We spent the morning running around Ubud, doing some last-minute souvenir shopping in advance of our sending a package home. We were finally getting rid of some unnecessary bulky clothing (jeans, fleeces, heavy shirts) and a few other odds and ends. Kate and I now have lots of extra room in our packs, although they don't feel any lighter. We took the "tourist" shuttle bus north, up the mountain, to the spectacular rim of the Batur crater. The bus dropped us off there, and profusion of restaurants and souvenir stalls aside, we were in the middle of nowhere.
The view was good, though. The massive crater was about a dozen kilometers across, and inside was a mountain and lake and several villages. We needed to get down there, of course, and that meant arranging transport. A tout attached himself to us, offering to drive us down to a hotel, and after some humming and hawing we accepted. At the hotel we needed to negotiate for the room, and then make plans for our climb the next morning. More negotiation was entailed; the hotel manager eventually booked us on our climb for US$15 each. Kate and I were feeling a bit sick, and we needed to get up at 3am to begin our climb, so we went to bed early.
We had been told that Kintamani was a bit quieter, less touristy, than Ubud. And it was -- but that only meant that the locals were even more desperate for some much-needed dollars. People constantly ask us: "Where you from?", "Where you going?" They sound like they're being friendly, but after a bit of conversation they just want to sell. There's no such thing as a disinterested third party, so all advice is suspect. Everyone stands to gain some money by funneling you to a hotel or tour, or by buying your ticket for you at a price that suits them. I hesitate to be so rude as to accuse the Balinese of outright lying, but there was certainly some misdirection going on. This is a shame -- I ended up not trusting anyone we talked to, felt constantly hassled, and as a result closed myself off from the local people. This, more than anything, was what I didn't like about Bali.
I can never sleep well when I know I need to get up early the next morning. It's not a fear of missing the alarm -- it's just that I'm too aware that I need to get to sleep now, and I try to hard to fall asleep, and get all worked up as a result. So when someone pounded on our door at 3 am to wake us for our climb, I was slightly less than well-rested.
We enjoyed some tea, and then each of us climbed on the back of a scooter for a rather harrowing ride in the dark to the trailhead. We met our guide and our two climbing partners, and began the trek.
I love walking in the darkness. It's very mystical. The anonymity of it highlights purpose over personality. We walked by moonlight, for the most part, with the guide and two local kids (bearers of exorbitantly-priced coke bottles) using flashlights unnecessarily. Aside from the quiet migration in the dark, the climb was unremarkable.
Around 5:30 we reached the rim of the Mt. Batur crater. There were several higher points on the mountain, but (disappointingly) the guide said we wouldn't be heading up there. We sat on a bench, enjoyed some tea, and waited for the sunrise. The air slowly lightened as we waited, but unfortunately clouds were obscuring the sunrise to the far east. We had views all the way to the island of Lombok to the west, and several smaller islands to the south. Our guide cooked us breakfast (a banana sandwich and a hard-boiled egg), then we moved on.
The guide took us around the crater to see some of the smaller, younger craters from more recent eruptions. He pointed out the most recent crater, from an eruption in 1997. A German couple had been sitting in the crater when it erupted. Our guide had carried the man out of the area (he later died in hospital) and then went back to carry out the body of the man's pregnant wife. The fact that the woman was pregnant is curious: pregnant women are not allowed to be on the mountain.
The people of Bali are Hindus, and they believe the mountain is holy -- the home of Brahma, the creator. Like any other Hindu temple, people who are unclean are not permitted on the mountain. This includes pregnant women, and anyone who is bleeding (or menstruating). The presence of the German woman was offensive to the mountain. Perhaps the mountain acted on its anger?
The idea of pregnancy or menstruation banning someone from a temple doesn't mesh with my western sensibilities, but out of respect for the locals, I didn't push the issue. Kate was a bit more vocal. She asked, "is there any time when men aren't allowed on the mountain?" There are: the guide said that after carrying the bodies off the mountain, he wasn't allowed in a temple for three days, and after the death of his father he was unclean for a month.
We descended quickly from the mountain, enjoying the views of the black lava flows filling the larger crater that housed the mountain and the lake. Back at the hotel we took a brief nap, then met up with our pre-arranged transport to the town of Singaraja, about two hours away. From there we could get a bus off the island of Bali.
Singaraja is not a tourist town, and everyone ignored us! It was refreshing, until we were spotted by the bemo (public transport minivan) drivers. They all assumed we wanted to go to nearby Lovina, a tourist destination, and pestered us despite our repeated rebuffs. "Where are you going?" they'd ask. "Over there!" we'd reply, pointing at a restaurant or the bus station. They wouldn't give up. It was maddening -- we didn't want to be rude, but we were getting tired of having the same conversation over and over.
