean that is flanked by rocky cliffs. About 50 ft. separate me from the sandy shore below.
I’m paying 50,000 rupee (about $5) a night for this beach front paradise with queen-sized bed, mosquito net, fan, and two chairs and a table on the balcony. My perch offers a spectacular view of the surf and the tanned and toned beach boys enjoying the waves.
My first night I hired a board and a local Indonesian boy to teach me to surf and from sunset to dark we took on the waves. I’ve secured the board and the boy’s assistance for a week.
This morning, my first here on Bingin beach, the sun gently woke me by lighting through the gauzy white curtains and mosquito net in my bamboo, thatched room. The ocean breeze and fan-generated wind was cool, so I layed in the giant bed for an extra hour enjoying the first morning in months that I was alone.
I have my second surf lesson at 2 p.m. and until then I’m free to wander about.
So far Bali is being good to me.
I’m paying 50,000 rupee (about $5) a night for this beach front paradise with queen-sized bed, mosquito net, fan, and two chairs and a table on the balcony. My perch offers a spectacular view of the surf and the tanned and toned beach boys enjoying the waves.
My first night I hired a board and a local Indonesian boy to teach me to surf and from sunset to dark we took on the waves. I’ve secured the board and the boy’s assistance for a week.
This morning, my first here on Bingin beach, the sun gently woke me by lighting through the gauzy white curtains and mosquito net in my bamboo, thatched room. The ocean breeze and fan-generated wind was cool, so I layed in the giant bed for an extra hour enjoying the first morning in months that I was alone.
I have my second surf lesson at 2 p.m. and until then I’m free to wander about.
So far Bali is being good to me.
Beginning in Bali
The sun was setting I lugged my backpack out of the Denpensar airport in Bali. I phoned James, an English guy I prearranged to couchsurf with (I contacted him while I was at my friend Kristin’s in Jakarta), but he was tied up until 9 p.m. with work and couldn’t pick me up. My second call for help was to Tianri, James’ Indonesian English teacher, she was also busy and recommended I hang out in Kuta beach until she or James was free.
No problem . I got a taxi and headed for the beach front.
These things are always easier in theory than practice. First I had no idea the lay of the land, where I could just “sit and wait” and if I was even going to have a place to stay the night after all.
The cab dumped me on the water front road of glitzy, glamorous and oozing tourism Kuta. I tramped along the sidewalk with my red shell of a bag, weary from a day of commuting, while girls in high heels and miniskirts strutted with cocktails in tow.
I chatted up a roadside information stand and Jack, the proprietor, let me set my bag with him for a few hours while I walked around making a plan.
The windy narrow streets crowded with vendors and motorbikes all looked alike and I scoured the town for a cheap room (I was forming a backup plan if staying at James’ fell through).
An hour of wandering and I stumbled upon a hotel driveway where a surfer (tan with shoulder-length sun-bleached hair) was chatting in Bahasa Indonesian with the local security guards.
“Excuse me, but do you speak English?” I asked upon approach. “I’m looking for a cheap cheap place to stay. Can you help?”
“Sure. I’m waiting for my friend Joana, then I can take you to a cheap place.”
And so my friendship with Diego from Peru was formed.
Diego had lived in Bali since 1996 and he was seasoned in all things Bali and worked for a surf camp off the coast of Java.
We waited for awhile for his friend, who was a actually his Brazilian ex-wife and his daughter Sophia, who never showed, before bouncing and going to a restaurant for a beer.
Diego, who I discovered was prone to rapid decisions and changing his mind, decided I could just couchsurf and his place.
“You can just stay at my place if you want. And stay as long as you need.”
So we grabbed my things from Jack, and drove away on his motorbike to the upstairs of a traditional open and multi building Balinese house he rented from an elderly couple who lived below.
We drove around that night for hours meeting up with hundreds of his local friends, until I could barely keep my eyes open.
I was finally able to get in touch with James, but since I was secured in a place I offered to meet him another day.
For the next four days I joined Diego along the road of his crazy life. Driving to check out a boat with his Australian boss, swimming while he surfed in the advanced waves and promoted his surf camp, and touring around local eateries.
Friday morning I packed my bags and left in search of my own place. Diego helped direct me and put me in contact with helpful folks and by the end of the day I had my own motorbike, room on the beach and cell phone.
Independence at last.
No problem . I got a taxi and headed for the beach front.
These things are always easier in theory than practice. First I had no idea the lay of the land, where I could just “sit and wait” and if I was even going to have a place to stay the night after all.
The cab dumped me on the water front road of glitzy, glamorous and oozing tourism Kuta. I tramped along the sidewalk with my red shell of a bag, weary from a day of commuting, while girls in high heels and miniskirts strutted with cocktails in tow.
I chatted up a roadside information stand and Jack, the proprietor, let me set my bag with him for a few hours while I walked around making a plan.
The windy narrow streets crowded with vendors and motorbikes all looked alike and I scoured the town for a cheap room (I was forming a backup plan if staying at James’ fell through).
An hour of wandering and I stumbled upon a hotel driveway where a surfer (tan with shoulder-length sun-bleached hair) was chatting in Bahasa Indonesian with the local security guards.
“Excuse me, but do you speak English?” I asked upon approach. “I’m looking for a cheap cheap place to stay. Can you help?”
“Sure. I’m waiting for my friend Joana, then I can take you to a cheap place.”
And so my friendship with Diego from Peru was formed.
Diego had lived in Bali since 1996 and he was seasoned in all things Bali and worked for a surf camp off the coast of Java.
We waited for awhile for his friend, who was a actually his Brazilian ex-wife and his daughter Sophia, who never showed, before bouncing and going to a restaurant for a beer.
Diego, who I discovered was prone to rapid decisions and changing his mind, decided I could just couchsurf and his place.
“You can just stay at my place if you want. And stay as long as you need.”
So we grabbed my things from Jack, and drove away on his motorbike to the upstairs of a traditional open and multi building Balinese house he rented from an elderly couple who lived below.
We drove around that night for hours meeting up with hundreds of his local friends, until I could barely keep my eyes open.
I was finally able to get in touch with James, but since I was secured in a place I offered to meet him another day.
For the next four days I joined Diego along the road of his crazy life. Driving to check out a boat with his Australian boss, swimming while he surfed in the advanced waves and promoted his surf camp, and touring around local eateries.
Friday morning I packed my bags and left in search of my own place. Diego helped direct me and put me in contact with helpful folks and by the end of the day I had my own motorbike, room on the beach and cell phone.
Independence at last.
Pit stop in Jakarta
On my way to Bali I had a 4 day stop-over in Jakarta , a city of over 10 million people, where my friend from university, Kristin, is living and teaching English.
Jakarta is a dirty, noisy, obnoxiously hot and sticky. It is a city built out instead of up and hazardous to anyone on the road. Pedestrian walk-ways are nonexistent and brand new malls are erected adjacent to crumbling piles of cement.
Kristin, Erin, her roommate, and I spent our days catching up, being lazy around the apartment and eating a lot of Indonesian cuisine: satay ayam/kempang (sp?) chicken and goat grilled on sticks over a roadside fire and covered in peanut sauce and Matabak, a giant greasy pancake about two inches thick filled with chocolate.
We went to the wedding ceremony of Kristin’s friend and I spent hours on the computer (free!) applying to be an au pair in France (the responses have been positive), and I hope to have a position secured by June.
The brief visit was nice, but I was eager to get out of the city and head to Bali, so Monday morning I grabbed a taxi to the airport and bought the first ticket out to Bali.
Two hours later I awoke to the lush greenery of Bali.
Jakarta is a dirty, noisy, obnoxiously hot and sticky. It is a city built out instead of up and hazardous to anyone on the road. Pedestrian walk-ways are nonexistent and brand new malls are erected adjacent to crumbling piles of cement.
Kristin, Erin, her roommate, and I spent our days catching up, being lazy around the apartment and eating a lot of Indonesian cuisine: satay ayam/kempang (sp?) chicken and goat grilled on sticks over a roadside fire and covered in peanut sauce and Matabak, a giant greasy pancake about two inches thick filled with chocolate.
We went to the wedding ceremony of Kristin’s friend and I spent hours on the computer (free!) applying to be an au pair in France (the responses have been positive), and I hope to have a position secured by June.
The brief visit was nice, but I was eager to get out of the city and head to Bali, so Monday morning I grabbed a taxi to the airport and bought the first ticket out to Bali.
Two hours later I awoke to the lush greenery of Bali.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Back on Land making my vvay to Bali
The air was thick with heat and made the hair around my face curl irratically. I tucked as many of the frizzy rogue hairs as would reach behind my ears and wiped the sweat from my upper lip and forhead with the back of my hand. Humidity is never kind to my looks and at this particular time I definitely vvasn't particulary put-together. I had spent my final night after five vveeks of sleeping on the sailboat, vvhere I bathed vvith vvater-bottle of rainvvater to rinse off the accumulating sea-salt and svveat and my hair vvas drained of color and moisture from the sun. The culmination of stagnant heat, exhaustion from the 18 hours of sailing, and ill ease about what my next step would be was weighing me down more than the 15 kg backpack caring all my posessions.
Since April 6 I had cruised along on a surfing trip with Kevin, a man I'd met through a Web site for sailors and crew called 7knots.com and now I vvas walking solo around an airport in my first Indonesian city: Pedang.
It had been a remarkable and challenging trip. One I was both grateful for and eager to get away from. I love having my independence and life aboard someone else's boat offered little personal liberty. Especially when the trip revolved around surfing and I'm not an advanced surfer to tackle the Mentavvise island's vvaves. I spent my days swimming, walking, reading and snacking (hundreds of peanuts and bags of popcorn had been consumed in an effort for entertainment), but all activities were conducted in accordance with the vveather and Kevin's surf schedule. VVe anchored in swimmable waters, near walkable beaches or in proximity to reefs, which offered viable snorkling grounds, when and vvhere surf vvas up. I accepted the scenario because I felt priveleged to be immersed in the remote islands and majestic isolation that few have the opportunity to enjoy, but I was ready to break free of the boat and strike out solo again.
Kevin and I had parted vvays in tovvn and I took a taxi 20 km north of tovvn to the airport. Traffic was jammed and cars were pushing their way in and out of a round-about, roadside vendors were sweating over huge pots of curry and unidentifiable meat on sticks, families of five were crammed on motorbikes making their way through the city congestion, the smell of garbage hung in the air and shouts rang out from faceless perpetrators landing on anyone in earshot. Car horns began barking like a pack of dogs.
I closed my eyes, took and deep breath in and smiled. After two months of quiet isolation it was nice to be among the cauos of civilization.
I arrived at the airport by 9:30 a.m. and bought the next ticket out to Jakarta vvith Garuda airlines, vvhich left at 12:30.
I vvas on my vvay to Jakarta to spend the vvekend vvith my friend from Ohio University, Kristin, vvho has been teaching English there since September, before catching another flight to Bali.
Since April 6 I had cruised along on a surfing trip with Kevin, a man I'd met through a Web site for sailors and crew called 7knots.com and now I vvas walking solo around an airport in my first Indonesian city: Pedang.
It had been a remarkable and challenging trip. One I was both grateful for and eager to get away from. I love having my independence and life aboard someone else's boat offered little personal liberty. Especially when the trip revolved around surfing and I'm not an advanced surfer to tackle the Mentavvise island's vvaves. I spent my days swimming, walking, reading and snacking (hundreds of peanuts and bags of popcorn had been consumed in an effort for entertainment), but all activities were conducted in accordance with the vveather and Kevin's surf schedule. VVe anchored in swimmable waters, near walkable beaches or in proximity to reefs, which offered viable snorkling grounds, when and vvhere surf vvas up. I accepted the scenario because I felt priveleged to be immersed in the remote islands and majestic isolation that few have the opportunity to enjoy, but I was ready to break free of the boat and strike out solo again.
Kevin and I had parted vvays in tovvn and I took a taxi 20 km north of tovvn to the airport. Traffic was jammed and cars were pushing their way in and out of a round-about, roadside vendors were sweating over huge pots of curry and unidentifiable meat on sticks, families of five were crammed on motorbikes making their way through the city congestion, the smell of garbage hung in the air and shouts rang out from faceless perpetrators landing on anyone in earshot. Car horns began barking like a pack of dogs.
I closed my eyes, took and deep breath in and smiled. After two months of quiet isolation it was nice to be among the cauos of civilization.
I arrived at the airport by 9:30 a.m. and bought the next ticket out to Jakarta vvith Garuda airlines, vvhich left at 12:30.
I vvas on my vvay to Jakarta to spend the vvekend vvith my friend from Ohio University, Kristin, vvho has been teaching English there since September, before catching another flight to Bali.
Concluding the Sailing trip from Thailand to Indonesia
The night air was cool and the sky had been dark for two hours as the boat, Helena, approached the Padang, Indonesia harbor. The smell of wet cement and cinnamon sugar hung in off-shore wind. The city lights, the first I’d seen in five weeks, were abrasive and disconcerting compared to the island tranquility I’d experienced during the sailing trip from Thailand.
We dropped anchor after 18 hours of motoring, and tired from waking at 4:30 a.m. to start the passage, reflecting on the month and half experience and surveying my options for the next chapter of my adventure, I sunk into a seated position on deck. My final leg of Kevin’s surfing safari 2010 had come to an end.
I fell asleep by 9:30 p.m. reflecting on the trip.
Joining Kevin on his yearly surfing trip through the Mentawise islands off the coast of western Sumatra, Indonesia was the right decision. We didn’t get to do much sailing because the winds weren’t favorable, so we motored most of the time, and after hours of fishing we never caught an edible fish (we snagged a barracuda and a guppy and had to throw both back), but I learned a lot about the yachting lifestyle: sleeping with a pillow wedge so you don’t roll off the bed, cooking on a stove that rocks, living in limited space surrounded by an ocean, swimming around unspoiled islands, walking with villagers along white beaches without a resort in sight, watching professional surfers catch world-renowned waves and feeling intimately connected with nature.
