In Berlin, if it’s not the bakeries, it’s the wurst

     Karl Marx Bakery in Neukolln. In Berlin it feels like there are two bakeries on every block.


     I used a great German rideshare website, Mitfahrgelegenheit, to go from outside Amsterdam to Berlin. I practice what I preach on my website! We haggled to 33 euros ($41) for the 6-7 hour trip, but with rideshare you never know what you are getting to get. My driver was a nice-enough guy, but he chain-smoked, had a dog, and blasted horrible techno “music”—wait, that was redundant—he blasted techno the entire time. My head was throbbing to the point that I yearned for a Michael Learns to Rock CD. It was a hot drive, and it seemed the whole time I sat in a swirl of sweat, smoke, dog hair and pulsing techno, ready to hang myself.
     How I stayed cheaply in Berlin is going to be a part of one of my next blog posts, “Advanced CouchSurfing Tips,” because of the way a CouchSurfer found me and told me about it. I stayed in a guest room for student housing at a university, 20 euros ($25) for 3 nights. The downside was that the toilet wasn’t in the room. It wasn’t even in the building. It was 50 meters away in another dorm building that is sometimes locked and you have to wait for someone to come. (I should really stop traveling.)
     It’s fun to be around the energy of universities and the student scene.
YOUNG TRAVELER ADVICE ALERT! YOUNG TRAVELER ADVICE ALERT!
     Probably no one in their 20s needs or wants to hear my advice, but being in Berlin reminds me I could have used some guidance back in the day. I was in East Berlin on May 1, 1988 and terribly regret not watching the spectacular Workers Day parade, the penultimate one for East Germany, if I’m not mistaken. Instead, I stumbled around the distant suburbs where everything was closed because all the smart people were in town watching the parade.
     Anyway, my advice for you young punks is to visit provincial university towns in Eastern Europe and to visit them on Thursdays. Try to CouchSurf with the students who live in university housing. Thursdays are when students blow off steam because everyone goes home on Fridays. My experience was mostly in Hungary, where every Friday was a mass wildebeest migration to the train stations.
     The rejoinder to this is to hope you get invited home with your host. It is very special in the small towns and villages where you get a totally different, unforgetably rich experience, not to mention the great home-cooked food you won’t have anywhere else or the other events/parties where there are new friends to make. Go now. Thank me later.
END OF YOUNG TRAVELER ADVICE ALERT! END OF YOUNG TRAVELER ADVICE ALERT!

     I prefer Berlin on a weekend mostly because it might be the best place in Europe for flea markets—can you think of any other contenders?—but I could only manage a visit in the middle of the week. I stumbled around the distant suburbs, undoubtedly missing a parade somewhere, never learning life’s lessons.

     A one-man wurst show, only in Germany


     The side view. There must be some occupational hazards with this job.



     Are my Indonesian friends still with me? Look at how much half a papaya costs here: 50,000 rupiah!

The Dutch are unlike you and me

     Psssst! Want a flight tip? If you are a couple and the aircraft has three seats in a row, reserve the window and aisle, keeping the middle seat empty. Your chances are much better that you will have the extra seat free. If someone does come, then you can offer to switch, which they will always accept unless they were an orphan and want that family bond they never had. This wisdom comes from Paul Sully, the pride of Somaliland. Airlines are so cut-throat now that it could become harder to do, as this story shows.

     Has to be the world's smallest license plate, right? And look at that ugly bump on my finger.


     I flew from Jakarta to Amsterdam on Malaysia Airlines for $490 one way, which isn’t too bad given high airfares these days. I was so into Indonesia I didn’t give much thought to Holland until a few days before my flight when I started thinking, “Shoes…shoes…I’m almost positive I have shoes in my backpack,” and “Jacket…I’m sure I have a jacket—but let me double-check.” I assumed it would be nice and warm in mid-May. As we descended after 14 hours of flying from 32C (90F) Jakarta, the captain says something to the effect of “soon we will be arriving in Amsterdam where the local temperature is 7 degrees Celsius (54F)”. Those in shorts and flip-flops had quizzical looks and started murmuring to each other, “Did he say 7? 7?!”
     I used to look forward to flying into Amsterdam’s thoughtful Schiphol airport, but after the last few times I can’t take the arrogance anymore. First of all, you need a lot of coins when you arrive for phone calls and train tickets, and they’re hard to get. It’s worse than India. The curmudgeons working at the information booth (admittedly a mind-numbing job) sit with their arms crossed and berate you if you challenge their poppycock that there is a change machine in the airport or that the banks will make change.
     While it’s fantastic that the train tracks are right under the airport, less than 50 meters from customs, dealing with the train is maddening. Dutch train ticket machines take Dutch credit cards and only some—not most—take coins, but around the country many train stations are unmanned and nearby businesses won’t give you change. Even after you manage to get a ticket, the Dutch contempt for you isn’t finished when you discover there is no place to put luggage on the train. An intercity train with no space for luggage. Deal with it!
     It’s OK. It reminds me I am unprepared for the future, and Holland is the future. I tell Dutch people that all the time and they tell me it’s nonsense all the time, probably because they think I am doling out the compliments to borrow money, but I really believe it.

     I'm pretty sure this is mocking me.