Eventually, though, we started to take it in stride. When we walked into the main bus terminal, a crowd of bemo drivers gathered around us, all offering transport to Lovina. I raised both my hands in the air, and in a loud, deep voice said "We're O. K.!" This seemed to throw them off for a while. Another man came up to us and asked if we wanted a ride to Lovina. "No thank you", we replied. "Where are you going?" he asked. "To Surabaya," we said -- our destination was a large city on the island of Java. He paused for a few seconds, and we could see the wheels turning as he tried to come up with some way to make money off us. Finally he said, "the ferry isn't working." We laughed -- yeah, right. It was clearly a desperate attempt to throw us off and get our money.
We climbed onto the bus around 7pm and settled into our seats for the long ride to Surabaya -- if everything went well, it would take about 9 hours. After about 2 hours, though, the bus stopped. From what we could see, we were in a holding area, surrounded by other buses. And we held. I slept a bit, but every time we woke we were still in the same spot. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, we drove onto the ferry for the short crossing and continued on to Surabaya. Later, we learned that the van driver in Singaraja was right -- a group of protesting students had blockaded the ferry terminal and were causing all kinds of delays.
The bus ride took us through endless rice fields. We stopped once, for a meal. We were amazed, and rather gratified, to discover that very few people spoke English. Nobody hassled us. We were a bit of a curiosity, but nothing more. This was what I wanted.
Surabaya is Indonesia's second largest city. It is dirty and crowded, and trying to walk across the road is suicidal. The sewers are open, stinking of sulfur, and full of mosquitoes. I loved Surabaya.
People ignored us! We wandered around the city a little, visiting the Arab quarter and trying to find Chinatown, and when people said "Hello!" it wasn't a pretext to sell us something. They were just saying, "Hello!" and practicing their English. It was refreshing. We were able to open ourselves up again. We rode becaks (a bicycle rickshaw) through the city, enjoying the pace and the cool air on our faces. We had a "taste of home" lunch, where we ate at McDonald's and A&W and "Texas fried chicken". We explored the city's indoor malls -- massive, western-style behemoths with multiple floors, several hundred shops, and even an ice rink! I was tempted to show off my fine Canadian skating skills, but they only had figure-skating skates, and I'm afraid of toe picks. Finally, we did nothing -- we spent all day in our hotel room, watching TV (especially this show) and eating room service and enjoying our lethargy.
Yogyakarta is a nice city. It is relatively small, and the cultural center for Java. There's tons to do here -- from a silversmithing workshop to cooking classes to traditional dances and puppet shows to batik factory tours to the ancient Buddhist temple of Borobudur. We'll probably be here a week before leaving Indonesia behind.
The becak drivers are a hassle, and refuse to take no for an answer, but we're learning. Do you know how it is when, after having a confrontation with someone, you think of the perfect rebuttal, but it's too late to use it? Well, we keep having the same confrontation over and over, and we get to think up all kinds of interesting rebuttals. Unfortunately, most of them are too rude to actually be useful. We're considering doing the covering-your-ears-and-singing-so-I-can't-hear-you trick, and we've looked up how to say "go away" in Indonesian. Mostly, though, we just say no, no, no, thank you, but no and they walk with us for a bit, asking if maybe we want to hire them for an hour tomorrow, or the next day, and we just say "no, terimah kasih" (thank you); "no, jalan jalan" (we're just walking), and eventually they seem to get the picture and wander off -- in time for us to be spotted by the next becak driver.
On our first day in Yogyakarta Kate and I came upon Via Via, a "traveler's cafe" that, in addition to pretty good food, offered classes in local arts and crafts.
The first class we took was in silversmithing. Both of us made a ring, from scratch. We did all the work ourselves, from design to pounding to soldering. My result was rather... well, ugly. Kate, however, came up with a beautiful flower ring that was the equal of anything you'd find at a street vendor.
Our next class was cooking. Kate and I were the only participants again, and this time we got to choose the menu. I picked two items: Rendang Ayam (chicken in a coconut curry sauce) and Soto Asam (a vegetable soup). Unlike our first cooking class, in Bali, where the chef did almost all the work while we watched, this time Kate and I did all the work. We chopped the vegetables and ground up the ingredients on a morter and pestle. I made my own coconut milk. We stirred and boiled and fried while the instructor, Made, looked on. It was interesting to compare Javanese and Balinese cuisine -- they're essentially the same, but Javanese cuisine uses fewer spices in its basic mix. We made fried tempeh in a caramel sauce and fried our own krupuk (puffy shrimp crackers). Finally, of course, we got to eat our creation and it was truly delicious.