My life was heavily dictated my mother nature’s moods. High winds and heavy rains meant I would be bellow deck reading or collecting water above deck for drinking and laundry. Sun and surf meant we were motoring to where the waves were breaking and I would get to swim in the sea, walk along the beach, and paddle around on a surf board. Sun with no wind and no surf was a hot day spent anchored near a bunch of mangrove trees and sitting under the limited shade of the sail awning.
During the trip I did a lot of reading, thinking and planning for what I would do next….
We dropped anchor after 18 hours of motoring, and tired from waking at 4:30 a.m. to start the passage, reflecting on the month and half experience and surveying my options for the next chapter of my adventure, I sunk into a seated position on deck. My final leg of Kevin’s surfing safari 2010 had come to an end.
I fell asleep by 9:30 p.m. reflecting on the trip.
Joining Kevin on his yearly surfing trip through the Mentawise islands off the coast of western Sumatra, Indonesia was the right decision. We didn’t get to do much sailing because the winds weren’t favorable, so we motored most of the time, and after hours of fishing we never caught an edible fish (we snagged a barracuda and a guppy and had to throw both back), but I learned a lot about the yachting lifestyle: sleeping with a pillow wedge so you don’t roll off the bed, cooking on a stove that rocks, living in limited space surrounded by an ocean, swimming around unspoiled islands, walking with villagers along white beaches without a resort in sight, watching professional surfers catch world-renowned waves and feeling intimately connected with nature.
My life was heavily dictated my mother nature’s moods. High winds and heavy rains meant I would be bellow deck reading or collecting water above deck for drinking and laundry. Sun and surf meant we were motoring to where the waves were breaking and I would get to swim in the sea, walk along the beach, and paddle around on a surf board. Sun with no wind and no surf was a hot day spent anchored near a bunch of mangrove trees and sitting under the limited shade of the sail awning.
During the trip I did a lot of reading, thinking and planning for what I would do next….
A bald island
My favorite island in the Mentuis has one resilient coconut tree.
A mere 100 sq feet of golden sand support this lonely piece of vvood from being another flotsome ( a floating log) Kevin maneuvers the boat around.
In an area full of lushly wooded islands with world-class breaking waves, this bald island awkwardly holds its own. The ocean is eroding it from all sides and in a few years it will be a memory.
Nature is constantly changing, but I admire the courage of this piece of land for not going down without a fight.
The rest of the islands are transforming as well, but instead of mother nature orchestrating the music, it’s man making noise.
The islands in the Mentowise are lush, sandy pictures of paradise and the graceful waves the breach the shores arouse the desire of surfers from around the world and from every socio-economic background. (Well all the islands except my “Charlie Brown” sandbox of an island.)
The Mentowise islands are off the western coast of Sumatra, Indonesia and are renovvned for their vvaves. Surfers flock here by speed boats from Sumatra.
For the budget travelers there are losmans, cheap rooms or homestays that offer basic accommodation including a bed and a mosquito net. Or for a higher price, and level of comfort, resorts offer western conveniences including internet and air-conditioning. Both are mostly catering to the surfers: losmans have walking trails that lead to waves and resorts have speed boats that cart guests around to the happening waves.
In the water it doesn’t seem to matter where you’ve come from because everyone is there for the same dream: to ride a perfect barrel.
The seasonal (about May to September) fleet of buzzing boats and boards is grovving.
Kevin has been coming to the same surf for four years and “I’d be the only one in the water during this time of year,” he says everyday when we pull the boat up to the surf and see 15 guys making a splash.
Things are achangin around here. Word is out about the tropical paradise and the world is moving in.
Around the island Kevin and I frequent, which has waves: bang-bang, ebay, pit stop and napussy, I’ve met (or at least watched through binoculars guys and girls from Canada, USA, Argentina, Japan, France and Australia surfing.
I don't meet many people because I steer clear of the reef-breaking surf, but it's amazing to vvatch people successfully surf these advanced vvaves -- and painful to vvatch them vvipe out.
My hope is that vvhile this place vvill continues to grovv in popularity it can maintain its unspoiled beauty and the "little guys" like my favorite island are overlooked or pushed aside.
A mere 100 sq feet of golden sand support this lonely piece of vvood from being another flotsome ( a floating log) Kevin maneuvers the boat around.
In an area full of lushly wooded islands with world-class breaking waves, this bald island awkwardly holds its own. The ocean is eroding it from all sides and in a few years it will be a memory.
Nature is constantly changing, but I admire the courage of this piece of land for not going down without a fight.
The rest of the islands are transforming as well, but instead of mother nature orchestrating the music, it’s man making noise.
The islands in the Mentowise are lush, sandy pictures of paradise and the graceful waves the breach the shores arouse the desire of surfers from around the world and from every socio-economic background. (Well all the islands except my “Charlie Brown” sandbox of an island.)
The Mentowise islands are off the western coast of Sumatra, Indonesia and are renovvned for their vvaves. Surfers flock here by speed boats from Sumatra.
For the budget travelers there are losmans, cheap rooms or homestays that offer basic accommodation including a bed and a mosquito net. Or for a higher price, and level of comfort, resorts offer western conveniences including internet and air-conditioning. Both are mostly catering to the surfers: losmans have walking trails that lead to waves and resorts have speed boats that cart guests around to the happening waves.
In the water it doesn’t seem to matter where you’ve come from because everyone is there for the same dream: to ride a perfect barrel.
The seasonal (about May to September) fleet of buzzing boats and boards is grovving.
Kevin has been coming to the same surf for four years and “I’d be the only one in the water during this time of year,” he says everyday when we pull the boat up to the surf and see 15 guys making a splash.
Things are achangin around here. Word is out about the tropical paradise and the world is moving in.
Around the island Kevin and I frequent, which has waves: bang-bang, ebay, pit stop and napussy, I’ve met (or at least watched through binoculars guys and girls from Canada, USA, Argentina, Japan, France and Australia surfing.
I don't meet many people because I steer clear of the reef-breaking surf, but it's amazing to vvatch people successfully surf these advanced vvaves -- and painful to vvatch them vvipe out.
My hope is that vvhile this place vvill continues to grovv in popularity it can maintain its unspoiled beauty and the "little guys" like my favorite island are overlooked or pushed aside.
A potential police problem
For what felt like the hundredth time Aloita’s internet server kicked me off and I had to log back into the network to start the email I was typing over again.
On Wednesday, April 28, Kevin and I sailed four hours to Aloita, an island resort with internet access and potentially diesel fuel for our hungry tank.
My plan was to spend the entire day toiling away on Kevin’s lap top completing every item on my internet to-do list, which had been growing during my disconnected three weeks on the boat.
The very kind and very attractive Italian couple, Monique and Marco, who managed the resort set me up in the open-air bar/restaurant with a view out to the ocean, provided me with my own login and password and offered coffee.
Their generosity was lavish, and I felt exceedingly guilty for cursing the internet connection and asking for their assistance every 5 minutes once the network decided to refuse my login information a dozen times in a row.
I was working at a snails pace, racing the poor connection, logging on for a sentence and saving the work before the connection was lost. My “to-dos” weren’t going anywhere.
Soon I was sweating in frustration, although it was very hot for 9 a.m., and the interruptions continued when a boat full of men in uniforms poured onto the resort’s beach.
“We are hosting a banquet for the police tomorrow,” Monique explained.
“Oh so are these all the local officials coming now to help set-up?” I asked instantly concerned about mine and Kevin’s illegal country status (we hadn’t officially checked into the country yet – nor were we planning to for another month – and the officials would quickly notice the missing Indonesian stamps in our passports if they got curious about our standing.) The men, some of whom were sporting weapons, were holding up banners and helping Marco carry chairs.
Super.
I kissed Monique on both cheeks, grabbed all my belongings, and ran to meet Kevin in the dingy.
“We need to go now,” Kevin said. He didn’t need my explanation of the situation and 15 minutes later we were pulling up the anchor and driving away.
I spent almost three hours of broken internet connection responding to emails, corresponding with family and friends and frantically posting to my blog (You may have noticed some erratic writings and more than normal misspellings…I blame it on the lack of time for proof-reading.). At the rate I was going I would have needed another week to work, but unfinished business (even if it was the only internet opportunity I would have until today) was better than landing in an Indonesian jail.
On Wednesday, April 28, Kevin and I sailed four hours to Aloita, an island resort with internet access and potentially diesel fuel for our hungry tank.
My plan was to spend the entire day toiling away on Kevin’s lap top completing every item on my internet to-do list, which had been growing during my disconnected three weeks on the boat.
The very kind and very attractive Italian couple, Monique and Marco, who managed the resort set me up in the open-air bar/restaurant with a view out to the ocean, provided me with my own login and password and offered coffee.
Their generosity was lavish, and I felt exceedingly guilty for cursing the internet connection and asking for their assistance every 5 minutes once the network decided to refuse my login information a dozen times in a row.
I was working at a snails pace, racing the poor connection, logging on for a sentence and saving the work before the connection was lost. My “to-dos” weren’t going anywhere.
Soon I was sweating in frustration, although it was very hot for 9 a.m., and the interruptions continued when a boat full of men in uniforms poured onto the resort’s beach.
“We are hosting a banquet for the police tomorrow,” Monique explained.
“Oh so are these all the local officials coming now to help set-up?” I asked instantly concerned about mine and Kevin’s illegal country status (we hadn’t officially checked into the country yet – nor were we planning to for another month – and the officials would quickly notice the missing Indonesian stamps in our passports if they got curious about our standing.) The men, some of whom were sporting weapons, were holding up banners and helping Marco carry chairs.
Super.
I kissed Monique on both cheeks, grabbed all my belongings, and ran to meet Kevin in the dingy.
“We need to go now,” Kevin said. He didn’t need my explanation of the situation and 15 minutes later we were pulling up the anchor and driving away.
I spent almost three hours of broken internet connection responding to emails, corresponding with family and friends and frantically posting to my blog (You may have noticed some erratic writings and more than normal misspellings…I blame it on the lack of time for proof-reading.). At the rate I was going I would have needed another week to work, but unfinished business (even if it was the only internet opportunity I would have until today) was better than landing in an Indonesian jail.
Not your “mama”
The Indonesians call me “mama,” which to them is a title of endearment and respect, I think. The refer to all foreign women and Indonesian women of a certain age in the same way, but to me and my western background it is less than flattering .
To me a “mama” is a southern broad who has birthed a half dozen kids and who spends her time chasing the rugrats out of her kitchen with a giant wooden spoon and dressed in a mou-mou dress and apron. “Mama” sounds soft and old and feels huggable in a home-comforty.
I’m 22, sometimes stylish and certainly not a parent, and don’t want to be a “mama.”
But since they mean well I smile and accept the label, knowing that the Indonesians don’t identify the same image I’ve associated with the term.
To me a “mama” is a southern broad who has birthed a half dozen kids and who spends her time chasing the rugrats out of her kitchen with a giant wooden spoon and dressed in a mou-mou dress and apron. “Mama” sounds soft and old and feels huggable in a home-comforty.
I’m 22, sometimes stylish and certainly not a parent, and don’t want to be a “mama.”
But since they mean well I smile and accept the label, knowing that the Indonesians don’t identify the same image I’ve associated with the term.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Fourth Post: Finances
I’ve been reviewing my finances this morning- I printed off my bank statements before the boat trip – and it’s an ugly and disappointing picture. I’ve spent 3x what I planned to spend and made back a fraction of what I expected to make from working in New Zealand.
In cold hard numbers that means I’ve spent $3,124.27 in eight months, and I expected to spend a third of that over the course of twelve months. (I won’t need to spend any money until June 1 when I leave Kevin’s boat for Bali, Indonesia. For now I have no expenses.)
My book-keeping skills are terrible because I avoid doing things I don’t want to do, like my finances. I’m much better at spending money and leading a life of instant gratification than I am at saving money and sticking to a budget that limits my “fun”.
Because I haven’t kept a close eye on my pocketbook I’ve let many little expenditures go unnoticed…they add up.
My only saving grace has come from the deposits made by my family and the government. Thank you for the birthday and Christmas money and the tax returns! Because of their generosity my total loss is $2,253.12, which is a better, but not ideal, sum.
I’m not exposing my financial situation in hopes of handouts, but to explain the reality of my situation and one of my biggest stresses: money. It controls my every move and is always heavy on my mind. Everything costs more than I expect it to. I make mistakes that are costly and I indulge myself too often.
My biggest problem is I have a hard time facing reality and making changes. Even right now as I write this I’m struggling with myself. I don’t want to be doing this because if I see the problem then I’m responsible for finding and executing a solution, which inevitable means making changes.
My head is beginning to hurt and my eyes are growing heaving. “Take a rest, lay down, and come back to this later,” a voice inside is encouraging. But I know that “later” is the only time that never arrives. This is the same voice that convinces me that I deserve every indulgence I make with no consideration for moderation.
I have an incredible intolerance for doing things I don’t want to do, especially the things that will benefit (usually in the long run) like spending frugally/ sticking to a budget, exercising (even when it’s hot or cold) and eating healthy and in moderation (no matter how much I love chocolate).
Ironically I have an incredibly high tolerance for doing things that other people want me to do or putting up with what others inflict on me such as listening to unwanted noise or traveling by means or to a location not of my choosing. Sure I will ride an uncomfortable bus for 30 hours while the girl next to me tells me her whole life and I will smile through the whole excruciating process, but not buying the sarong I want or not eating the extra sticky rice and mango I crave is unbearable.
In cold hard numbers that means I’ve spent $3,124.27 in eight months, and I expected to spend a third of that over the course of twelve months. (I won’t need to spend any money until June 1 when I leave Kevin’s boat for Bali, Indonesia. For now I have no expenses.)
My book-keeping skills are terrible because I avoid doing things I don’t want to do, like my finances. I’m much better at spending money and leading a life of instant gratification than I am at saving money and sticking to a budget that limits my “fun”.
Because I haven’t kept a close eye on my pocketbook I’ve let many little expenditures go unnoticed…they add up.