     I was talking with a roaming Amsterdam tourist information volunteer on the street and Indonesia came up. I mentioned I had just flown in.
     “It used to be a Dutch colony, you know,” she said.
     “Yes, I know. In Holland they’re called ‘The good old days’, right?”
     She went on: “It was the Americans who told us after the war to let go of Indonesia and give them their independence.”
     “Really? That must have been the last time the Dutch listened to anything the Americans told them.”
     There is no more progressive country on the planet than the Netherlands, I claim, and Dutch boldness is perfectly encapsulated in their self-confident, phlegm-hacking language. You can’t both speak Dutch and be shy.
     Take any hot-button topic in USA and the Dutch will already have dealt with it many years ago: legalization of drugs, legalization of prostitution, euthanasia, urban planning, age of consent, teenage abortion, etc., and the results are almost beside the point; the fact the Dutch actively try something is radical. Nothing gets swept under the rug. Long before a Dutchman has become an adult, he or she will have done everything, tried everything, seen everything and so past it that if your image of Amsterdam is marijuana “coffee shops” and women for sale in the windows, they’ll tell you it says more about you than it does the Dutch.
     All that is changing and there is a rising intolerance, Dutch people say. Politically, it is moving rightward with a groundswell of support for rabble-rousing firebrand Geert Wilders, but this might be a generational shift in attitudes. Back in the day it was impossible to meet a young backpacker who supported George Bush, and today you will never meet a Dutch backpacker with a kind word to say about Wilders. I am no expert in Dutch politics; I only love the hypocrisy that he is married to a Hungarian, yet is virulently against Eastern Europeans immigrating to Holland.

     'You may be asked to open your bag' is much less confrontational than the other languages, which is a variation of 'We have the right to control your bag.' They must be jittery that Americans are going to be flip out and start reloading their guns in front of the Anne Frank House: 'Control my bag?! What the hell? Ain't happening, kimosabe! Honey, pass me the ammo!'


     I’m visiting old friends in the middle of Holland. Maarten is roughly the same size as me so every time I visit they have his unwanted clothes set aside in case I want to upgrade my look. This was the birthplace of my orange pants that I have worn around the world a few times. I made a webpage to celebrate their movements.
     Next stop: Berlin!
     Forgot to include this, a little Dutch treat, the best song to ever come out of the Netherlands, “Tom Boy” by Bettie Serveert:

The Best and Worst of Indonesia

     I don't know about you, but sometimes I need this reminder. Let me publicly state for the record that I have never tried to squat on a toilet like that. I have fantastic squatting abilities---go ahead, put that on my tombstone---and prefer squat toilets, but the two reasons I don't do it are that I am afraid I will break the seat or worse, I will slip and break my ankle as it wedges into the toilet hole. Imagine the scene as someone has to hack into the bathroom from your screams of pain and look at what they see. They'll wash their eyes for an hour in a vain effort to 'un-see' it.


     Simply put, the best thing about Indonesia are the people. It may be an obvious thing to say; can you imagine a country you love where the people make you crazy—other than India? The people are the reason I like the nothing-to-see towns such as Medan, Semarang and Surabaya because just walking around and seeing hundreds of smiling faces is enjoyable. Another point is you can visit Indonesia ten times and see ten very different regions, it’s so diverse. Shamefully, it takes so much time to see each area partly because roads are so bad. Maybe some corrupt government official reading this suddenly feels better about pocketing road works money. “See? If we fixed the roads the tourists won’t need to come back ten times!”
     I intended to write 100,000 words about the best and worst of Indonesia, but the reality of time for blogging vs. time for traveling slapped me upside the head. Let’s start with the worst since I don’t want Indonesians to get too big of a head about how great their country is, then have a Jakarta buffer, and end on a warm and fuzzy note with the best. I won’t get around to telling my story about visiting some foreigners in prison in Malang, East Java, years ago and then discovering a book written by one of them years later. Next time.

     Chelsea Olivia? Give me a break. Is there a country in Asia that doesn't venerate white skin and faint western features? Dark is beautiful! And what kind of fake name is that? Did her agents google 'most popular American female baby names 1997'? I admit I like the word 'selebriti', but 'spesial'? There already is an Indonesian word for it: 'istimewa'. Am I missing something?


     Garbage is a chronic problem. Personal spaces are usually quite clean, but public ones can be horrendous. This is looking straight down from a beautiful restaurant viewpoint. At least I never heard someone say that if it wasn't for litterers, street sweepers would be out of a job.

Jakarta
     In Jakarta I strenuously wanted to avoid the skeezy backpacker ghetto on Jalan Jaksa. I detest it with a passion. It is the one and only place where I develop a bad opinion of Indonesians. Luckily, I got a Couchsurfing response to my notification that I was going to be in Jakarta on specific dates. (This is much better than joining a CS Last Minute Couch group. One of my next blog posts is going to be called “Advanced Couchsurfing Tips”. Either that or “Yet Another Boring Hitchhiking Story.”)
     A woman and her family invited me. She was incredibly accomplished at the tender age of 24. I am going to say she is the only Club Med dance choreographer who was accepted into Princeton—and then turned Princeton down! She studied Russian in Moscow and the day after I visited she was helping translate for Russian investigators over a plane crash nearby of a jet the Russians wanted to impress Indonesian buyers with. She knew three of the translators that were on board.
     I can’t say a lot about Jakarta this time. I didn’t explore much. I went to some flea markets, organized a CouchSurfing meeting, hung out with the CS family, and consoled my host when it was announced that a Lady Gaga concert scheduled for Jakarta had been cancelled due to protests from a small fringe group. Is Lady Gaga such a threat? Metallica was allowed to play in Indonesia, and only a couple thousand people rioted. It’s a shame a vocal few still hold sway in Indonesia.