The final class we took as a batik class. Batik is a method of dying fabric using wax to cover up areas that you don't want to have colour -- kind of like many of us have done with easter eggs. Batik is everywhere in Yogya, and about half of the becak drivers we hire ask if maybe we want to stop at a batik factory (so they can pick up a commission on a sale). The batik class lasted most of the day, and we covered the entire process, from drawing designs with special wax "pens" to dying the fabric, applying more wax, and creating a special "crackling" texture. I developed a new appreciation for the art of batik -- getting the wax onto the fabric in the right density, without spilling wax all over where it shouldn't go (including your hands and pants) is a tough skill to master. Kate and I now have nice pieces of batik that we made ourselves, that we're going to get made into pillows when we return home.
Kate and I have also done some exploring on our own. We went to Taman Sari, the water palace, which is an old ruin where the Sultan's Baths used to be. A guide showed us around, but his English was barely comprehensible. He proved his worth by leading us to a fascinating old ruin of mosque, and then tried to lead us into a batik shop.
Guides leading us to batik shops is a pretty common theme. For the most part, the guides are subtle. Kate and I were exploring the bird market, where pet birds (and many other animals) are for sale. The birds are a favorite of Indonesians: it is said that for a man to be considered truly prosperous he must have a house, a wife, a horse, and a turtle dove. While we were walking around a man took it upon himself to show us the sights. He led us through the animals, showing us flying foxes (bats), squirrels, owls, eagles, rather sad-looking full-grown monkeys in tiny cages, sickly baby cougars (whose mother had most likely been poached)... The market was an odd combination of interesting and very, very sad. We'd heard that there was a good view of the city nearby, and we asked him to show us. He led us up there, then led us even further into the winding passageways of the housing district behind the bird market. He showed us an old well, then invited us to step into his "brother's" batik shop. Kate and I had no plans to buy any batik up until now, but the artwork actually looked interesting. Plus, batik makes the perfect souvenir: it's cheap (if you avoid the tourist shops where prices are inflated four or five times), handmade by locals using an ancient artform, and folds up into small, light little bundles. We bought a few pieces and then returned to our hotel for a dip in the pool.
Other guides have been more deceptive. One day we wanted to visit the Sultan's palace. A guide introduced himself, said he worked for the Sultan's palace, and proceeded to lead us to the Prince's palace, a five minute walk away. He showed us the Prince's meditation room, which was only vaguely interesting, and then tried to lead us into a batik shop. That was the end of the tour.
By now, after a week in this city, we've gotten pretty good at this game. Now, when a becak driver or a guide mentions batik, we just laugh. Usually, that's enough for the tout to see that we're onto the game.
Borobudur is an old Buddhist temple about 40 km northwest of Yogya. It crowns a hill, and is an official World Heritage Listed site (worth 2 points in the Going Global Game). Tours depart for Borobudur at all hours of the day, but Kate and I decided we'd do this one on our own. The guidebooks warned of many thefts on the bus to Borobudur, so we were extra paranoid and put a lock on our pack. We took a becak to the bus station, and were quickly guided onto the bus. We were charged 5000 rupiahs, far more than we saw anyone else pay, and were a bit disgruntled at that -- but I guess that's just the way it is. At Borobudur we ran the gauntlet of souvenir hawkers and found the entrance. We were pointed to the fancy glass-enclosed "tourist" entrance, where we paid about 10 times what a local would have paid to enter.
Inside Borobudur were even more souvenir hawkers -- very persistent, they are. We ignored them and climbed up the hill to the temple. It was beautiful, covered in carvings of the life of Buddha and Buddhist saints. There are 9 levels to the temple, and we wandered through the passageways, climbing higher and higher, until we reached the top. Once there, we sat on top and watched the rainclouds running towards us from the distant mountains. The temple was crawling with students, but there were few foreigners there. We became something of an attraction ourselves, and several times teenagers gathered around to pose with us. Finally, we braved the souvenir hawkers one final time and walked back to the bus station.
I've been looking forward to see the Wayang Kulit for quite a while. This is traditional Javanese shadow puppetry, and I was eager to see the artistic heights to which this simple idea could be elevated. Before the show we got a chance to see the puppets up close (the tour guide was very disappointed when we didn't buy any, and the tour abruptly ended). The detail on the puppets is amazing -- not just painted on, but carved and punched so that they cast very detailed shadows. We sat down to watch the show, which once again was the Ramayana.