My only saving grace has come from the deposits made by my family and the government. Thank you for the birthday and Christmas money and the tax returns! Because of their generosity my total loss is $2,253.12, which is a better, but not ideal, sum.
I’m not exposing my financial situation in hopes of handouts, but to explain the reality of my situation and one of my biggest stresses: money. It controls my every move and is always heavy on my mind. Everything costs more than I expect it to. I make mistakes that are costly and I indulge myself too often.
My biggest problem is I have a hard time facing reality and making changes. Even right now as I write this I’m struggling with myself. I don’t want to be doing this because if I see the problem then I’m responsible for finding and executing a solution, which inevitable means making changes.
My head is beginning to hurt and my eyes are growing heaving. “Take a rest, lay down, and come back to this later,” a voice inside is encouraging. But I know that “later” is the only time that never arrives. This is the same voice that convinces me that I deserve every indulgence I make with no consideration for moderation.
I have an incredible intolerance for doing things I don’t want to do, especially the things that will benefit (usually in the long run) like spending frugally/ sticking to a budget, exercising (even when it’s hot or cold) and eating healthy and in moderation (no matter how much I love chocolate).
Ironically I have an incredibly high tolerance for doing things that other people want me to do or putting up with what others inflict on me such as listening to unwanted noise or traveling by means or to a location not of my choosing. Sure I will ride an uncomfortable bus for 30 hours while the girl next to me tells me her whole life and I will smile through the whole excruciating process, but not buying the sarong I want or not eating the extra sticky rice and mango I crave is unbearable.
Third post
The imperfect rug that was to be my future source of income was pulled out from under me.
The French Teaching Assistantship program emailed me my rejection letter on April 6. (I found out about it on April 25, an extra month of unnecessary worry since I applied in November.)
I was disappointed and a bit surprised that I didn’t get the job, which would have been a 20 hour, 750 euro, a week teaching position in a French elementary, intermediate, or high school assisting the English and cultural studies.
Disappointed because I want to live in France to experience the culture, learn the language and use it as a base to travel other European countries; surprised because I applied for a position a year ago and was accepted into an academy in Toulouse, France, but I rejected the placement in favor of my year of traveling with Katie.
Had I gotten the job I wouldn’t be much better off because I’m not qualified, nor interested, in teaching. Being a teacher was a means to do all the traveling and generate some income in France, a country I’ve been interested in my entire life with one of two languages I studied in school (Spanish being the second).
So although it had little to potential of being perfect, at least it was a plan. Now the future is completely unknown and I’m afraid, albeit a bit excited, about the possibilities. However, other than working as an Au pair, the options are limited. I’m not fluent in anything but English and I really have no qualifications for a career. I managed to make it 22 years skill less, with little going for me than a friendly disposition and a optimistic attitude. As of right now I wouldn’t even be qualified to be a waitress or a barista in France (or any country unwilling to train me).
This bleak realization terrifies and depresses me. What am I going to do? What can I do?
Ultimately I’d like to find something I want to do that can earn me money, but discovering desirable work has been a source of constant worry for my entire life (maybe not when I was five, but as soon as I come to realize everyone has to earn money to live.)
I’ve pursued many job path, although I’ve never given 100 percent of my effort because I’ve yet to find a pursuit I was very passionate about or at least not wrought with doubts, so mostly I’m treading water without committing to a direction. Landing, or sticking, in a job I hate terrifies me, and allowing misunderstood dreams and talents to evaporate (I believe everyone has a purpose and special talents.) seems breaking beyond recovery. Around every corner could be the clue to revealing a career that would bring me the greatest joy and satisfaction. So, I’m stalling, and most of the time just avoiding, commitment. Maybe the French could feel my insincerity.
It’s not that I don’t understand the necessity of work, and I like to think I’ve done my fair share of unwanted occupations.
I’ve toiled through every menial job that high school and struggling college student endure, but I’ve also applied to more “adult” or “long-term” positions with the Peace Corps, Americorps, French Teaching Assistantship Program, Ohio University Communication and Marketing department.
About one year ago I was pursuing all these opportunities, as well as exploring the possibility of traveling around the world for a year with Katie, and wondering if I should do something with my hard-earned journalism degree.
While these ideas were percolating, my deadlines were passing by unattended. Some I worked on for two years before running away from the opportunity because they wanted me to have six months of community development experience or better language skills and I felt unfit for the challenge (or rather the commitment).
Whether I find work I adore or not the bottom line is I have to start generating an income.
Upon reassessing the situation (my resume if you will) here is where I stand: I’m a 22-year-old female with no skills. I have a degree in magazine journalism that is basically worth less than the ink on my diploma because I don’t have the desire or talent to make it in the industry. Acquiring my degree has put me $20,000 in dept (and rising thanks to the interest) – extra salt in the wound. I enjoy traveling, dancing, horseback riding, food (cooking and eating), reading, films, yoga, learning (my interests are short lived and my attention span even shorter), and any adventure and outdoor activity man has created. I see little potential in finding a career that encompasses one of the above mentioned interests, nor do I feel I could devote myself to developing one into a career path.
I wish I were someone who could accept the past and move on, but when I look at my present circumstances it’s hard not to have regrets.
I wish I had worked harder in school and actually learned something instead of working for a grade. I wish I had started thinking earlier about what I want to do and not what others wanted me to do, and I wish I’d discovered how to love myself and honor my personal happiness without external praise and approval.
This sounds depressing, and I should mention that I’m writing this after just hearing the rejection, but this is a sad situation I’ve been thinking about since I walked across a stage wearing a tasseled cap and white gown almost one year ago.
Regardless of how bleak things look, I willingly admit that I have (past and present) a great and very very blessed life. I have a wonderful family who loves me despite not understanding me, and my friends are an invaluable support system that has helped carry me through obstacles I couldn’t have managed alone.
So no matter what happens I have plenty of people to fall back on – and places to live – until I can get my act, somewhat, together.
A working world awaits me…good thing I’m in the middle of the ocean and can’t actually act until I get off the boat
The French Teaching Assistantship program emailed me my rejection letter on April 6. (I found out about it on April 25, an extra month of unnecessary worry since I applied in November.)
I was disappointed and a bit surprised that I didn’t get the job, which would have been a 20 hour, 750 euro, a week teaching position in a French elementary, intermediate, or high school assisting the English and cultural studies.
Disappointed because I want to live in France to experience the culture, learn the language and use it as a base to travel other European countries; surprised because I applied for a position a year ago and was accepted into an academy in Toulouse, France, but I rejected the placement in favor of my year of traveling with Katie.
Had I gotten the job I wouldn’t be much better off because I’m not qualified, nor interested, in teaching. Being a teacher was a means to do all the traveling and generate some income in France, a country I’ve been interested in my entire life with one of two languages I studied in school (Spanish being the second).
So although it had little to potential of being perfect, at least it was a plan. Now the future is completely unknown and I’m afraid, albeit a bit excited, about the possibilities. However, other than working as an Au pair, the options are limited. I’m not fluent in anything but English and I really have no qualifications for a career. I managed to make it 22 years skill less, with little going for me than a friendly disposition and a optimistic attitude. As of right now I wouldn’t even be qualified to be a waitress or a barista in France (or any country unwilling to train me).
This bleak realization terrifies and depresses me. What am I going to do? What can I do?
Ultimately I’d like to find something I want to do that can earn me money, but discovering desirable work has been a source of constant worry for my entire life (maybe not when I was five, but as soon as I come to realize everyone has to earn money to live.)
I’ve pursued many job path, although I’ve never given 100 percent of my effort because I’ve yet to find a pursuit I was very passionate about or at least not wrought with doubts, so mostly I’m treading water without committing to a direction. Landing, or sticking, in a job I hate terrifies me, and allowing misunderstood dreams and talents to evaporate (I believe everyone has a purpose and special talents.) seems breaking beyond recovery. Around every corner could be the clue to revealing a career that would bring me the greatest joy and satisfaction. So, I’m stalling, and most of the time just avoiding, commitment. Maybe the French could feel my insincerity.
It’s not that I don’t understand the necessity of work, and I like to think I’ve done my fair share of unwanted occupations.
I’ve toiled through every menial job that high school and struggling college student endure, but I’ve also applied to more “adult” or “long-term” positions with the Peace Corps, Americorps, French Teaching Assistantship Program, Ohio University Communication and Marketing department.
About one year ago I was pursuing all these opportunities, as well as exploring the possibility of traveling around the world for a year with Katie, and wondering if I should do something with my hard-earned journalism degree.
While these ideas were percolating, my deadlines were passing by unattended. Some I worked on for two years before running away from the opportunity because they wanted me to have six months of community development experience or better language skills and I felt unfit for the challenge (or rather the commitment).
Whether I find work I adore or not the bottom line is I have to start generating an income.
Upon reassessing the situation (my resume if you will) here is where I stand: I’m a 22-year-old female with no skills. I have a degree in magazine journalism that is basically worth less than the ink on my diploma because I don’t have the desire or talent to make it in the industry. Acquiring my degree has put me $20,000 in dept (and rising thanks to the interest) – extra salt in the wound. I enjoy traveling, dancing, horseback riding, food (cooking and eating), reading, films, yoga, learning (my interests are short lived and my attention span even shorter), and any adventure and outdoor activity man has created. I see little potential in finding a career that encompasses one of the above mentioned interests, nor do I feel I could devote myself to developing one into a career path.
I wish I were someone who could accept the past and move on, but when I look at my present circumstances it’s hard not to have regrets.
I wish I had worked harder in school and actually learned something instead of working for a grade. I wish I had started thinking earlier about what I want to do and not what others wanted me to do, and I wish I’d discovered how to love myself and honor my personal happiness without external praise and approval.
This sounds depressing, and I should mention that I’m writing this after just hearing the rejection, but this is a sad situation I’ve been thinking about since I walked across a stage wearing a tasseled cap and white gown almost one year ago.
Regardless of how bleak things look, I willingly admit that I have (past and present) a great and very very blessed life. I have a wonderful family who loves me despite not understanding me, and my friends are an invaluable support system that has helped carry me through obstacles I couldn’t have managed alone.
So no matter what happens I have plenty of people to fall back on – and places to live – until I can get my act, somewhat, together.
A working world awaits me…good thing I’m in the middle of the ocean and can’t actually act until I get off the boat
Second post
I hate writing because I’m afraid I’m incompetent and I have nothing to say of any value.
I hate writing, for my blog, in response to emails and in my journal, because it is difficult. It’s hard to think of what to say, how I want to say it and what do people want to hear. Reading, my writing, received emails and books, is much more enjoyable, passive and therefore effortless, and it’s a preferred way to spend my time. Putting forth effort when I’m unsure of the outcome is disagreeable to me.
It’s ironic that I spent thousands of dollars at a university “learning” how to write (fyi I’m no better for the time and money spent) and I’ve managed to convince many acquaintances that this is a passion and pursuit of mine.
When I feel obligated to write, which occurs multiple times a day because I feel obligated to update my blog, correspond to family and friends, and document my experiences and feelings, I wrestle with the idea, realize I don’t know what to write, and then turn to an easier option such as reading a book or watching a movie, usually accompanied by a consolation snack. “It’s ok, maybe you will think of something to say later. Perhaps this book will inspire great ideas and reveal personal insight. Indulge in the easier pastime and forget worrying about what you’re not doing because that won’t help the situation, says my internal rational”
I love reading and watching because I recognize others’ competence and insight and entertainment value.
In this manner I’ve plowed through eight books and almost two dozen movies in less than three weeks. On average I finish a book every other day and Kevin and I watch a new movie every night, plus I have watched a few during rainy afternoons. Because I’m constantly engrossed in characters’ lives my emotions and feelings are raw and confused. (Hence I never know what to write about because I can’t extract mine from my entertainers’. Fantasy and reality are overly intertwined in my mind and my spirit is suffocating on the confusion.)
When I read a story about a young girl who moves to Switzerland in pursuit of her dreams I feel I am lost in search of dreams that I can’t identify. “I want to move and act in chase of my dreams! But first, what are my dreams? And where do I need to move to discover them? ” My internal voice is a real worrier and she tends to stress…
Then later in the day I watch a movie about a couple brought together by destiny, separated by the world only to conquer all obstacles and finish their lives together in eternal love and happiness. “I need to find my true love that will produce endless joy in my life!” But then the next movie or book is about an independent artist who walks through the world to her own beat and discovers that only she can bring about contentment and meaning to her life. “Forget needing others. I’m an independent, competent person who doesn’t need to rely on anyone. Oh and I should get into art again.”
I hope I’m only this fickle below the surface.
The internal mayhem prevents me from personal understanding and therefore inhibits my ability to communicate (through my writing). How in the hell am I supposed to convey in worlds in some intelligible order the things I can’t sort out within myself. How can I communicate intimately without when I can’t figure out what’s going on within?
Good grief…thanks for hanging in there with me and enduring my personal struggles. Certain friends and family will find this bipolar and manic behavior familiar. And all can rest assured that this is only the workings of a moment. Now that I’ve hurled a few words onto paper (or screen) the wheels are greased for more. I usually have to throw a tantrum before I can settle into peaceful acceptance. The struggle of what to say remains but the freak-out of not knowing if what I say is good or if anyone will care is tapered off a bit.
I think I have to care way too much (and cry) before I can care an appropriate amount and move past my mania.
I hate writing, for my blog, in response to emails and in my journal, because it is difficult. It’s hard to think of what to say, how I want to say it and what do people want to hear. Reading, my writing, received emails and books, is much more enjoyable, passive and therefore effortless, and it’s a preferred way to spend my time. Putting forth effort when I’m unsure of the outcome is disagreeable to me.
It’s ironic that I spent thousands of dollars at a university “learning” how to write (fyi I’m no better for the time and money spent) and I’ve managed to convince many acquaintances that this is a passion and pursuit of mine.