     My CouchSurfing host very skillfully backing into a tight parking space. Who says Asian women are bad drivers?


     A Jakarta city bus. I don't know where this fits in the best-worst spectrum.


     The tattoo says, 'I miss you'. Every girl I show this picture to has a visceral reaction. Might be time to get a 'The Dromomaniac' tattoo across my forehead.


     I am blaming the Bank of Indonesia for my morbid obesity.



     This woman below is holding her rica rica babi, which is spicy pork with lots of ginger and cooked with a big, thick leaf I’ve never seen before. I watched her cook a couple of dishes and asked to take a closer look, hovering over her and trying to follow as she patiently explained the ingredients and her technique.
     This is the essence of what makes Indonesia special for me, the fact that I can poke my head into any kitchen, under the hood of a car, in a domino game, anywhere any time of day, and people will gladly let me watch or participate and ask my millions of stupid questions. I’m always curious about how they cook, especially these “dry” dishes that soak in all the flavors, and I could go to any warung (food stall), any wreck of a hole-in-the-wall dive last cleaned during the Sukarno regime and the girl will happily show me what she is crushing in her mortar and pestle. Not once have I been sick in Indonesia.
     This open friendliness isn’t exclusive to Indonesia, but the welcoming, warm nature of the people is what stays with me when I remember my time here. Thank you, Indonesia! See you next time!

     A bowl of rica rica babi


     Isn't this guy the best? This photo is my laptop wallpaper now. He is selling buroncong, an addictive combination of rice flour, coconut and sugar, 500 rupiah apiece, about 6 cents. He just happens to be holding five.

Boat Building & the Last Hitchhiking Stories from Sulawesi—I promise!

     I sleep AWFULLY these days. I wish I could sleep like this girl, my nameless heroine and idolette.


     When I arrived at Pantai Bira (Bira Beach) in southern Sulawesi it was dead, but I saw a small gaggle of white people and asked them what’s doing. They were “boaties”, they called themselves, and had been living here for most of the year. They were making a documentary of their purchase: the construction of a 35 meter boat.
     They said it was going to cost about $100,000 to build, and $250,000 for the finished product with motor, two 27-foot masts, interior work, etc. They were using a heavy tropical hardwood called ironwood, or kayu besi, that was quite rare, yet cheap. Incredibly, the hot-dipped galvanized steel bolts are more expensive than the lumber and will wear out before the wood does!
     They said that other than chainsaws and power planers, it’s very low-tech and low-pay work. The foreman gets about $20 a day, so you can imagine how much the barefooted guys working the chainsaws get.
     The next day I went to the beach to watch a crew make a similar-sized boat. It was fascinating.

     Note the guy drilling in the foreground. The wood is so dense and hard it will bend a nail if you try and hammer one without drilling a hole first.


     Looked precarious to me.



     It can take 10-20 days to launch the boat. It is cranked by hand as the guys in the background are doing and then guided through the shallow waters past the reef, a tricky endeavor.


     These two and I were all staying at Salassa Guest House in Pantai Bira, where you should order the ayam bumbu Bali for dinner. The Russian girl stunned me by perfectly expressing to Hiroshi why Penang is so special in a way that only a deep-thinking Russian girl can, and I sat there dumbfounded, not even taking notes. I keep telling Hiroshi that he should be the next Prime Minister of Japan as his country needs him desperately. He's a doctor, a surfer traveling with 35kg of junk(!) and is self-taught in proficient English, which is unheard of. Truly amazing guy.


     Pantai Bira sunset


     I decided to hitchhike back to Makassar from Pantai Bira. At one point I held out my thumb in front of a police station---in how many countries would you try that?---and two policemen excitedly waved me over to join them. This guy was like a kid given a new toy and he kept wanting photos of me while he giggled and played policeman. I tried to tell him that he already was a policeman and he didn't need to pretend to talk into the two-way radio, but who am I to rain on his parade?


     These vamps picked me up hitchhiking. For some reason I agreed to stay with them for an hour detour as they made a stop to pray in someone's house. The girls put white garments on their heads and prayed while the men sat in front of them and smoked, telling me to get myself an Indonesian woman. Surreal.


     Finally back in Makassar with Fitry, my former couchsurfing host on the right who very helpfully arranged my flight ticket out the next morning. She had me meet her in a McDonalds, then we moved to the biggest Pizza Hut I've ever seen. Somehow it still felt like an Indonesian experience.


     P.S. Special shout out to Stephen Lioy for giving me a lot of valuable Sulawesi advice. His website, monkboughtlunch.com, has a nice tagline I might steal if he chokes on a sheep bone in Uzbekistan in the coming days: “All Travel, All the Time. Most of the Time.”