Every show we've seen in Indonesia has told the same part of the Ramayana story give or take a few scenes. We've seen the story accompanied by kecak singers (twice) and a gamelan orchestra, danced as a ballet and now, in incredible detail as a shadow puppet play. This last performance was the biggest disappointment. Most of the story consisted of narration and dialog, with the puppets not moving, and seeing as we don't speak Sanskrit, this exposition and character development was lost on us. In fact, it was such a disappointment that we left halfway through. The fight scenes (few and very, very far between) showed some great choreography and talent from the single puppeteer, but beyond that there wasn't much to hold our attention.
Here, for the uninitiated, is a summary of the Ramayana story:
The king of some kingdom holds a contest to see who will marry his daughter, Shinta. Rama wins the contest, and some other guy gets really mad. Rama and his cousin Laksmana go for a walk in the forest with Shinta. A deer walks by, which is really one of the bad guys in disguise. Shinta asks Rama to capture it, and he runs off. Shinta is tricked into hearing Rama's cry for help, and convinces Laksmana to go help Rama. Laksmana refuses, and Shinta accuses him of wanting Rama to die so he can marry her himself. Laksmana runs off to help Rama, but leaves a circle of protection around Shinta. The bad guy finally arrives but can't get at Shinta because of the circle. So, he transforms himself into a holy man and when Shinta gets up to give him alms he captures her. He takes her back to his kingdom, and on the way is attacked by the Garuda, a magic bird. The Garuda is mortally wounded, but before dying is able to tell Rama and Laksmana what happened to Shinta. Rama and Shinta hook up with Hanoman, the white monkey, and two other monkeys. They help the monkey king rescue his wife from some other monkey, and then send Hanoman to get info about Shinta. Hanoman goes to the palace where Shinta is being held captive. He finds her there with the bad guy's niece (who, we hear, eventually becomes Hanoman's wife, but we've never seen that part). Hanoman gives her Rama's ring, and Shinta in return gives him a hair comb. Hanoman destroys the palace (bad monkey!), and is captured by the bad guys. They try to burn him, but he's impervious to the fire and escapes. The head bad guys sends various other bad guys to kill Rama and Laksmana and the monkeys, but they all are vanquished by Rama and his heirloom bow. Finally, Rama and Shinta are reunited. But wait! It turns out Rama is a real jerk, and won't take Shinta back because he thinks she's been unfaithful. Shinta pleads with him, and he refuses. So, she sets herself on fire. Because she really is pure, though, she's not harmed by the fire and Rama finally takes her back.
We've now seen this story four times.
Kate and I get homesick occasionally, and if there's one thing that I miss more than anything, it's my music collection. (Family and friends come in second: I get plenty of them via email.) It's really quite surprising. As I write this I'm listening to music on headphones via the internet, and Ani di Franco is playing. I'm a fan of hers, and I'd love to listen to her Little Plastic Castle CD a few times over and over.
In Australia we suffered through heavy rains, especially in the north. We should have bought an umbrella early, but it just seemed like a silly luxury for such intrepid travellers as ourselves. But when it's too hot to wear a raincoat, an umbrella comes in really handy. So just before leaving Australia we bought one, and it's been incredibly useful. It rains constantly here, and with the help of the umbrella we are able to travel places without getting completely soaked. A few days ago, though, our umbrella broke, so we went umbrella shopping. It turns out I'm pretty picky when it comes to umbrellas. I eventually settled on one, and it broke the next day. We bought another one yesterday, and this one's already showing signs of wear and tear. Hopefully, umbrella technology is more advanced in Singapore -- which is where we're headed tomorrow.
Frankly, this is a tough one. This is my first time visiting a Southeast Asian country, and so I don't really have a basis of comparison. I was often struck by how similar everything seemed to Mexico -- the way everything was incredibly chaotic and yet still seemed to work.
Some places, and Bali in particular, were a big disappointment. I left there feeling like I simply could not trust the locals -- that ultimately, they'd do anything short of theft to part me with my money. As a traveler, I'm always at a disadvantage. I'll never be fully informed. I need to be able to put myself in someone else's hands and trust that I'm not being taken advantage of. In Bali, that trust was missing.
But since this is my first time in Southeast Asia, a bit of culture shock is to be expected. Life here is, after all, different -- and that's why I'm here in the first place. As we spend more time in countries such as Indonesia, Kate and I should get a better sense of when we're being misled and when we're being helped. To summarize: I'm no longer an innocent.
The cities are crowded and dirty. The air pollution is overwhelming. The countryside is an endless arrangement of carefully tiered rice paddies. Those conical hats that Asians wear look really stupid on Westerners. The food stalls are a bit intimidating, and serve delicious food. A smile is always returned. Sometimes, people just like to say hello.