When I feel obligated to write, which occurs multiple times a day because I feel obligated to update my blog, correspond to family and friends, and document my experiences and feelings, I wrestle with the idea, realize I don’t know what to write, and then turn to an easier option such as reading a book or watching a movie, usually accompanied by a consolation snack. “It’s ok, maybe you will think of something to say later. Perhaps this book will inspire great ideas and reveal personal insight. Indulge in the easier pastime and forget worrying about what you’re not doing because that won’t help the situation, says my internal rational”
I love reading and watching because I recognize others’ competence and insight and entertainment value.
In this manner I’ve plowed through eight books and almost two dozen movies in less than three weeks. On average I finish a book every other day and Kevin and I watch a new movie every night, plus I have watched a few during rainy afternoons. Because I’m constantly engrossed in characters’ lives my emotions and feelings are raw and confused. (Hence I never know what to write about because I can’t extract mine from my entertainers’. Fantasy and reality are overly intertwined in my mind and my spirit is suffocating on the confusion.)
When I read a story about a young girl who moves to Switzerland in pursuit of her dreams I feel I am lost in search of dreams that I can’t identify. “I want to move and act in chase of my dreams! But first, what are my dreams? And where do I need to move to discover them? ” My internal voice is a real worrier and she tends to stress…
Then later in the day I watch a movie about a couple brought together by destiny, separated by the world only to conquer all obstacles and finish their lives together in eternal love and happiness. “I need to find my true love that will produce endless joy in my life!” But then the next movie or book is about an independent artist who walks through the world to her own beat and discovers that only she can bring about contentment and meaning to her life. “Forget needing others. I’m an independent, competent person who doesn’t need to rely on anyone. Oh and I should get into art again.”
I hope I’m only this fickle below the surface.
The internal mayhem prevents me from personal understanding and therefore inhibits my ability to communicate (through my writing). How in the hell am I supposed to convey in worlds in some intelligible order the things I can’t sort out within myself. How can I communicate intimately without when I can’t figure out what’s going on within?
Good grief…thanks for hanging in there with me and enduring my personal struggles. Certain friends and family will find this bipolar and manic behavior familiar. And all can rest assured that this is only the workings of a moment. Now that I’ve hurled a few words onto paper (or screen) the wheels are greased for more. I usually have to throw a tantrum before I can settle into peaceful acceptance. The struggle of what to say remains but the freak-out of not knowing if what I say is good or if anyone will care is tapered off a bit.
I think I have to care way too much (and cry) before I can care an appropriate amount and move past my mania.
THE START OF A SERIES (or personal rant...)- first post
When Kevin offered to take me on his two-month boat trip I envisioned hours of reading, writing, walking, swimming and lot’s of meditation and personal reflection.
It was this latter pursuit that most attracted me because I felt that I’m in a pivotal point in my life that deserves some contemplation.
After about eight months on the road I haven’t become the person I want to be or materialized a life I’m satisfied with, and running away from the familiar hasn’t absolved me of issues and opened me to self discovery that I’d hoped the trying and personally revealing circumstances on the road would cure.
I haven’t discovered my dreams and passions that could be converted into a career; I’ve met people and seen places but I haven’t found romantic love or contentment; and I haven’t found an enjoyable way to improve my negative bank account or something that inspires an enduring passion. (Traveling has allowed me to see as many wonderful places and people and uncover attractive possibilities but there are deeper and longer lasting benefits and resolutions I want to secure.)
Reality is such that I have to make some decisions about the next chapter of my life, regardless of the personal growth and discovery yet to be achieved, and that is why a time of reflection was appealing.
The next set of blog posts are going to address the worries and personal struggles that sit heavy on my shoulders and occupy a large part of my thoughts and brain power. I want to expose my soul a bit and address the things I think about no matter if I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Ohio, meditating atop a mountain in New Zealand or sailing around sandy beaches in Thailand. My hopes, fears, and struggles go with me.
It was this latter pursuit that most attracted me because I felt that I’m in a pivotal point in my life that deserves some contemplation.
After about eight months on the road I haven’t become the person I want to be or materialized a life I’m satisfied with, and running away from the familiar hasn’t absolved me of issues and opened me to self discovery that I’d hoped the trying and personally revealing circumstances on the road would cure.
I haven’t discovered my dreams and passions that could be converted into a career; I’ve met people and seen places but I haven’t found romantic love or contentment; and I haven’t found an enjoyable way to improve my negative bank account or something that inspires an enduring passion. (Traveling has allowed me to see as many wonderful places and people and uncover attractive possibilities but there are deeper and longer lasting benefits and resolutions I want to secure.)
Reality is such that I have to make some decisions about the next chapter of my life, regardless of the personal growth and discovery yet to be achieved, and that is why a time of reflection was appealing.
The next set of blog posts are going to address the worries and personal struggles that sit heavy on my shoulders and occupy a large part of my thoughts and brain power. I want to expose my soul a bit and address the things I think about no matter if I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Ohio, meditating atop a mountain in New Zealand or sailing around sandy beaches in Thailand. My hopes, fears, and struggles go with me.
Thursday April 15, 2010 (Day 9)
Its 3 p.m., the sun is out, the wind is calm and we are in a protected anchorage in the north end of Nias, so the boat isn’t rocking. I could almost forget that I’m on a boat except that I can’t leave.
When I woke this morning at 6:30 a.m. it was raining and a strong southwesterly wind was blowing, which is only a problem if you need to travel southwest. Now the weather is improved, but leaving is no longer an option because the next stop is 11 hours away and traveling and anchoring at night isn’t a favorable option.
(The distance of other boats is difficult to judge at night, and Indonesia is plagued with floating logs from the densely wooded islands that are impossible to see in the dark.)
To pass the time I have watched two movies, snacked, read, wrote and listened to an hour of news by the BBC. There are 7 hours left in my day.
Kevin and I are isolated on 32 feet of boat because going ashore isn’t an option for two reasons. The first and main reason is we aren’t legally permitted to be in Indonesian waters until May 1 and going ashore will likely provoke interest among the locals and potentially cause us problems if any officials, known for their corruption, curiosity and want of bribery, ask for paperwork. Second, the dingy, which is the small inflatable and motorized boat used to get to and from the sail boat, is stowed on deck and even if it was in the water where would I go?
It’s a lazy day, one that doesn’t leave me feeling completely guilty for indulging in hours of mindless entertainment, because my options are limited. I’ve managed to get a bit of writing done, so my day doesn’t feel like a complete waste of time, but I can’t help but feel like sloth about once an hour – or at least between movies.
When I woke this morning at 6:30 a.m. it was raining and a strong southwesterly wind was blowing, which is only a problem if you need to travel southwest. Now the weather is improved, but leaving is no longer an option because the next stop is 11 hours away and traveling and anchoring at night isn’t a favorable option.
(The distance of other boats is difficult to judge at night, and Indonesia is plagued with floating logs from the densely wooded islands that are impossible to see in the dark.)
To pass the time I have watched two movies, snacked, read, wrote and listened to an hour of news by the BBC. There are 7 hours left in my day.
Kevin and I are isolated on 32 feet of boat because going ashore isn’t an option for two reasons. The first and main reason is we aren’t legally permitted to be in Indonesian waters until May 1 and going ashore will likely provoke interest among the locals and potentially cause us problems if any officials, known for their corruption, curiosity and want of bribery, ask for paperwork. Second, the dingy, which is the small inflatable and motorized boat used to get to and from the sail boat, is stowed on deck and even if it was in the water where would I go?
It’s a lazy day, one that doesn’t leave me feeling completely guilty for indulging in hours of mindless entertainment, because my options are limited. I’ve managed to get a bit of writing done, so my day doesn’t feel like a complete waste of time, but I can’t help but feel like sloth about once an hour – or at least between movies.
Tuesday April 6, 2010 (Day 1)
The anchor was pulled, the main sail was left down (no wind) and the diesel engine was started. By 7 a.m. we were pulling out of Chalong harbor in Phuket, Thialand and heading toward Sumatra, Indonesia.
It had been my second night and third day spent on Helena, Kevin’s sailboat, and my home on water for the next seven weeks.
Yesterday we checked out with the harbor master, immigration and customs and today we set sail (or rather motor).
We maneuvered through dozens of boats, passed rocky islands and a few hours later there was no land in sight. The sun was high and a familiar motion sickness feeling was keeping me quieter than usual, but Kevin maintained his end of conversation.
So far, between all my boating experiences, which includes the trip with Gary from Malaysia to Thailand and the countless ferries I’ve ridden, I’ve yet to experience full-on sea-sickness. I have not been incapacitated by ceaseless vomiting, pounding headaches or incessant sweating. Unfortunately, I do often in the middle of the afternoon, feel slightly nauseous, fatigued, severely aware of the heat, throbbing between my temples and a very strong desire to lie down in silence.
I’ve managed to will myself out of succumbing to the ill feelings, but I don’t feel like singing and dancing.
Tonight will be my first night watch because we are running for 48 hours nonstop and Kevin and I will rotate being awake through the next two nights. While on watch it’s important to make sure we are running on course and not getting hit or hitting other boats.
I’m not nervous about staying awake (my night shift is from 8 p.m. to 3 a.m.) but I am worried I will do something wrong like misread the GPS (thank goodness most sailors have upgraded to modern technology and rarely use paper charts and maps anymore!) or misjudge the distance of another boat? This is Kevin’s home, without insurance, and for seven hours I will be responsible for her wellbeing.
It had been my second night and third day spent on Helena, Kevin’s sailboat, and my home on water for the next seven weeks.
Yesterday we checked out with the harbor master, immigration and customs and today we set sail (or rather motor).
We maneuvered through dozens of boats, passed rocky islands and a few hours later there was no land in sight. The sun was high and a familiar motion sickness feeling was keeping me quieter than usual, but Kevin maintained his end of conversation.
So far, between all my boating experiences, which includes the trip with Gary from Malaysia to Thailand and the countless ferries I’ve ridden, I’ve yet to experience full-on sea-sickness. I have not been incapacitated by ceaseless vomiting, pounding headaches or incessant sweating. Unfortunately, I do often in the middle of the afternoon, feel slightly nauseous, fatigued, severely aware of the heat, throbbing between my temples and a very strong desire to lie down in silence.
I’ve managed to will myself out of succumbing to the ill feelings, but I don’t feel like singing and dancing.
Tonight will be my first night watch because we are running for 48 hours nonstop and Kevin and I will rotate being awake through the next two nights. While on watch it’s important to make sure we are running on course and not getting hit or hitting other boats.
I’m not nervous about staying awake (my night shift is from 8 p.m. to 3 a.m.) but I am worried I will do something wrong like misread the GPS (thank goodness most sailors have upgraded to modern technology and rarely use paper charts and maps anymore!) or misjudge the distance of another boat? This is Kevin’s home, without insurance, and for seven hours I will be responsible for her wellbeing.
Waste
Trash. We (man in general) create too much of it (I include myself in this generalization), and then we have to figure out what to do with it. I saw truck loads of trash littering the streets, parks, temples and rolling hills of Malaysia, Thailand and Cambodia (I don’t expect Indonesia to be much different), and now I’m living with my trash on a boat – no dump boats out here. Funny I don’t hesitate to create trash (or criticize others for creating and mismanaging theirs), but I sure don’t like to see it…I guess this is way civilized countries bury it in the ground, sink it in the sea or propose to shoot it into space (All great ideas in theory I’m sure. Too bad we can’t see the pollution and poison created by our waste.).
In addition to not being accustomed to living with my accumulated trash, I’m not used to handling it. At home I have a garbage collector who conveniently takes it away for me.
Here on the boat though most (not all!) trash is thrown into the ocean. (This was a difficult concept for me at first because I despise improper waste handling.) But in fact things like food scraps, paper, even aluminum can safely be tossed into the water without risk of polluting. Plastic, however, is put into garbage bags and tied to the deck, near the mast (the tall pole in the middle of the sailing boat), and carried on the boat until we reach a port where we can throw it away in a trash can (probably to turn up later on a beach or tossed into the jungle).
I’m doing my best to first reduce my waste, then recycle what I can and finally as a last resort I throw it in a plastic bag to be with us for the next month. I’m shocked how much trash two people can create!
Of course we create trash in ways I don’t normally at home.
Before living on the boat I didn’t consider toilet paper to be trash. It was flushed and dissolved down the toilet. Easy, efficient and thoughtless. The boat’s toilet can’t handle toilet paper, so it becomes trash – something that needs handled.
There are two ways of handling used toilet paper. First, my preferred technique, it can be tossed out the bathroom immediately after usage. Second, it must be thrown in a waste basket and dealt with later. The latter technique is used when we are moving, because if you try to throw toilet paper out a window of a moving boat it will fly back and potentially hit the captain in the face, which is exactly what I did.
One morning we were sailing along, and after doing my business I tossed my toilet paper out the window. Unfortunately it didn’t make it down to the water. It was caught in the wind and was caught flying from some mast lines (the lines coming down to the sides of the boat from the giant pole in the middle). The white flags were flapping in the breeze a few feet in front of Kevin when I, unknowingly, came above deck a few minutes later. Thank goodness they caught on the rope!
I’ve become much more aware and careful about handling my trash.
In addition to not being accustomed to living with my accumulated trash, I’m not used to handling it. At home I have a garbage collector who conveniently takes it away for me.
Here on the boat though most (not all!) trash is thrown into the ocean. (This was a difficult concept for me at first because I despise improper waste handling.) But in fact things like food scraps, paper, even aluminum can safely be tossed into the water without risk of polluting. Plastic, however, is put into garbage bags and tied to the deck, near the mast (the tall pole in the middle of the sailing boat), and carried on the boat until we reach a port where we can throw it away in a trash can (probably to turn up later on a beach or tossed into the jungle).
I’m doing my best to first reduce my waste, then recycle what I can and finally as a last resort I throw it in a plastic bag to be with us for the next month. I’m shocked how much trash two people can create!
Of course we create trash in ways I don’t normally at home.
Before living on the boat I didn’t consider toilet paper to be trash. It was flushed and dissolved down the toilet. Easy, efficient and thoughtless. The boat’s toilet can’t handle toilet paper, so it becomes trash – something that needs handled.