Death in the morning: mass buffalo slaughter at a Toraja funeral ceremony

     I was proud of myself. I made a bus reservation by phone in Indonesian (degree of difficulty: very high to stratospheric) complete with questions about seat assignment and terminal information. 'Kent' is a hard name for Indonesians to grasp, but 'Obama' is easy in any language.


     I liked having a conversation with this man about his cacao beans while he's standing on his cacao beans. He told me they go for 18,000 rupiah a kilo, about $2, but the price fluctuates wildly, unlike coffee beans.


     A couple of friends recommended it highly, but I didn’t want to visit Toraja, a region 11 bus hours north of Makassar in Sulawesi. I thought that the main attraction was to visit the natives in their habitat which sounds like they’re zoo animals, not to mention exploitative and probably misleading, like in southern Ethiopia where someone yells, “Tourist!” and the tribespeople hide their iPads, cover their SUVs with brush and pretend to be primitive, posing for photos.
     But it’s not like that at all, and three things blew me away about Toraja: the rice terraces, the tongkonan houses, and the funeral ceremony.

     Imagine how much work goes into transforming a mountain into hundreds of level terraces for planting rice. I never ever tire of rice terraces anywhere. They are incredible feats of engineering that my camera can never accurately capture, so this photo is just of a small section.


     The tongkonan are the distinctive houses with soaring roofs all over the region. Architecture may not seem like a worthwhile reason to visit a place, but I found the tongkonan to be very pretty in their settings just as in Sumatra I was impressed by the elegant Minangkabau-style buildings.


     This beautiful elaborate building is for nothing more than storing rice, and you might not be able to see it, but it's richly carved with great detail and painted accordingly. It's 2012. If that isn't proof that they are keeping their traditions alive when they could use their time and hard-earned money other ways, I don't know what is.



     Dotted around the countryside are coffins buried in cliff faces with wooden effigies


     Toraja is an island of Christianity and animism in a sea of Islam in Sulawesi with unique rites. When a Torajan dies they plan an elaborate funeral ceremony that can takes months or years to arrange as money needs to be saved and relatives need time to gather. They usually happen in summer, but a traveler at my guest house saw one the day I arrived. She said a water buffalo was killed, 20-30 tourists were there, an emcee on a microphone would instruct the foreigners on what to do and when—it didn’t sound like my kind of thing. However, I went to the tourist office the next morning and there was a message board with a notice that today was the first day of another funeral nearby, so I rented a scooter (60,000 rupiah a day, about $6.50) and went for it in spite of how odd it feels that the main “attraction” in Toraja is to attend a funeral ceremony and that tourists should be welcome.
     I didn’t have dark clothes. The darkest shirt I had said “Amsterdam” on it, which, given the history of the Dutch as colonizer, could be seen as insensitive, like wearing an “I love Ho Chi Minh” shirt to an American veterans parade, but no one minded. I was also told that as a gift men should bring 10 packs of cigarettes and women, 3kg of sugar, but then I heard conflicting information, so I brought sugar.

     The scene. Blood on the grass in the foreground


     Boy playing with hoof as a toy


     I arrived late. In a clearing there were eight slaughtered buffaloes among a few pigs. More than 20 were going to be killed this day. To helpfully show what I had missed, someone played gruesome video for me of the first buffalo being slaughtered. It must have been a prosperous family for so many animals to be sacrificed and it only took four months to arrange everything, which is fast.
     I watched for over an hour as men were putting on butchery displays, carving the animals up, separating the innards, and giving plastic bags of it to guests. I wish this concept would take off in USA. “Thanks for coming to our funeral! Here is your dripping buffalo spleen and kidney. Go make soup.”
     Most surprisingly, I was the only tourist. I played wallflower but a man approached and led me to a viewing area, where I was brought tea and sweets and I presented my gift. He smiled politely. I could tell I made a mistake. I asked if sugar was OK, and he said yes, but he also said I should come tomorrow—and bring cigarettes.
     I tried to get an a cappela singalong to The Smiths’ song, “Meat is Murder” going, but couldn’t manage any traction.

     Note the expression on his face and the blood running down his arm. I thought I had lots of good action shots, but they turned out subpar for which I apologize. I blame 81.5% myself and 18.5% on the slow lag time on my Canon.


     There was an unexpected festiveness to the event. Many of the dignitaries came by to greet me, pleased and relieved that I could make small talk in Indonesian. Lots of people asked to take photos with me. I almost got out my animal balloons for the kids. If there was a guest book I would have written, “OMG! Loved the funeral! L-U-V! Had a great time, thx! Ta!”

     All the pretty girls hang out at the slaughter

The Unexpected Joy of Hitchhiking in Sulawesi, Indonesia


     First, the bad news. The downside of hitchhiking is when you are subjected to the bad habits of the driver. A few days ago I was tortured with several songs by Michael Learns to Rock, which is the world’s worst band ever in the history of recorded sound. Know them? They’re from Denmark, though they are better known outside the country than in it, which only goes to show Danes’ superior intelligence. It’s the softest of soft rock, making Air Supply sound like death metal. The lyrics are so insipid you can anticipate the simple, child-like rhymes seconds ahead of time, and the music makes me want to commit serious crimes against defenseless small animals. I have to tell myself as a mantra: “Kent, you are in someone else’s car. A kind person is giving you a ride for free. Deep breaths. Deep breaths.”
     If you don’t believe me, listen to this. His whiny voice is excruciating—I can’t talk about it any more.
     As an antidote to this, how about some fun, quirky Indonesian pop music by a band called Slank? (Great name, you have to admit.) This song translates as “Anthem for the Broken Hearted”, if I’m not mistaken.

