From Happiness to Flower Bird Under Armed Guard: Alegria to Suchitoto, El Salvador

Gotta keep on the schedule.  Damn, I hate traveling like this.  So many hours here, so many hours there.  The pay-off is worth it:  I'm going to meet up with my honey in Guatemala.  Gotta continue north.

I reluctantly said adios to the cool mountain breezes of Alegría (someone told me that it's the pueblo at the highest altitude in El Salvador) and retraced my steps back down to the Panamerican Highway.

From Alegría to Suchitoto is an easy half-day travel (once I finally left Alegría, it took about 4 hours with easy and fast connections).  If you're thinking of making the same trip, here's what you do:

• Bus down to Santiago de María, $0.30, ~15 minutes.  Bus doesn't seem to come frequently or on a schedule (I waited about an hour twenty for mine). Make friends with whomever else is waiting.
• In Santiago de María, walk through the market to the road leading out of town to find the microbus, $0.28, ~25 minutes.
• In El Triunfo, cross the Panamerican Highway (carefully!!).  Catch any San Salvador-bound bus (I took 301) and tell the driver you want to get off in San Martin. It will take a few hours (2.5ish) and should cost around +/- $3.
• Important!  You do not need to go all the way into San Salvador to change buses!  The driver should let you off on the Panamerican Highway in San Martin.  Cross the highway using the pedestrian overpass.  Walk toward the west 20 meters until you're past the place where the eastbound travel lanes split--your bus will be going straight, so it will stop farther to the west so it can merge into the left lanes again.  Boarding the bus at the highway means you're more likely to get a seat, before the crush of people board in San Martin proper.
• From San Martin to Suchitoto, take bus 129 just about 1 hour for $0.70.

Ok, back to Suchitoto.  The name means "flower bird" in the native nahuat language.  It's a sweet little town favored by weekending San Salvadoreans, stuffed to the gills with cobblestones and overlooking Lake Suchitlán.  I stayed at El Gringo, a guesthouse and comedor owned by a long-term ex-pat with a Salvadorean mother and wife.

I met up with a Spaniard and a French guy staying there, and we decided to visit Los Tercios waterfall outside town.  The road leading to Los Tercios goes through some not-great barrios, so El Gringo recommended that we contact the police for an escort.

So that's how I happened to be sitting in the back seat of a Salvadorean cop car when the driver slammed on the brakes for the officer to jump out, grab a 15-year old off the street, frisk him, and yell at him.

Huh?

Apparently, the kid was known to be mixed up with the maras, or gangs, and the cop wanted to "encourage" him to be on his best behavior.  Damn glad that I decided to go with the police and not walk through that barrio on my own.

the spaniard, the french guy, the cop, and a kid from the barrio

Los Tercios was pretty neat, worth the effort to get there.  It's the end of the dry season, so the waterfall wasn't running...  all the better to check out the five-sided basalt rocks stacked like cigarettes in a pack.

los tercios...  minus the water...  neat, eh?

I slipped El Gringo's wife six bucks so she'd let me into her kitchen to make pupusas with her.  This woman is about four foot six and sweet as a plum.  Everyone in town knows she makes the best pupusas, El Gringo tells me.

en la cocina...  who's hungry?!

 My pupusa of frijoles y queso (beans and rice) turns out better than the queso y aguacate (cheese and avocado) or the queso y jalapeño (you can figure it out).

it all tastes good in the end :-)

But I think I've got the general feel, at least well enough that I can subject my friends to my pupusa experiments when I get home!

I didn't love Suchitoto quite as much as I loved Alegría, but I gotta say, El Salvador has wildly exceeded my expectations.  Salvadorans have been really friendly to me.  People on the street are constantly going out of my way to point me on to the correct bus or ask me if I need directions to where I'm going.  I usually don't need the help, but it's a great opportunity to represent the United States abroad and to work on my Spanish.  Compared to the whistles and kisses I've gotten in other countries, Salvadorean men have been surprisingly respectful and polite.  I was squashed between two guys about my age on the bus from El Triunfo to San Matin, and I was expecting harassment and lewd stares the entire time.  Nope--just polite small talk about where I'm from, where I'm going, the weather, and so on.

I really don't know why more people don't visit El Salvador.  That's ok--leave it unspoiled for the rest of us. ;-)

Hats off for El Salvador!

lake suchitlán

More photos from Suchitoto:

Turkey, I Love You. Let Me Count The Ways...

Turkey was the first country that I was sorry to leave, the first place I can truly say that I see myself returning some day. I've thought about why I love Turkey so much compared to, say, Nepal. Though I can't come up one significant reason that puts this place above others in my mind, my heart is filled with dozens of small anecdotes, minor details ever so specific to Turkey that, together, have made an unforgettable experience.

blue mosque interior

Turkey, I love you. Let me count the ways...