There are two ways of handling used toilet paper. First, my preferred technique, it can be tossed out the bathroom immediately after usage. Second, it must be thrown in a waste basket and dealt with later. The latter technique is used when we are moving, because if you try to throw toilet paper out a window of a moving boat it will fly back and potentially hit the captain in the face, which is exactly what I did.
One morning we were sailing along, and after doing my business I tossed my toilet paper out the window. Unfortunately it didn’t make it down to the water. It was caught in the wind and was caught flying from some mast lines (the lines coming down to the sides of the boat from the giant pole in the middle). The white flags were flapping in the breeze a few feet in front of Kevin when I, unknowingly, came above deck a few minutes later. Thank goodness they caught on the rope!
I’ve become much more aware and careful about handling my trash.
Irrational Fears
Hearing about people’s dreams is usually boring because I find them totally irrelevant to reality- they are a process the brain goes through during the REM cycle not a foreshadowing of events to come (or a deeper insight to past events). Unless they are incredibly interesting (by my appraisal of course), relate to me in some way, or are told with such flair that they are entertaining, but most of the time they are a bore to listen to. But writing and sharing my fears usually helps eleviate them, so I going to tell about my dreams the last few nights – you are under no obligation (unless you are one of my parents) to read about them, which is probably the only thing worse than verbally hearing about someone else’s dream.
Last night I dreamt a grizzly bear was after me. I had watched him fishing at a river surrounded by pine trees and it didn’t take long for him to notice my presence. The fish were let off the hook because I was the new target. The bear pursued me through my dream worlds and soon the chase took us to my grandparents old dairy farm where thanks to the loud grinding of the anchor chain being pulled out of the water, which woke me, pulling me out of grizzly danger, and reminded me that I’m on a boat miles from land and continents away from bears, my dream ended.
This dream would be of little significance except it is the third night in a row that has been full of malicious creature trying to catch me.
The first night was sharks, which is completely understandable.
The second night was crocodiles. (I have recently become enlightened to the cruel saltwater crock, one of which was rumored to be lurking near where Kevin and I anchored for two nights. I could barely stay in the water for 30 seconds out of fear. These brutal creatures, unlike sharks which only attack by mistake, purposely kill people. They are very territorial, can swim hundreds of miles and have survived since the dinosaurs so obviously they are doing something right. ) Given a shark or salt water crocodile I’ll take the shark any day.
But why is nature attacking my in my defenseless sleep? And where did the bear come from?
I just hope these aren’t premonitions, and that they are the typical run-of-the-mill dreams that bore the poor audience forced to listen, or read, about them.
I'm irrationally afraid of being attacked be something in the water during the day and night...I'm working on getting over it though and so far I haven't let fear prevent me from getting wet.
Last night I dreamt a grizzly bear was after me. I had watched him fishing at a river surrounded by pine trees and it didn’t take long for him to notice my presence. The fish were let off the hook because I was the new target. The bear pursued me through my dream worlds and soon the chase took us to my grandparents old dairy farm where thanks to the loud grinding of the anchor chain being pulled out of the water, which woke me, pulling me out of grizzly danger, and reminded me that I’m on a boat miles from land and continents away from bears, my dream ended.
This dream would be of little significance except it is the third night in a row that has been full of malicious creature trying to catch me.
The first night was sharks, which is completely understandable.
The second night was crocodiles. (I have recently become enlightened to the cruel saltwater crock, one of which was rumored to be lurking near where Kevin and I anchored for two nights. I could barely stay in the water for 30 seconds out of fear. These brutal creatures, unlike sharks which only attack by mistake, purposely kill people. They are very territorial, can swim hundreds of miles and have survived since the dinosaurs so obviously they are doing something right. ) Given a shark or salt water crocodile I’ll take the shark any day.
But why is nature attacking my in my defenseless sleep? And where did the bear come from?
I just hope these aren’t premonitions, and that they are the typical run-of-the-mill dreams that bore the poor audience forced to listen, or read, about them.
I'm irrationally afraid of being attacked be something in the water during the day and night...I'm working on getting over it though and so far I haven't let fear prevent me from getting wet.
First Two Weeks with Helena (sailboat)
The past two weeks have passed with routine and a few moments of surprise. Every day we travelled about 13 hours, waking around 6 a.m., leaving our night anchorage by 6:30, and arriving at our next destination by 6 or 7 p.m. For a few days we had to travel 48 straight hours taking shifts staying up as we sailed through the night (someone must always be on watch day and night to make sure the boat doesn’t hit anything or get hit. Autopilot can handle the steering, but she can’t detect a fishing boat or an island.) It’s safer to stop at night, rest and start fresh in the morning. It’s been a lot like driving for days on end in a car without air-conditioning, but with a refrigerator.
During the time I read 7 books (I averaged an entire book over other day), watched dozens of Kevin’s movies and episodes of “Two and a Half Men” on his laptop and sat staring into the horizon thinking (and a lot of times not thinking about anything and just staring).
The weather was good, but the wind wasn’t. Over two weeks and hundreds of miles we only sailed without the motor running for three hours. The droning of the motor was always competing with the iPod music playing over the speakers (graciously Kevin lets me be DJ).
Some days the heat really got to me, or maybe it was the constant rocking mixed with the heat…as was the case on Saturday April 17 when I wrote in my journal:
“A film of perspiration covers my face, back, and underarms. My hair is pulled back in a bun and a headband is holding back the hairs that were sticking to my neck and forehead a minute ago. I smell like spent deodorant (that smells like rubbing alcohol and plastic before it’s even rubbed on), sweaty skin and day old laundry. I don’t know which is worse the way I look or feel.
There is a deep throbbing that starts in the back of my head and runs around to my temples squeezing my scalp and threatening to pop the crown of my head off and my eyeballs out of their sockets if I don’t apply pressure.
I’ve been lying on the couch for the past eight hours, thirsty for the occasional breeze that come down through the hatch window (a window that opens from the deck down into the cabin, so when I look up through it I can see the sky and the main mast).
My bladder needs emptied, but I’m avoiding getting up and afraid the smell of urine (I’m always dehydrated), mixed with my headache and the persistent rocking motion of the boat will make me vomit.”
The days weren’t all easy or hard. They were a mix of excitement, relaxation, boredom, frustration, fear, and gratitude.
Among the mundane and boredom there were moments of magic.
On a handful of occasions dolphins decided to pay a visit. They like to play with the boat’s bow wave (The bow is the front of the boat and the “bow wave” is the wave created by the boat driving through the water.). Their grey slick bodies torpedoed through the water jumping and laughing. I would stand watch until the last dolphin made his exit before returning to the shade of the cabin or the stern (back of the boat).
The dolphins and books could entertain by day, but at night the sunset and stars took center stage. Pink and orange slashed across the canvas sky and when the final rosy tints faded the stars would come out. They emerged one at a time at first and then the whole sky was polluted with their hazy glow. The moon in all her glory was smiling on.
Most of the time was empty and my thoughts had plenty of space to run rampant. I thought about everything, many repeats that have plagued my mind for years, new ideas and forgotten dreams. I wondered what friends and family were doing and I imagined our conversations.
I handled the situation the best I could. I tried to harness my restlessness, motivate myself when boredom had wasted me away to a pile of goo, and remain appreciative for this opportunity even when I felt like my head was going to explode.
During the time I read 7 books (I averaged an entire book over other day), watched dozens of Kevin’s movies and episodes of “Two and a Half Men” on his laptop and sat staring into the horizon thinking (and a lot of times not thinking about anything and just staring).
The weather was good, but the wind wasn’t. Over two weeks and hundreds of miles we only sailed without the motor running for three hours. The droning of the motor was always competing with the iPod music playing over the speakers (graciously Kevin lets me be DJ).
Some days the heat really got to me, or maybe it was the constant rocking mixed with the heat…as was the case on Saturday April 17 when I wrote in my journal:
“A film of perspiration covers my face, back, and underarms. My hair is pulled back in a bun and a headband is holding back the hairs that were sticking to my neck and forehead a minute ago. I smell like spent deodorant (that smells like rubbing alcohol and plastic before it’s even rubbed on), sweaty skin and day old laundry. I don’t know which is worse the way I look or feel.
There is a deep throbbing that starts in the back of my head and runs around to my temples squeezing my scalp and threatening to pop the crown of my head off and my eyeballs out of their sockets if I don’t apply pressure.
I’ve been lying on the couch for the past eight hours, thirsty for the occasional breeze that come down through the hatch window (a window that opens from the deck down into the cabin, so when I look up through it I can see the sky and the main mast).
My bladder needs emptied, but I’m avoiding getting up and afraid the smell of urine (I’m always dehydrated), mixed with my headache and the persistent rocking motion of the boat will make me vomit.”
The days weren’t all easy or hard. They were a mix of excitement, relaxation, boredom, frustration, fear, and gratitude.
Among the mundane and boredom there were moments of magic.
On a handful of occasions dolphins decided to pay a visit. They like to play with the boat’s bow wave (The bow is the front of the boat and the “bow wave” is the wave created by the boat driving through the water.). Their grey slick bodies torpedoed through the water jumping and laughing. I would stand watch until the last dolphin made his exit before returning to the shade of the cabin or the stern (back of the boat).
The dolphins and books could entertain by day, but at night the sunset and stars took center stage. Pink and orange slashed across the canvas sky and when the final rosy tints faded the stars would come out. They emerged one at a time at first and then the whole sky was polluted with their hazy glow. The moon in all her glory was smiling on.
Most of the time was empty and my thoughts had plenty of space to run rampant. I thought about everything, many repeats that have plagued my mind for years, new ideas and forgotten dreams. I wondered what friends and family were doing and I imagined our conversations.
I handled the situation the best I could. I tried to harness my restlessness, motivate myself when boredom had wasted me away to a pile of goo, and remain appreciative for this opportunity even when I felt like my head was going to explode.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Images...
Me and Soel Ki in a Tuk-Tuk, in Cambodai on our way to see Angkor Wat.
Rami and Mael in a Tuk-Tuk.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Sailing Itinerary:Phuket to Indonesia
My sailing itinerary…
Tuesday April 6, 2010 we leave Phuket, Thailand at dawn and begin ourtwo month journey to Padang,Indonesia
First we will cross the Malacca Straight to Banda Aceh, but not for a stop. Instead we will anchor in a small town at the tip of Western Sumatra called Sadu on Thursday April 8. Then we will be sailing 50 miles south to another small town for one night’s rest before heading to the first island chain, where Kevin will be surfing, called Banyacks. The next islands are Nias (mecca for surfers), Tellos, Mentuaki and finally to the Mentawias for remainder of May.
I will not have internet or phone access during the next two months, unless I can find some in one of the surfing camps- not likely though.
So I will update my blog as soon as possible!
I intend keep a detailed account of my experience and I look forward to sharing with everyone the challenges, discoveries, beauty and pain I experience. I see this as a time for self-relection and I hope I surface in Indonesia a stronger and more self-assured version of me.
I appreciate your audiance and support.
Tuesday April 6, 2010 we leave Phuket, Thailand at dawn and begin ourtwo month journey to Padang,Indonesia
First we will cross the Malacca Straight to Banda Aceh, but not for a stop. Instead we will anchor in a small town at the tip of Western Sumatra called Sadu on Thursday April 8. Then we will be sailing 50 miles south to another small town for one night’s rest before heading to the first island chain, where Kevin will be surfing, called Banyacks. The next islands are Nias (mecca for surfers), Tellos, Mentuaki and finally to the Mentawias for remainder of May.
I will not have internet or phone access during the next two months, unless I can find some in one of the surfing camps- not likely though.
So I will update my blog as soon as possible!
I intend keep a detailed account of my experience and I look forward to sharing with everyone the challenges, discoveries, beauty and pain I experience. I see this as a time for self-relection and I hope I surface in Indonesia a stronger and more self-assured version of me.
I appreciate your audiance and support.
Bus Abandonment
How does a person get left behind by a bus taking a pit stop?
Very easily when no one is watching out for her or noticing her empty seat.
After spending over 26 hours on buses (12 hours on 5 different buses from Siem Riep, Cambodia to Bangkok, Thailand where I had 10 minutes to catch the last night bus from Bangkok to Phuket) I emerged from the bathroom to discover an empty parking space.
My stomach dropped. My bag was on the bus and I was already late arriving to Phuket- it was nearly 10 a.m. Saturday and Kevin would be expecting me.
I had no idea if the bus had a name or company, I only knew it’s destination.
Fortunately I always keep my most valuable possessions on me, so I wasn’t relieved to feel my passport and some money in my purse.
But I what was I supposed to do?
I was stranded, not sure where I was, sweating under the blazing sun with dirt and dust everywhere, staring uncomprehendingly at the empty space where my bus should have been.
“Did you see the big blue bus heading to Phuket?” I asked a group of Thai men standing nearby, one of whom had given me directions to the bathroom when I first stepped off the bus, so I hoped he would recognize me.
“Oh bus gone.” He said.
“Well, can I catch it somehow or contact the driver? My bag is onboard and I should be,” I replied pathetically.
One of the guys lead me to the bus information stand, explained my situationa (I was very lucky he knew a bit of English), and soon I was on the back of a motorbike chasing down my run-away bus.
We caught the bus 2km up the road, and I gave the bus driver and innocent grin as I slid into my seat.
Only 200 km to go.
(The bus adventure took a total of 30 hrs, about 9 different vehicles with varying degrees of leg room and air-conditioning …what a ride.)
Very easily when no one is watching out for her or noticing her empty seat.
After spending over 26 hours on buses (12 hours on 5 different buses from Siem Riep, Cambodia to Bangkok, Thailand where I had 10 minutes to catch the last night bus from Bangkok to Phuket) I emerged from the bathroom to discover an empty parking space.
My stomach dropped. My bag was on the bus and I was already late arriving to Phuket- it was nearly 10 a.m. Saturday and Kevin would be expecting me.
I had no idea if the bus had a name or company, I only knew it’s destination.