     Where was I? Oh yes, hitchhiking. You might be sick of my hitchhiking stories, but I am always so amazed at the miracle that is hitchhiking, I can’t help it. This began as another unfortunately-short CouchSurfing visit with a girl and her family way south of Makassar, an excellent place to hitchhike south that I couldn’t pass up.
     I did the 260km southeast to Pantai Bira easily. The fastest public transport takes about six hours, and I did it in seven with two fried tofu breaks. It was fun, too. The challenge is to try to get dropped off in a lonely place—difficult in crowded Indonesia—because excited kids come out of the woodwork to scream and distract me. A foreigner is like a space alien in these villages away from the cities, but I still like seeing the kids’ disproportionately huge smiles. Indonesian kids are so great. They can solve all the world’s problems. If you put all the odious dictators of the world in a room full of Indonesian kids, they will be changed men.
     I started out near a gas station and these two waved me over to hang out with them:

     Their pouches are the cash register; getting gas in Indonesia is a fast act. Seems like so much cash on hand should be dangerous to have.


     As we took photos of each other a car was pulling away from the pump. I yelled something in Indonesian to the driver through the open window and the family took me 20km. (Here’s a hitchhiking tip: take any ride for any distance in Indonesia. Many people have a loose concept of distance (as opposed to travel time since roads are often bad) and a ride of “three kilometers” can easily become ten.) Then a Toyota dealer and a co-worker drove me a long stretch. He spooked me by warning to be careful in the area, as many bad people were around.
     Half an hour later I was driving a woman and her kids in their flashy Nissan Livina! (I swear, I’ve had so many incredible, positive experiences hitchhiking, I am long overdue for a mass-murdering prison escapee picking me up.) The woman was tired and didn’t even ask if I could drive. She simply pulled over and expected me to as we changed positions. I was tired, too, but driving in other countries is fun; I was energized and drove for an hour.

     This woman is Muslim, by the way, and isn't the daughter adorable? I have it in my head that the average American imagines all Muslim women to be covered in black burqas, faceless and joyless. I'm the farthest thing from an expert on Islam, but I'm in Muslim countries just about every year and a regular shmo like me should make a documentary about Muslim people around the world to demystify them as being a singular 'them', the notion that all Muslims are the same. This woman, in fact, is married to a Buddhist and lets perfect infidel strangers drive her family around.


     My greatest hitchhiking experience like this was in Australia when a man pulled over for me and before I could say anything, he asked, “Can you drive?” I was behind the wheel most of the day from near Melbourne to near Adelaide while he dozed.
     The last 45km to Pantai Bira were supposed to be the toughest as public transportation was finished for the day, but I got three more rides easily: a woman on her own, then in the back of a truck, and in a new car with a guy who quizzed me relentlessly about why I was traveling alone. Everyone is fascinated by this. Indonesians, like most southeast Asians, aren’t the most independent people.

     Best matchbox I have ever seen. Indonesia!

Golshifteh Farahani

     In January I wrote about the time I met the Iranian actress, Golshifteh Farahani, and for a long time afterward I had a spike in traffic from Tehran, which seems obsessed with her since she is in exile for nude photos of herself in a French magazine.
     Since I am always interested in a spike in traffic, I have one last photo of her from 2005 with her husband, Amin Mahdavi, when she spoke about her film, Boutique, at the Tbilisi, Georgia International Film Festival.

     My dream is to travel around Iran. Will publishing this photo get me banned?

On Trust in Ubud, Hitchhiking in Bali and Uterus Surfboards in Kuta


     I made a second visit to Bumi Sehat Foundation, this time meeting with the founder herself, Ibu Robin. I’d barely arrived before I was led into a room where a woman had given birth 25 minutes earlier, I was told, exhausted mother and baby not seeming to mind the intrusion. Robin seems to spend a lot of time with people like me who just show up and want to see what’s going on and ultimately, wonder how to help.
     She won $300,000 as her CNN Hero prize, but it’s had an unexpected detriment: her regular donors turn off because they assume she has enough money now, which is not the case. She’s building a big clinic up the street instead of the makeshift facility they use now. The lease is expiring in two years and she needs to build the new one from scratch to make the transition seamless, but doesn’t have enough money yet. While she loves the “Eat Pray Love women”, as she put it, the people that were inspired by the movie to come over and volunteer their time, what she really needs most now is cash.
     As I mentioned last time, her clinic has become a place to handle all of the community’s crises. She told story after gut-wrenching story about what goes on, some of it hard to believe: unwed mothers are shunned in society, leaving some without any choice but to turn to prostitution and then when she becomes pregnant, the kid is taken by the pimp and raised for its organs to be harvested. She said just recently a woman who bled to death because her husband didn’t want to pay the 10,000 rupiah ($1.10) for transport because he didn’t think it was serious enough and bought cigarettes with the money instead.
     I can imagine why potential donors can be reluctant to give their trust. There are plenty of scams in Bali as shown by this BBC podcast about phony orphanages. I can only say I liked what I saw and especially that they try and deal with everyone who shows up at their door for whatever reason. This is the link again if you are coming to Bali and can bring something from the wishlist.