Fortunately I always keep my most valuable possessions on me, so I wasn’t relieved to feel my passport and some money in my purse.
But I what was I supposed to do?
I was stranded, not sure where I was, sweating under the blazing sun with dirt and dust everywhere, staring uncomprehendingly at the empty space where my bus should have been.
“Did you see the big blue bus heading to Phuket?” I asked a group of Thai men standing nearby, one of whom had given me directions to the bathroom when I first stepped off the bus, so I hoped he would recognize me.
“Oh bus gone.” He said.
“Well, can I catch it somehow or contact the driver? My bag is onboard and I should be,” I replied pathetically.
One of the guys lead me to the bus information stand, explained my situationa (I was very lucky he knew a bit of English), and soon I was on the back of a motorbike chasing down my run-away bus.
We caught the bus 2km up the road, and I gave the bus driver and innocent grin as I slid into my seat.
Only 200 km to go.
(The bus adventure took a total of 30 hrs, about 9 different vehicles with varying degrees of leg room and air-conditioning …what a ride.)
Goodbye to Cambodia and a few friends
I’m alone again, I left my three friends and Cambodia behind, and this bus I’ve been riding for ten hours should have landed in Bangkok nearly three hours ago.
I said goodbye to my three friends before boarding this bus, and I’ve had plenty of time to reminiss about our short, but busy, time together- hot bus rides and hours of sweating while the bus was delayed, lot’s of ladyboys, birthdays and beers on the beach, diving certifications, temple visits, and Cambodian BBQs.
In Cambodia I saw Angkor Wat at sunrise, experienced complete frustration and hopelessness with the poverty, got drunk on Cambodian whisky and convinced a tuk-tuk driver to let me drive his manual motorbike (I’ve never even driven an automatic before).
Siem Riep, where I spent all my allotted “Cambodian time”, was dry and dusty and I took two showers a day to get the dirt, sweat, and brown rivers the two created together behind my knees and along my hair-line off my skin.
My spirit was depleted by the relentless vendors and kids selling worthless goods who swarmed me and pleaded with me to make an overpriced purchase. It was sad because I could never give enough. No matter what I bought (and I bought far too many coconuts and scarves) it wasn’t enough. They were happy to bleed me dry.
I enjoyed traveling with Rami, Mael and Soel Ki and will regret their absence, but I’m ready to make a move into the sailing adventure awaiting me back in Thailand. And returning to Thailand even thought this bus ride is never-ending feels like a vacation back into the familiar.
I would have liked more time in Cambodia to better understand the country and it’s people, to continue conversations with monks, old ladies and tuk-tuk drivers; to work for a bit in an orphanage and meditate in a temple. But I danced with locals, ate Cambodian cuisine and made the most of my short time there – I’m even walking away with a souvenir: dozens of flea bites all over my legs.
Now it’s creeping on 7:00p.m., the sun has set, and the road into Bangkok is congested with Friday night traffic, meaning the trip won’t be over anytime soon.
I’m hoping to catch a night bus in Bangkok heading to Phuket because Kevin is expecting me Saturday, tomorrow, in the morning to help with the final provisioning so we can check out of Thailand Monday and set sail at dawn on Tuesday. I have no idea if, where or when a bus will be leaving and I’m not thrilled to preform my search alone after dark.
I’m consoled by the thought that if I don’t make it to Phuket by morning then Kevin will understand. He’s been around SE Asia long enough to know how unreliable buses can be.
I have to laugh though, because the man who sold me this bus ticket guaranteed I would arrive in Bangkok by 4p.m. and said I would have no problem finding a night bus to Phuket. I hope he is at least 50 percent accurate.
I said goodbye to my three friends before boarding this bus, and I’ve had plenty of time to reminiss about our short, but busy, time together- hot bus rides and hours of sweating while the bus was delayed, lot’s of ladyboys, birthdays and beers on the beach, diving certifications, temple visits, and Cambodian BBQs.
In Cambodia I saw Angkor Wat at sunrise, experienced complete frustration and hopelessness with the poverty, got drunk on Cambodian whisky and convinced a tuk-tuk driver to let me drive his manual motorbike (I’ve never even driven an automatic before).
Siem Riep, where I spent all my allotted “Cambodian time”, was dry and dusty and I took two showers a day to get the dirt, sweat, and brown rivers the two created together behind my knees and along my hair-line off my skin.
My spirit was depleted by the relentless vendors and kids selling worthless goods who swarmed me and pleaded with me to make an overpriced purchase. It was sad because I could never give enough. No matter what I bought (and I bought far too many coconuts and scarves) it wasn’t enough. They were happy to bleed me dry.
I enjoyed traveling with Rami, Mael and Soel Ki and will regret their absence, but I’m ready to make a move into the sailing adventure awaiting me back in Thailand. And returning to Thailand even thought this bus ride is never-ending feels like a vacation back into the familiar.
I would have liked more time in Cambodia to better understand the country and it’s people, to continue conversations with monks, old ladies and tuk-tuk drivers; to work for a bit in an orphanage and meditate in a temple. But I danced with locals, ate Cambodian cuisine and made the most of my short time there – I’m even walking away with a souvenir: dozens of flea bites all over my legs.
Now it’s creeping on 7:00p.m., the sun has set, and the road into Bangkok is congested with Friday night traffic, meaning the trip won’t be over anytime soon.
I’m hoping to catch a night bus in Bangkok heading to Phuket because Kevin is expecting me Saturday, tomorrow, in the morning to help with the final provisioning so we can check out of Thailand Monday and set sail at dawn on Tuesday. I have no idea if, where or when a bus will be leaving and I’m not thrilled to preform my search alone after dark.
I’m consoled by the thought that if I don’t make it to Phuket by morning then Kevin will understand. He’s been around SE Asia long enough to know how unreliable buses can be.
I have to laugh though, because the man who sold me this bus ticket guaranteed I would arrive in Bangkok by 4p.m. and said I would have no problem finding a night bus to Phuket. I hope he is at least 50 percent accurate.
WWJD?
Today I met a Cambodian monk named Sel. He is 24, enjoys studying English, and aspires to be a tuk-tuk driver. He dreams of driving foreigners around will cost him a lifestyle change and about $1500, a sum he will spend years earning in a rice field and probably never achieve. (According to him, but sadly I’ve learned even monks can’t be trusted because I’m a dollar sign to him and not a friend.)
Sel is the second youngest of nine children, not an unusually high number, left home at 15 to join a temple and had little formal education before studying Buddhism among fellow monks.
We talked for nearly two hours in the halls of Angkor Wat, the biggest temple in Siem Riep and considered the 8th wonder in the world, and at the end of our conversation I wrote him a long letter, which he read aloud to me, to practice his English. I hoped this gift would deter him from asking me for money, but it didn’t.
As I excused myself to rejoin my friends, who were waiting for me at the entrance, he asked for money to help him with his education.
I gave him some money (they only want American money here) and desperately maneuvered my way back through the Angkor Wat corridors until I could find an exit.
Was the conversation cheapened my his request for money?
I still gained considerable insight to life as a monk and as a Cambodian, and the reality of the situation is that his existence is dependent on handouts.
During the 15 minutes it took me to find Remi, Mael and Soel Ki I was thinking about the acronym WWJD, which stood for “What Would Jesus Do,” that we used to wear on bracelets when I was a kid.
I can’t give all my money to each person who asks me, but I gave two hours of my time and an English lesson. I hope Jesus is proud.
Sel is the second youngest of nine children, not an unusually high number, left home at 15 to join a temple and had little formal education before studying Buddhism among fellow monks.
We talked for nearly two hours in the halls of Angkor Wat, the biggest temple in Siem Riep and considered the 8th wonder in the world, and at the end of our conversation I wrote him a long letter, which he read aloud to me, to practice his English. I hoped this gift would deter him from asking me for money, but it didn’t.
As I excused myself to rejoin my friends, who were waiting for me at the entrance, he asked for money to help him with his education.
I gave him some money (they only want American money here) and desperately maneuvered my way back through the Angkor Wat corridors until I could find an exit.
Was the conversation cheapened my his request for money?
I still gained considerable insight to life as a monk and as a Cambodian, and the reality of the situation is that his existence is dependent on handouts.
During the 15 minutes it took me to find Remi, Mael and Soel Ki I was thinking about the acronym WWJD, which stood for “What Would Jesus Do,” that we used to wear on bracelets when I was a kid.
I can’t give all my money to each person who asks me, but I gave two hours of my time and an English lesson. I hope Jesus is proud.
Getting to Cambodia
Almost twelve hours on a bus (the trip should have taken 7-8hrs and cost half of what we paid) that sold us into the hands of a corrupt system that makes the trip especially difficult and uncomfortable so when you land at your destination you collapse into a taxi and allow them to take you to a hotel of their choice. Everyone along the way is working with one-another, receiving commissions and mining as much money from you as possible. It was a soul draining experience to be ripped off so badly and blatantly. At every turn were people manipulating and taking advantage.
At every stop we were swarmed by children selling worthless good or demanding money, who would follow me around, grabbing me and staring at me with practiced frowns.
It was one of the worst days in all my months of traveling. When we arrived in our overpriced hotel I was furious and frustrated. I showered but the day’s dirt and my anger wouldn’t wash away.
If I’d been alone I would have fought the system and had a go at getting places alone- no package deals, no “helpful” taxi drivers and no travel agents, but I was with the group and we made a consensual decision. We didn’t know better options until we had paid and committed to the scams.
Through this ordeal I’ve been reminded that this is SE Asia and everyone is in it for themselves. A travel agent will lie about an arrival time to get you to buy a bus ticket and a tuk-tuk (motorbike pulling a cart) driver will promise you sights that don’t exists just so you pay to take a tour.
My patience is tested daily, and learning the trick of the trade is an intolerably high learning curve.
I have to accept that I will always spend more than I think I should and remember that no one is responsible for me, except me, whether I’m among friends or strangers.
At every stop we were swarmed by children selling worthless good or demanding money, who would follow me around, grabbing me and staring at me with practiced frowns.
It was one of the worst days in all my months of traveling. When we arrived in our overpriced hotel I was furious and frustrated. I showered but the day’s dirt and my anger wouldn’t wash away.
If I’d been alone I would have fought the system and had a go at getting places alone- no package deals, no “helpful” taxi drivers and no travel agents, but I was with the group and we made a consensual decision. We didn’t know better options until we had paid and committed to the scams.
Through this ordeal I’ve been reminded that this is SE Asia and everyone is in it for themselves. A travel agent will lie about an arrival time to get you to buy a bus ticket and a tuk-tuk (motorbike pulling a cart) driver will promise you sights that don’t exists just so you pay to take a tour.
My patience is tested daily, and learning the trick of the trade is an intolerably high learning curve.
I have to accept that I will always spend more than I think I should and remember that no one is responsible for me, except me, whether I’m among friends or strangers.
Diving in New Waters
From the jungles of Koh Sok, our international foursome headed for Ko Tao, an Island off the southeast coast of Thailand renowned for its cheap diving certification courses (plus it is north of Ko Phag-nag island where the infamous full-moon parties are held).
Remi and I didn’t have our diving certification (Mael and Soel Ki are experienced diverd) and the course included free accommodation, we decided to enroll.
So I enrolled in a three-day open-water diving certification program that qualified me to dive anywhere in the world, with a buddy, down to 15 meters.
I completed the course on March 25, by birthday, and the next night, Friday, I, and my twelve peers, went out for our final ocean dives, dinner and drinks on the beach.
I look forward to future oceanic exploration.
Earlier the same day, between diving and dinner, I was walking around town when I met Ho, a Korean man, who discussed his long-distance relationship and his years of traveling with me. He bought me a mango shake, took me for a spin around part of the island on his motorbike, and read my palm- In four years I will have a lucrative job according to my left hand. I sure hope he’s accurate because I’ve spent more than I intended on this trip.
From Ko Tao, we traveled to Bangkok for one night before taking a bus to Siem Riep, Cambodia.
Traveling with a group again has been surprisingly pleasant. We all get along great, I save money sharing rooms and I don’t have to worry about landed in areas after dark.
I am enjoying this experience because I know I will be alone again in four days, when I must return to Phuket and prepare to set sail. No longer will I be surrounded by peers and community. Once I return to Thailand I will be leaving on a boat with one individual, and hours of solitude while he is out surfing, for two months.
I’m cherishing company while I have it and looking forward to hanging out with myself again in the near future.
Remi and I didn’t have our diving certification (Mael and Soel Ki are experienced diverd) and the course included free accommodation, we decided to enroll.
So I enrolled in a three-day open-water diving certification program that qualified me to dive anywhere in the world, with a buddy, down to 15 meters.
I completed the course on March 25, by birthday, and the next night, Friday, I, and my twelve peers, went out for our final ocean dives, dinner and drinks on the beach.
I look forward to future oceanic exploration.
Earlier the same day, between diving and dinner, I was walking around town when I met Ho, a Korean man, who discussed his long-distance relationship and his years of traveling with me. He bought me a mango shake, took me for a spin around part of the island on his motorbike, and read my palm- In four years I will have a lucrative job according to my left hand. I sure hope he’s accurate because I’ve spent more than I intended on this trip.
From Ko Tao, we traveled to Bangkok for one night before taking a bus to Siem Riep, Cambodia.
Traveling with a group again has been surprisingly pleasant. We all get along great, I save money sharing rooms and I don’t have to worry about landed in areas after dark.
I am enjoying this experience because I know I will be alone again in four days, when I must return to Phuket and prepare to set sail. No longer will I be surrounded by peers and community. Once I return to Thailand I will be leaving on a boat with one individual, and hours of solitude while he is out surfing, for two months.
I’m cherishing company while I have it and looking forward to hanging out with myself again in the near future.
Group affairs: Jungles, Islands and the inbetween
After meeting Rami, Mael and Soel Ki in Phuket, the three of us traveled to Patong for a one night safari.
Patong is the party area of Phuket, which makes it the mecca of drunken tourists and lady boys (Thai men who have become women), and rampant sex tourism.