     Amed, eastern Bali, storm approaching


     My last blog post, the “Ubud on $10 a day” declaration, caused a ruckus that didn’t go over well with some of the people on Lonely Planet’s Thorn Tree, a place where one needs thick skin.
     I hitchhiked from Ubud to Amed in eastern Bali in a little less than five hours and nearly a dozen cars. The most interesting ride might have been with a pair of missionaries from Colorado living in Pakistan who paid all the cash they had, 400,000 rupiah (about $45), at a police checkpoint as a bribe for not having an international drivers license. They didn’t bargain at all. I would have thought that living in Pakistan would make them immune to being fleeced like that.
     In Amed I stayed with a CouchSurfing host, a Hungarian divemaster, but after I arrived I learned her plans changed as she had to leave town the next morning. On Couchsurfing you have to be flexible when something like that comes up. I stayed just one night, but the silver lining was this, Pool of the Year:


     The next day I got a ride back down to Sanur, hitchhiked from the edge of a McDonalds parking lot to the airport, bought a ticket for $59 to go to Makassar, Sulawesi on Lion Air, hitchhiked from outside the airport to get a ride from a Russian divemaster and found myself in Kuta, the belly of the beast.
Kuta.
     These days Kuta makes Khao San Road in Bangkok seem like a quiet country lane. Khao San Road is upscale now. Khao San Road has order, and few Thais have it in them to aggressive hustle you. Kuta is the Wild West. My senses are ripe for exploding and I always have a slight feeling of vulnerability. It’s the kind of place where I would lock my backpack to the shower head in the room if I could. Walking back to your hotel late at night through either the drunken hordes or spooky, dark alleys adds to the heightened awareness that I don’t have health insurance—or life insurance. It gives me the skeeves, but I am also fascinated by it.
     I only had one night to look around. The monument to the victims in the Bali bombing 10 years ago is now cordoned off to the public for some reason. It should be, there were so many spelling mistakes on the engraving, which made it look slapdash and offensive to their memory.
     The best thing about Kuta is that it is like a self-contained island and you don’t have to deal with if you don’t want to, so there’s no excuse for someone to say they took a wrong turn in Denpasar and next thing you know, they were in the arms of an underaged pygmy transvestite.

     This is your Kuta photo


     Balinese culture


     Bali seems to frustrate travelers. So much of Bali is undeniably beautiful and from the surface the culture seems fascinating, but it only whets the appetite to have an authentic, non-touristy Balinese experience, which feels elusive. However, I think you just need to stick around a while and let it find you. So many things are going on and the Balinese are so festival-heavy, if you have the time, you are bound to feel it.
     My favorite experience was a zillion years ago in Padang Bai when it was a backwater, on the edge of the village away from any tourists was a beautiful Legong dance in the middle of the street led by two little girls who were incredibly talented and expressive in their movements. Even my last time in Ubud I stayed in a cheap homestay where a woman taught dancing every afternoon to little girls and sometimes the men would gather for a gamalan practice session. I lucked into witnessing it, but I also think staying for an extended time created my luck.

     More Balinese culture


     No, THIS is Balinese culture! See how much is going on?

My Guide to Ubud on Less Than $10 a Day = My War with the Bali Tourism Board


     Normally, I check out Google News and search by the town or country I am visiting to see what is going on. Maybe there is a film festival coming or a hot local topic people are stirred up about, but every time I look at what is going on in Bali, I get agitated, like this story about “stingy tourists” (i.e. backpackers) not helping the local economy. Here are it’s most salient points:
     Tourism Board chairman Ida Bagus Ngurah Wijaya said stingy tourists are overcrowding Bali, and residents who rely on tourism for their livelihoods are not reaping the benefits. “It’s ironic. We want people to come but when they come we have serious problems of traffic and waste. The island becomes dirty," he said.
     However, their average length of stay has fallen from a week to three or four days, while daily spending has decreased from $300 ten years ago to $100, Ngurah said.
     Bali has begun to lose its cultural charm and exclusivity due to the crowded conditions, he said, driving away “quality tourists" like those from Europe.

     I don’t believe the $300, but if I did, it means I’m staying in a big international hotel, brunching at Starbucks, dining in exotic ethnic restaurants presumably not owned by an Indonesian, and probably going on excursions provided by the hotel. How is that helping local people?
     There’s only one benefit: those places employ locals. They employ them at dead-end, dirt-low wages, but even the salary argument aside, look at the difference with us “stingy travelers”. We stay with local families in guest houses and homestays and eat in Indonesian or locally-owned restaurants—the money’s not leaving the country, it’s not even leaving town. Even better, we are helping to grow local businesses, which is more of a future than a service job—big difference. Again, we can debate the effects of increased tourism on the local community until the cows come home, but don’t deride us unwashed backpackers so quickly.
     I’m making this black and white for the sake of argument and tourism here is spiralling out of control from its own success despite the arrival numbers, but my point is that money that is spent locally helps grow local economies. Money spent the Bali Tourism Board’s pipedream way is all leaving the country except for taxes that somehow disappear. Have you been to Ubud lately, Bali Tourism Board? Ubud is probably my favorite place in Bali, but it has several fundamental flaws. The biggest one is ironic, that you have to get outside of the town center to enjoy it. If you don’t, you’ll be swallowed up by the endless gelato shops, Mexican restaurants and fifi bars. The Ubud of today is of a wretched infrastructure: crumbling sidewalks, poor lighting, no garbage cans—where is the tourism tax money going?
     The most ridiculous assertion from the Bali Tourism Board is that somehow we non-Europeans are responsible for the traffic and waste. If there was something resembling a transit system, foreigners would gladly take it to avoid the rapacious taxi drivers, and I feel comfortable in saying that no tourists are littering, or more to the point, if we ever saw a garbage can, we would use it.

     'Strictly forbidden to throw garbage here'


     You’re upset visitors spend only $100 a day? Fine. I’ll show you how to stay in Ubud for less than $10 a day. Deal with it, Bali Tourism Board!

The Dromomaniac’s quick guide to Ubud for the stingy,
non-European, Bali-Tourism-Board-hating, low-quality tourist!


     I still can’t get over that we aren’t “quality tourists”. I don’t care if this is directed mostly against greasy Aussie surfers, we non-Europeans of every color, income level and “quality”—OK, even those who don’t like tempeh, we’ll take you, too—we need to band together against this slanderous injustice! Solidarity! Let’s do this!!!
     9150 rupiah = $1. If you have any ideas or think I am overreacting, please comment below. As I always say, life is too short to be shy.

Traveling
     There’s construction at the airport now, but it’s not far, maybe 400 meters, to walk straight ahead out of the parking lot and to the one road leading north. Then you need to go right at the first street and walk to a bigger north-south main road (or go with one of the motorcycle guys offering transport) where you can find a bemo/bus that will take you to Denpasar for 10,000 rupiah or closer to 5000 if you have a sympathetic local person haggle for you. You’ll need to get another bemo to another part of Denpasar, Batubulan, to take another bemo to Ubud because, you know, we tourists love making traffic and the taxi mafia can’t allow a decent public transit system that would connect the two main places tourists go and the cheapest shuttle companies aren’t allowed to do airport pick-ups.
     Sorry, I digress.
     I was a little impatient last time, but there is a stretch right after the place where everyone pays for parking which would be a great spot to hitchhike. It wouldn’t be so unheard of to get a ride all the way to Ubud since I imagine lots of drop-offs are being done all day. In fact, keep an open mind. If someone is driving to Amed or Padang Bai, take it. It’s easier to hitch back to Ubud from there.

Sleeping
     OK, so you already in a bad mood when you get to Ubud and then you are bewildered by your sleeping options. It used to be that you wanted to stay near the market, but that has been turned on its head and travelers with some money want distance from the center to get some tranquility, so now, generally, the cheapest places are…near the market!
     The best place to start is to walk east from the market, take the first street on the left, Jalan Sriwedari, and then check the first few homestays on the right. Remember to bargain for a room without breakfast and if you are staying multiple days, work that angle, too. I bet you can get something for 70,000 if you are alone. I stayed in that area two years ago. I would go check rates, but looking at homestays isn’t my idea of a good time. It’s hot today!
     Another area that has cheap sleeps and everything else you’ll need are the three roads parallel to the east of Jalan Hanoman. (I saw internet on Jalan Sugriwa for 5000/hour, the best I’ve seen.) If you are coming from the Perama shuttle stop or are being dropped off in southern Ubud, it’s within walking distance.

Eating
     This is easy, and you aren’t going to suffer by eating cheaply. On every little side road there is bound to be a stall that sells basic goods and then a basket of these balls in the photo below of food wrapped in banana leaves or butcher paper is about 3000 rupiah. You can add little portions of stuffed tofu and fried tempeh for only 1000, though a concerned citizen has suggested I should go easy on the soy due to this study about adverse sexual side effects.
     I had 10 small sticks of chicken satay with lontong for 11000 and for snackers, you can find thick chunks of tasty tempeh bacem for 3000 at most, thin slices of fruit for 1000, little packs of highly addictive singkong chips are 1000, etc.
     1.5 liter bottles of water are cheapest at the many Delta Dewasa convenience stores for 2500, then you can refill them at Bali Buddha market/restaurant or the library by the soccer field for 1500-2000 rupiah.

     This is a little overkill: pork, chicken AND tuna, but it's still 8000 rupiah, less than a dollar.

Sightseeing
     Two things I like to visit are the Sacred Monkey Forest Sanctuary (any time you see the words “sacred” or “sanctuary”, watch your wallet) and the beautiful Tegallalang rice terraces. Who doesn’t love monkeys and rice terraces?
     To see the 20,000 rupiah Sacred Monkey Forest Sanctuary for free, there are two entrances in the front and one in the back, but from the front, if you follow the motorbike path on the left, where it makes a sharp right turn you’ll see a sidewalk that leads back into the forest.
     To check out the rice terraces 10km north in Tegallalang you can do two things: take a cheap bemo from the market to Gentong and then hitch or walk the few kilometers from there or, walk from the market on the main road heading east to where it comes to a “T” at the stoplight, go left, walk just past the big supermarket and police station, and hitchhike from there. There’s only one road north, but it’s nonstop shops and not the easiest route to hitch. Hitching back is much easier.