The four of us shared one room with one giant king – sized bed, because accommodation is pricey, found an affordable restaurant among the bars and showgirls (it’s hard to tell if they are men or women), and had one drink at the feet of five dancing lady boys who were more than happy to flash there implants for a tip.
One night was enough to get our fill of this “Thai Vegas” and the next day we headed north to the tranquility of Koh Sok, a jungle that is older than the Amazon.
Four two days, we slept in a bungalow with mosquito nets and hiked in the jungle.
One morning I woke early and went for a walk alone. No one else was on the track and after about an hour of solitude I heard a rustle up a hill to my right. I stopped in my track and saw a large, dark object move. My hands began to shake and my stomach tightened. Frozen for a moment, I felt the adrenaline pumping through my limbs and my brain preparing me for an escape- back the way I came, up a tree or down the hill to my left. What was the animal?
Before I took any action my curiosity urged me on. Rationally I knew there was very little chance of it being any kind of large cat with teeth, because it was making too much noise and these jungles have been combed through for feline game. But my heart wasn’t convinced and as I stealthily climbed toward the creature I was trembling.
Before I was more than 30 yards him, I realized it was a small- I’m assuming baby- wild elephant. A cute creature, but still dangerous. Where there is a baby there is likely a larger mamma nearby. Fortunately for my safety he moved deeper into the jungle as I crept closer and soon I could hardly see my backpack on the track.
Disappointed that I couldn’t get a better view, I returned to the path and gathered my things.
Suddenly the jungle seemed scarier than it had an hour earlier and I was aware of my vulnerability. I began walking back the way I’d come in and I could feel the monkeys and birds taunting me. Screeching sounds from swinging vines and disturbed branches made my heart race. I wanted to run, but I knew my fear was illogical.
I was grateful to run into a Russian couple twenty minutes later and I recounted my elephant story to them with pride and not an ounce of fear.
Patong is the party area of Phuket, which makes it the mecca of drunken tourists and lady boys (Thai men who have become women), and rampant sex tourism.
The four of us shared one room with one giant king – sized bed, because accommodation is pricey, found an affordable restaurant among the bars and showgirls (it’s hard to tell if they are men or women), and had one drink at the feet of five dancing lady boys who were more than happy to flash there implants for a tip.
One night was enough to get our fill of this “Thai Vegas” and the next day we headed north to the tranquility of Koh Sok, a jungle that is older than the Amazon.
Four two days, we slept in a bungalow with mosquito nets and hiked in the jungle.
One morning I woke early and went for a walk alone. No one else was on the track and after about an hour of solitude I heard a rustle up a hill to my right. I stopped in my track and saw a large, dark object move. My hands began to shake and my stomach tightened. Frozen for a moment, I felt the adrenaline pumping through my limbs and my brain preparing me for an escape- back the way I came, up a tree or down the hill to my left. What was the animal?
Before I took any action my curiosity urged me on. Rationally I knew there was very little chance of it being any kind of large cat with teeth, because it was making too much noise and these jungles have been combed through for feline game. But my heart wasn’t convinced and as I stealthily climbed toward the creature I was trembling.
Before I was more than 30 yards him, I realized it was a small- I’m assuming baby- wild elephant. A cute creature, but still dangerous. Where there is a baby there is likely a larger mamma nearby. Fortunately for my safety he moved deeper into the jungle as I crept closer and soon I could hardly see my backpack on the track.
Disappointed that I couldn’t get a better view, I returned to the path and gathered my things.
Suddenly the jungle seemed scarier than it had an hour earlier and I was aware of my vulnerability. I began walking back the way I’d come in and I could feel the monkeys and birds taunting me. Screeching sounds from swinging vines and disturbed branches made my heart race. I wanted to run, but I knew my fear was illogical.
I was grateful to run into a Russian couple twenty minutes later and I recounted my elephant story to them with pride and not an ounce of fear.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Aging with company
March has nearly passed, and as it draws to a close my birthday draws nearer.
On March 25 I will celebrate my 22nd birthday and until yesterday I wasn’t sure if it would be a solitary celebration. But I’ve met three fellow travelers and for the next weeks, until I leave on a sail boat to Indonesia, I anticipate sticking with this group.
Mael, a 26-year-old French man, Soulki, his 24-year-old Korean girlfriend, and Ramy, their 23-year-old French friend, and I are attacking Thailand together. And I will have companion ship when I celebrate my birth-anniversary.
I first met Ramy because he was my neighbor in On On Hotel, where I was staying in Phuket. Mael and Soulki, being a couple, could afford a better room elsewhere.
The four of us congregated in the lobby of On On Hotel, and having been in Phuket three days, I knew my way around enough to act as a guide for their first night in town. We went to the night market, where we ate from street vendors, feasted on sea-food and pad Thai noodles, and poked in and out of shops.
I guess it was a good night because three days later, after having spent one night among the infamous “lady-boys” (gay Thai men who dress up like women) in Padang, which is the party area of Phuket, and hiking through the jungles of one of the world’s oldest rainforests in Koa Sok, we are about to travel 8 hours on a night ferry to Ko Tao.
They are a great trio to be with because we share similar traveling styles—cheap and off the beaten path wherever possible, but this is the first time I’ve traveled with a group since I left Katie and Brian back in New Zealand, nearly three months ago. (I did reconnect with them in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, but we only stayed one night all together in a hostel before I left for the Cameron Highlands.) And there are benefits and restrictions to being with others.
I don’t have as much freedom, and I have to compromise my plans. But in return for these small disadvantages, I’ve made three new friends, can go places at night, and I have someone to share this experience with.
What a great way to grow older.
On March 25 I will celebrate my 22nd birthday and until yesterday I wasn’t sure if it would be a solitary celebration. But I’ve met three fellow travelers and for the next weeks, until I leave on a sail boat to Indonesia, I anticipate sticking with this group.
Mael, a 26-year-old French man, Soulki, his 24-year-old Korean girlfriend, and Ramy, their 23-year-old French friend, and I are attacking Thailand together. And I will have companion ship when I celebrate my birth-anniversary.
I first met Ramy because he was my neighbor in On On Hotel, where I was staying in Phuket. Mael and Soulki, being a couple, could afford a better room elsewhere.
The four of us congregated in the lobby of On On Hotel, and having been in Phuket three days, I knew my way around enough to act as a guide for their first night in town. We went to the night market, where we ate from street vendors, feasted on sea-food and pad Thai noodles, and poked in and out of shops.
I guess it was a good night because three days later, after having spent one night among the infamous “lady-boys” (gay Thai men who dress up like women) in Padang, which is the party area of Phuket, and hiking through the jungles of one of the world’s oldest rainforests in Koa Sok, we are about to travel 8 hours on a night ferry to Ko Tao.
They are a great trio to be with because we share similar traveling styles—cheap and off the beaten path wherever possible, but this is the first time I’ve traveled with a group since I left Katie and Brian back in New Zealand, nearly three months ago. (I did reconnect with them in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, but we only stayed one night all together in a hostel before I left for the Cameron Highlands.) And there are benefits and restrictions to being with others.
I don’t have as much freedom, and I have to compromise my plans. But in return for these small disadvantages, I’ve made three new friends, can go places at night, and I have someone to share this experience with.
What a great way to grow older.
A new boat...bigger opportunity
Once again I’ve augmented my ever-changing plans. My most recent plan was to visit Cambodia, Vietnam, and Laos and reenter Thailand to the north, then fly to Indonesia and, hopefully, head to Europe by August.
(I’ve applied to teach English in France starting in August, but I’m awaiting a response. I should have more information by May. Until I hear confirmation of being hired or rejected, I’m planning my “time-line” on being accepted…I’m optimistic.)
Instead of circumventing SE Asian’s mainland I will be setting sail again destined for Sumatra, Indonesia with Kevin, a 46-year-old seasoned sailor and surfer from California.
He has invited me to join him as crew aboard his boat, Helena, on a two month surfing safari. I won’t attempt the massive waves that this part of the world (Between Thailand and Indonesia) is renowned for, but there are smaller, beginner-style, waves that don’t look too intimidating. And while Kevin is catching some “black-diamond” surf I will be snorkeling, swimming, and island hopping in some of the last unspoiled areas of the world.
This will be an amazing and challenging experience.
I will see clear waters, exotic fish, village people unaccustomed to pail skin and blond hair, and spend tranquil mornings and nights watching the sun rise and set in the horizon. The beautiful scenery won’t lesson the challenges that the sea and an isolated life aboard a boat can deal.
Kevin is a laid-back guy who is willing to teach me how to sail and surf and hopes that I have an enjoyable trip. I’m not concerned about any awkwardness between us (he has had female crew in the past and we’ve already had the uncomfortable conversation about not seeing this as a relationship opportunity). But no matter how fun we make this adventure, two months with no internet access on a boat with only one other person, and I might feel claustrophobic at times.
I believe the good will outweigh the bad and I’m satisfied I’ve made the right decision.
We set sail the first or second week of April.
(I’ve applied to teach English in France starting in August, but I’m awaiting a response. I should have more information by May. Until I hear confirmation of being hired or rejected, I’m planning my “time-line” on being accepted…I’m optimistic.)
Instead of circumventing SE Asian’s mainland I will be setting sail again destined for Sumatra, Indonesia with Kevin, a 46-year-old seasoned sailor and surfer from California.
He has invited me to join him as crew aboard his boat, Helena, on a two month surfing safari. I won’t attempt the massive waves that this part of the world (Between Thailand and Indonesia) is renowned for, but there are smaller, beginner-style, waves that don’t look too intimidating. And while Kevin is catching some “black-diamond” surf I will be snorkeling, swimming, and island hopping in some of the last unspoiled areas of the world.
This will be an amazing and challenging experience.
I will see clear waters, exotic fish, village people unaccustomed to pail skin and blond hair, and spend tranquil mornings and nights watching the sun rise and set in the horizon. The beautiful scenery won’t lesson the challenges that the sea and an isolated life aboard a boat can deal.
Kevin is a laid-back guy who is willing to teach me how to sail and surf and hopes that I have an enjoyable trip. I’m not concerned about any awkwardness between us (he has had female crew in the past and we’ve already had the uncomfortable conversation about not seeing this as a relationship opportunity). But no matter how fun we make this adventure, two months with no internet access on a boat with only one other person, and I might feel claustrophobic at times.
I believe the good will outweigh the bad and I’m satisfied I’ve made the right decision.
We set sail the first or second week of April.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Redefining "edible"
The Asians I've encountered, and I've heard it's a good generalization, don't waste when it comes to food. For example, chicken isn't eaten off the bone, it is eaten in conjunction with the bone, skin, fat, marrow and cartilage.
Many prefer the “extras” to the meaty muscles I've always considered the only edible part.
When I was in Malaysia I made the mistake only once of not eating the “extras.” Myself and two others were invited to a home cooked meal by Ashim, a Bangladeshi man who worked in our hostel.
It was the best curry I've ever tasted, but I labored over eating the meat of each tiny bite of chicken matter. And soon Ashim noticed my tiny pile of bones. “That is my favorite part. You no like?”
Now I quite enjoy the added crunch and grit in my meat (mostly fish and chicken). I've adjusted to the texture and find it enhances my overall meal experience.
Now I'm building up my tolerance to Thai chilies.
Many prefer the “extras” to the meaty muscles I've always considered the only edible part.
When I was in Malaysia I made the mistake only once of not eating the “extras.” Myself and two others were invited to a home cooked meal by Ashim, a Bangladeshi man who worked in our hostel.
It was the best curry I've ever tasted, but I labored over eating the meat of each tiny bite of chicken matter. And soon Ashim noticed my tiny pile of bones. “That is my favorite part. You no like?”
Now I quite enjoy the added crunch and grit in my meat (mostly fish and chicken). I've adjusted to the texture and find it enhances my overall meal experience.
Now I'm building up my tolerance to Thai chilies.
Hairy leggs
During my two weeks on the sail boat I was without a razor and my hair was allowed to grow untamed.
I wasn't too concerned in the middle of the ocean, but once we hit land I became self-conscious. Phuket is the land of massage and salons parlor so I assumed it would be easy to find somewhere to get my first ever leg and bikini wax.
The idea stuck and I spend my first few days inquiring and miming about places to get the job done. (This was a humbling process.) But I finally found a place in Raiwi Beach. Three days after the discovery I returned to complete the mission.
I spent 1.5 hours at the T&P salon with two Thai ladies ripping the offending hairs, and at times plucking them with tweezers, from my legs. The whole time that I'm trying not to squirm in pain the owner's 2-year-old daughter is handing me toys, putting stickers on my body and at one point plucking the hairs from my arms, mimicking her mother. She was actually a welcomed distraction.
Then it was bikini line time...Of course my first experience had to involve to tiny Thai ladies chattering away in a foreign language armed with wax and fabric. The little girl said “ouch” for me every time they ripped away.
It was worthwhile and I'm still razor less.
I wasn't too concerned in the middle of the ocean, but once we hit land I became self-conscious. Phuket is the land of massage and salons parlor so I assumed it would be easy to find somewhere to get my first ever leg and bikini wax.
The idea stuck and I spend my first few days inquiring and miming about places to get the job done. (This was a humbling process.) But I finally found a place in Raiwi Beach. Three days after the discovery I returned to complete the mission.
I spent 1.5 hours at the T&P salon with two Thai ladies ripping the offending hairs, and at times plucking them with tweezers, from my legs. The whole time that I'm trying not to squirm in pain the owner's 2-year-old daughter is handing me toys, putting stickers on my body and at one point plucking the hairs from my arms, mimicking her mother. She was actually a welcomed distraction.
Then it was bikini line time...Of course my first experience had to involve to tiny Thai ladies chattering away in a foreign language armed with wax and fabric. The little girl said “ouch” for me every time they ripped away.
It was worthwhile and I'm still razor less.
Phuket Problem part II
I'd love to “stick it to the man” and rent a motorbike of my own, which is the preferred and cheaper form of transportation, but I'm too afraid. The streets are congested with lawless traffic.