     Love the monkeys, fear getting bit by them.


     Is your total looking like you are going to spend more than $10 a day? Make some money to compensate: stay in a place with free wifi and charge people to use your laptop —yet another free business idea from The Dromomaniac! Just kidding, I would never do that, not matter how much they hate tempeh.
     Last tip: don’t mail anything from Indonesia if you are going on to Malaysia. Postcards now cost 10,000 rupiah to send to USA and Europe, about four times the cost from Malaysia, and parcels are similarly much cheaper in Malaysia. Send them sea mail as sometimes they go as air mail anyway. I sent packages to USA and Denmark by sea mail and they arrived within 10 days.

     Tegallalang rice terraces with a swastika table, a Hindu symbol the Nazis reversed and took for themselves.

The Best of Ubud, Bali

     Actually, this is no one's idea of the best of Ubud. There is an annoying, virtually endless parade of people calling out 'Taxi?' when you walk around town. They aren't persistent, but there are so many of them, it feels that way. Even the taxi drivers are sick of parroting the same word all day, so they make signs to hold up, the more creative with a reverse for when you say, 'No.' I heard of a traveler who made a sign saying 'No thank you' that she would show the taxi drivers when they held up their sign. When the taxi guy reversed his sign, 'Perhaps tomorrow?' she would reverse her sign, which said, 'Not tomorrow either'. Genius! Imagine everyone walking around with a dozen signs of questions and answers that we use to communicate with each other.


     One reason I enjoy my time in Indonesia so much is that I can speak Indonesian, which makes even hanging out with potential taxi drivers fun. I can imagine that claiming to speak Indonesian raises hackles of Indonesians, who must be thinking to themselves, “Here we go again, another sweaty bule (white man) thinks he’s a linguistics scholar because he knows to say “ba’so” instead of “bakso” (a soup). Give me a break.”
     I’m not claiming to be fluent, but I can speak a remedial Indonesian, enough to satisfy the simple conversations I have all the time hitchhiking or on the street. That’s something, isn’t it? Throughout each day I jot down words and phrases I wish I knew and then look them up on Google Translate. “My hovercraft is full of eels” in Indonesian is “Hovercraft saya penuh dengan belut.” Now you know.

     A coconut carved in the shape of a cat!


     Women love Ubud. It’s a very feminine place. Girls are everywhere, but this is the email I get from a guy:

     “I was stopped on my motorbike at the lights earlier today in Ubud and you were walking toward me and I was wondering why I couldn’t look away, so I asked “How are you?” (maybe you remember). And of course, when I rode off I realised I recognised you because I’m a fan of your blog! Small world!
     I’ll be back in Ubud on maybe Friday or Saturday if you’ll still be around and want to meet up for a coffee, juice or beer and talk about the world…”

     Why is it always only guys who can’t take their eyes off of me? No, truth is, I’m chuffed to bits and would love to meet with anyone who takes the time to read my blog, no matter their gender.
     That wasn’t the only amazing coincidence today. I met two Danish sisters who live on the same street in the same small town in southern Denmark as my friends whom I have known forever. The coincidence was almost too spooky for them and they had no problem taking their eyes off me.

     This is an relaxing place to get away from the congestion of central Ubud and hang out by the rice fields, Sari Organik. It's only one kilometer from the market but feels far removed. Any restaurant with the words 'organic' or 'vegetarian' will have a ratio of nearly 10 women to 1 man. It's smart to appeal to women in Ubud. They are more loyal than men.


     My favorite low-end restaurant in Ubud is Puteri Minang on Jalan Raya Ubud 77 around the corner from the post office. It's western Sumatra food which is so omnipresent that it has come to be what people would call Indonesian food. I usually pay between 15,000-18,000 rupiah (just under $2) for a meal. The same owner is still manning the cash register, still making the same bad jokes ('The total is 15,000---euros!') My other go-to option used to be a fish satay guy farther down the street, but standards have dropped, I am devastated to report.


     Tempeh bacem, which Wikipedia helpfully describes as 'tempeh boiled with spices and palm sugar, and then fried for a few minutes to enhance the taste. The result is damp, spicy, sweet and dark-colored tempeh.'


     In Ubud this is a very typical $10 a night room in a family compound. I'm at Wayan 2 Homestay off Jalan Hanoman where there are only three guest rooms. The intricate wood and stone carvings almost make me feel guilty I don't pay more. Almost. A very loud caged bird wakes me up every morning at 6:30, but it's the price to pay for paradise, some would say. I'm not one of them. I alarm the sweet little girl working here by offering to pay her to fry the bird for me.




     I have to thank someone who “Likes” me on Facebook and detests me in real life (just anticipating; we haven’t met yet), Erin Fisher, who gave me the idea to visit Bumi Sehat, a natural birthing clinic here in Ubud. They offer many services; it seems to be quite a focal point in the community. Their founder, an American woman, was selected one of CNN’s Heroes.
     I got a short tour of the small facility which was limited as one woman just gave birth and another resting room was occupied with a newborn and its parents all laying on a small bed, a tender moment that didn’t seem appropriate for me to barge in, “Hi! I’m Kent! How ’bout a photo of the happy family!” They have a long list of needs if you are flying into the country. It’s a shame you can’t mail or freight them anything since they get taxed to death.

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