Road lines are faded suggestions, speed and age limits don't exist and even the direction of traffic flow is open to interpretation. I've seen kids motoring around, with their friends/siblings, and drivers going the wrong way down streets narrowly avoiding head-on collisions. Helmets aren't required, which wasn't the case in Malaysia where I experienced another discrepancy between foreigner and local treatment.
When I was in Malaysia I had hitched a ride to the Yaht club with an old Italian man and was pulled over by the police for not wearing a helmet, even though I had seen hundreds of other passengers, usually kids, helmet-less. The special price for me was a 200 Ringet fine. After some talking, however, I ended up getting a ride to my destination in the police cruiser, without paying the fine.
I guess I don't always mind corruption when it's in my favor.
Road lines are faded suggestions, speed and age limits don't exist and even the direction of traffic flow is open to interpretation. I've seen kids motoring around, with their friends/siblings, and drivers going the wrong way down streets narrowly avoiding head-on collisions. Helmets aren't required, which wasn't the case in Malaysia where I experienced another discrepancy between foreigner and local treatment.
When I was in Malaysia I had hitched a ride to the Yaht club with an old Italian man and was pulled over by the police for not wearing a helmet, even though I had seen hundreds of other passengers, usually kids, helmet-less. The special price for me was a 200 Ringet fine. After some talking, however, I ended up getting a ride to my destination in the police cruiser, without paying the fine.
I guess I don't always mind corruption when it's in my favor.
Phuket problems
I'm pissed because I've been ripped off by a mustached man driving a motorbike taxi.
Thus far I've amicably accepted the inflated rates that foreigners are charged. I've even been benign about the extra charge I receive for not only being a western invasion but for being an American. Even lying about my heritage doesn't help, however. Most SE Asians can detect the USA on my like it's the last remnants of a cheap stick on tattoo, when every incriminated detail is gone but a dirty smear remains. These hounds can sniff it out and make you pay.
I stumbled into this costly predicament and subsequent foul mood by making a compromise.
I wanted to travel from Raiwi Beach to Phuket Town (I had gone to Raiwi for a wax job that I will elaborate on in a later posting). I would normally take the bus, but I was feeling impatient and waiting for the unpredictable bus wasn't appealing. (There are no bus schedules, only that the bus starts running about 8 a.m. And finishes about 4 p.m., also there are no bus stops. You must hail the bus from the side of the road as you would a taxi, if the taxis drove by every thirty minutes that is.) I assessed the alternatives: vehicular taxi, motorbike taxi and walking. Walking 10 km in the 2 p.m. Heat wasn't doable and motorbikes are cheaper than cars, so I decided that if I could find a bike for less than 30 Baht then I would take it (The bus would cost 10 to 20 Baht depending on the mood of the driver and his disposition toward western women.).
I approached a group of orange-vested motorbike drivers lounging in a shaded street corner and asked the price to Phuket Town.
“20 Baht” one old man croaked while holding up the peace sign.
“Deal.” I said as I hopped on the back of a bike.
Fifteen minutes later I was delivered to On On Hotel. I payed the driver 20 B and received a blank stare in return.
“150 B” He said.
I argued my case with no success, we stared off for a few minutes and finally I caved. I was the underdog. I have no idea what normal prices are and this was my first motorbike ride from Raiwi to Phuket town, and I certainly didn't want to be in the wrong or make an enemy.
But it was very rude and inconvenient. (My room costs 180 B a day, how could I justify a 15 minute bike ride that cost 140 B more than my alternative mode of transportation.) It was a costly mistake and now at 3 p.m. I'm still simmering in frustration.
To cool off I walked around a bookstore that I love in town and read titles and authors until I could put things in perspective (150 B = about $7). These things happen, budgets are blown (and I have made my share of indulgences that were more costly than this), western surcharges are added and at the end of the day it's better to accept, relax and enjoy the place for what it is. I must pick the battle s that are worthwhile, and not stress about the things I can't change or control. I'm learning to roll with the punches, and accept the results of challenging situations.
It's a bit like sand in your crack after a day at the beach...Digging for it usually doesn't help, and there is always someone to bare witness, so waiting for it to work itself out is usually the best remedy.
That and blogging about the injustice I've suffered eases my frustration a bit.
Thus far I've amicably accepted the inflated rates that foreigners are charged. I've even been benign about the extra charge I receive for not only being a western invasion but for being an American. Even lying about my heritage doesn't help, however. Most SE Asians can detect the USA on my like it's the last remnants of a cheap stick on tattoo, when every incriminated detail is gone but a dirty smear remains. These hounds can sniff it out and make you pay.
I stumbled into this costly predicament and subsequent foul mood by making a compromise.
I wanted to travel from Raiwi Beach to Phuket Town (I had gone to Raiwi for a wax job that I will elaborate on in a later posting). I would normally take the bus, but I was feeling impatient and waiting for the unpredictable bus wasn't appealing. (There are no bus schedules, only that the bus starts running about 8 a.m. And finishes about 4 p.m., also there are no bus stops. You must hail the bus from the side of the road as you would a taxi, if the taxis drove by every thirty minutes that is.) I assessed the alternatives: vehicular taxi, motorbike taxi and walking. Walking 10 km in the 2 p.m. Heat wasn't doable and motorbikes are cheaper than cars, so I decided that if I could find a bike for less than 30 Baht then I would take it (The bus would cost 10 to 20 Baht depending on the mood of the driver and his disposition toward western women.).
I approached a group of orange-vested motorbike drivers lounging in a shaded street corner and asked the price to Phuket Town.
“20 Baht” one old man croaked while holding up the peace sign.
“Deal.” I said as I hopped on the back of a bike.
Fifteen minutes later I was delivered to On On Hotel. I payed the driver 20 B and received a blank stare in return.
“150 B” He said.
I argued my case with no success, we stared off for a few minutes and finally I caved. I was the underdog. I have no idea what normal prices are and this was my first motorbike ride from Raiwi to Phuket town, and I certainly didn't want to be in the wrong or make an enemy.
But it was very rude and inconvenient. (My room costs 180 B a day, how could I justify a 15 minute bike ride that cost 140 B more than my alternative mode of transportation.) It was a costly mistake and now at 3 p.m. I'm still simmering in frustration.
To cool off I walked around a bookstore that I love in town and read titles and authors until I could put things in perspective (150 B = about $7). These things happen, budgets are blown (and I have made my share of indulgences that were more costly than this), western surcharges are added and at the end of the day it's better to accept, relax and enjoy the place for what it is. I must pick the battle s that are worthwhile, and not stress about the things I can't change or control. I'm learning to roll with the punches, and accept the results of challenging situations.
It's a bit like sand in your crack after a day at the beach...Digging for it usually doesn't help, and there is always someone to bare witness, so waiting for it to work itself out is usually the best remedy.
That and blogging about the injustice I've suffered eases my frustration a bit.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Simple Pleasures in Phuket Town
At 8 a.m. I left my shabby, high-ceilinged room that is costing about $7 a night and comes with exotic charm, all wood floors, a ceiling fan, a hard double bed with all white sheets, a small wooden sink and hanging mirror and two large windows shedding a white paint that is dirty from car exhaust –a neighboring room was the scene in the movie “The Beach” staring Leonardo DeCaprio.
The air was already hot and sticky with humidity and instantly my nose was invaded by the smell of fish soup. I walked down the street insearch of caffeine and the offending fish.
“Good morning mam,” the cheerful barista at a mobile coffee stand grinned. “Oh so sorry the coffee machine no working” (she is still smiling while delivering the sad news).
She saw my face drop and quickly recovered by adding, “But we have Nescafe.” Another big smile.
Nescafe is the local instant coffee that is thick and burnt tasting, but can easily be enhance with milk and sugar (or the very popular sweet milk, which is a thick condensed milk cream). I bought my coffee and did a bow, my hands folded in front of my face. We shared a few more smiles and then I sat at a table in the shade near her mobile stand, briefly abandoned my post to buy a few sliced of papaya and pineapple and returned to enjoy my bounty over my recently purchased book Ëmma” by Jane Austen.
These are some of my favorite moments. Sitting, surrounded by locals, enjoying a cup of coffee and fruit with my book and journal spread across the table. Everyone here loves smiling as much as I do and we all exchange toothy grins whenever eye-contact occurs, so I can’t help but feel optimistic about the day ahead. There is complete freedom of choice today. Whatever I want to do, within my budget (I won’t be commuting to a remote island for snorkeling and diving) and safety (I won’t be renting a motorbike and joining the lawless traffic that sends hundreds of tourist to hospitals weekly) I can do. It’s an exciting prospect.
Like my cup of coffee and fruit, I find cheap thrills everywhere. Mastering the local buses, and being the only westerner onboard, fills me with pride and joy, and walking around the city, having brief conversations with vendors in broken English and miming makes me feel connected to this foreign world.
Almost every day I meet interesting people with whom I can share bits of this experience.
Last night I met two girls – Anna from London and Ing from Holland – and the three of us meandered around, discovered a night market and later a pub In a part of old Phuket town that rarely sees western faces. Anna and I shared a good laugh when a rat nearly ran into our table as Ing was chatting with the bartender – rodents remind of the differences between here and home.
Hygienic or not the food here is amazing and I would gladly grow fat on the fruits of this place. Thank goodness it’s cheap.
The air was already hot and sticky with humidity and instantly my nose was invaded by the smell of fish soup. I walked down the street insearch of caffeine and the offending fish.
“Good morning mam,” the cheerful barista at a mobile coffee stand grinned. “Oh so sorry the coffee machine no working” (she is still smiling while delivering the sad news).
She saw my face drop and quickly recovered by adding, “But we have Nescafe.” Another big smile.
Nescafe is the local instant coffee that is thick and burnt tasting, but can easily be enhance with milk and sugar (or the very popular sweet milk, which is a thick condensed milk cream). I bought my coffee and did a bow, my hands folded in front of my face. We shared a few more smiles and then I sat at a table in the shade near her mobile stand, briefly abandoned my post to buy a few sliced of papaya and pineapple and returned to enjoy my bounty over my recently purchased book Ëmma” by Jane Austen.
These are some of my favorite moments. Sitting, surrounded by locals, enjoying a cup of coffee and fruit with my book and journal spread across the table. Everyone here loves smiling as much as I do and we all exchange toothy grins whenever eye-contact occurs, so I can’t help but feel optimistic about the day ahead. There is complete freedom of choice today. Whatever I want to do, within my budget (I won’t be commuting to a remote island for snorkeling and diving) and safety (I won’t be renting a motorbike and joining the lawless traffic that sends hundreds of tourist to hospitals weekly) I can do. It’s an exciting prospect.
Like my cup of coffee and fruit, I find cheap thrills everywhere. Mastering the local buses, and being the only westerner onboard, fills me with pride and joy, and walking around the city, having brief conversations with vendors in broken English and miming makes me feel connected to this foreign world.
Almost every day I meet interesting people with whom I can share bits of this experience.
Last night I met two girls – Anna from London and Ing from Holland – and the three of us meandered around, discovered a night market and later a pub In a part of old Phuket town that rarely sees western faces. Anna and I shared a good laugh when a rat nearly ran into our table as Ing was chatting with the bartender – rodents remind of the differences between here and home.
Hygienic or not the food here is amazing and I would gladly grow fat on the fruits of this place. Thank goodness it’s cheap.
Sailing Continued...
The sailing experience was rewarding and I’m grateful that Gary risked having an inexperienced crew aboard (I could have been a seasick mess and ruined the trip for both of us, which is always a possibility for anyone without much boating experience.). Also I’m indebted to him for making coffee every morning and indulging me in my caffeine addiction. We had a great trip together, discussed all the world’s problems including environmental, social and political and debated the warrants of various rules and regulations.
Mostly unknown to him, however, was my gnawing need for greater independence. At times I felt like a child constantly waiting for permission and affirmation. Many times I was unsure my duties on deck or how I should behave. It’s easy to crack the eggshells underfoot when there is so little walking space. Where could I sit without being in the way and still show that I was eager to learn the ins and outs of raising the mainsail or aligning our path on the GPS? Constantly changing instructions and protocols massaged my frustration. I couldn’t seem to do things the right way because the rule book was changing and until the error was made and identified I was ignorant of its alterations.
Temporarily living under someone else’s ceiling is tolerable, but I enjoy having control over my time and situation – or making compromises on circumstances, but unless a person has worked with a skipper for some time and built up solid report, or is in a relationship with him or her, negotiations are limited.
I’m still eager to sail and I’m looking forward to my next venture, but I’m more aware of the risks at sea – changing winds, ruff currents, and underwater fishing nets, and the importance of crew compatibility. Before I was all too zealous about boats and cared little for who the captain was, but now I understand the influence the driver has over making or breaking a trip.
Gary taught me a lot about sailing and reminded me the importance of confidence and self-assertion. I would be interested in another brief future voyage.
Mostly unknown to him, however, was my gnawing need for greater independence. At times I felt like a child constantly waiting for permission and affirmation. Many times I was unsure my duties on deck or how I should behave. It’s easy to crack the eggshells underfoot when there is so little walking space. Where could I sit without being in the way and still show that I was eager to learn the ins and outs of raising the mainsail or aligning our path on the GPS? Constantly changing instructions and protocols massaged my frustration. I couldn’t seem to do things the right way because the rule book was changing and until the error was made and identified I was ignorant of its alterations.
Temporarily living under someone else’s ceiling is tolerable, but I enjoy having control over my time and situation – or making compromises on circumstances, but unless a person has worked with a skipper for some time and built up solid report, or is in a relationship with him or her, negotiations are limited.
I’m still eager to sail and I’m looking forward to my next venture, but I’m more aware of the risks at sea – changing winds, ruff currents, and underwater fishing nets, and the importance of crew compatibility. Before I was all too zealous about boats and cared little for who the captain was, but now I understand the influence the driver has over making or breaking a trip.
Gary taught me a lot about sailing and reminded me the importance of confidence and self-assertion. I would be interested in another brief future voyage.
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