• Amazing Architecture (not only the Aya Sofia and the Blue Mosque). An Alphabet I can read (first since Malaysia) helps, too. I think Ayran (a yogurt-based drink) single-handedly healed my stomach issues from Nepal.
• Bazaars, Baklava, the Blue Mosque, and the Bosphorus. Also, the long-distance Buses are fast, clean, secure, and comfortable. Don't forget Bubby and Boss!
• Cats: the fluffy, furry, fat cats that are everywhere in Istanbul. Couchsurfing in Turkey has given me some of the best experiences of my trip. And Cheese, lots of tasty tasty cheese! 
• Diyarbakır, city of my heart. Also Döner, Dave's tasty snack on-the-go for about $0.70. 
• Ethnic pride, specifically Kurdish of southeast Turkey, stands out in my mind. Turks care for the Environment: we saw no trash or graffiti in Pigeon Valley, and the Bosphorus has little to no trash floating in it. The Eggplant here is the best I've ever had (sorry Mummers). 
• Friendliness. Smiling Thais? Meh. Friendly Nepalis? Get real. The Turks are masters of friendliness. 
• Göreme. The very first tourist town that hasn't made me nauseous. Quite a compliment, Göreme. 
• History is everywhere. I got a new skin in the Hamam. Hygiene is so good that the unthinkable—someone touching my food with their bare hands—does not freak me out. Turkey was Hassle-free compared to the rest of Asia. Even the carpet sellers are laid-back and polite! And don't get me started on Hospitality. 
• Istanbul. For a city of 18 million, it's not that bad. 

me and my juice

• Jetties on the Bosphorus where men bring their fishing rods and I snap dozens of photos. I had my first cup of freshly-squeezed pomegranate Juice. 
• Kindness to animals. Unlike the Nepalis who throw rocks at dogs and seem to enjoy it, I noticed multiple acts of kindness toward stray animals.  There were three homeless dogs on a random corner, sleeping in a makeshift cardboard and trash bag shelter someone had made for them. A ripped-open clear plastic bag of leftover meat and pasta was at their side as they slumbered, protected from the drizzle. I can't tell you the number of times I saw burly Turkish men with stern moustaches stop in their tracks to scratch a street kitty under the chin. Our couchsurf host told us that stray dogs in Istanbul are routinely tagged and vaccinated as a public service. The Turks' kindness toward animals is apparent, as strays are uniformly clean, calm, and approachable. Some of the stray cats are even borderline overweight! 
• Lokum (turkish delight) is ok, not to my taste, but I understand why some love it. I prefer the Language, which is much easier than any South or Southeastern Asian language. 
• Mosques and Minarets—they're everywhere! And, of course, Mr. Turkish Bull. 
• Neckties on men serving tea and cakes on the buses. Seriously. Tea, cakes, and neckties. On buses. I rest my case. 
• Old people sipping çay in a courtyard. Olives sold by the kilo. 

pide

• Pomegranates, my favorite fruit. I ate a lot of Pide (turkish pizza), which is quick, cheap, vegetarian friendly, and delicious. Perfect street food! 
• Quiet, quaint villages. It's SO EASY to get off the beaten tourist trail here. Just go anywhere east of Göreme. 
• Rumi, the mystical Sufi poet, whose masterwork I hope to read at some point. 
• Sanlıurfa and it's lovely public and historic spaces. Just in time for winter, steaming cups of Salep (powdered orchid root drink) topped with cinnamon. 
• Tea! Tea! Tea! Anything and everything is an excuse for çay. And Textiles—if you're into fiber arts, carpets, wool, max out your credit card in Istanbul. 
• Üsküdar and Uçisar, two Unexpected places that feel Untouristy yet welcoming. 
• Vegetables. After eating only starch and fat for most of Southeast Asia, I hit Istanbul's fruit and veggie markets hard. It was awesome. 
• Wi-fi. Finally, and internet connection that is fast and reliable? Whoa! 
• X is the intersection between "west" and "east," "old" and "new." And it's true. Turkey brings it all together. 
• Yoğurt. Oh, so this is what yoghurt tastes like without additives, stabilisers, and flavor enhancers. America, yer doin' it wrong. 
• Zero moments when I questioned my decision to travel or what I was getting from/ giving to the experience. 

To be fair, there were moments when I wasn't feeling so keen on Turkey. Four out of five days in Istanbul brought nasty, cold, damp weather. I was hardly in the mood to wander around random neighborhoods, and there isn't much nature in the city. I regretted giving five whole days to wandering around Istanbul and wished I had spent a day or two in another city, perhaps Konya.

A few other less-than-perfect points:

• Overnight bus rides (though, admittedly, those have been my choice); 
• Getting lost (though someone has always offered to help us become un-lost); 
• Some people have been over-zealous in sharing/ pushing their Muslim faith; 
• Food and accomodation in touristy areas is expensive and poor value (i.e. you don't get much for the cost); 
• Google Voice doesn't work; 
• I wasn't able to download NPR podcasts. 

If I'm whining about missing NPR instead of missing clean drinking water, then I guess I don't have much to whine about.

Three cheers for Turkey!

My Turkish Hamam Experience

Subtitled:

Scrub-a-Dub-Dub, It's Time for the Tub

or

How I Came to Know Bubby's Boobs

or even

Grey, Tarry Turd Caterpillars

Back in the day, before most Turks had nice bathrooms in their houses, everyone went to a hamam, or community bathhouse, to clean up, relax, socialize, and gossip. One of the things I wanted to do most in Turkey was to visit a hamam. Why? I've gotten quite dirty from traveling for a year. Like, really dirty. And why not? (For your own sake, note that this sentiment most often leads to humiliating and/or grand adventures.)

There are a few tourist-oriented hamam that charge waif-like French visitors 75 Euro. But I (stupidly?) wanted the real deal: the "local experience" with "local women" at the "local price." Our couchsurf host pointed us to Çenili Hamam on the Asian side of the Bosphorus.

that's it

Dave and I found the place without too much difficulty and planned to meet up in 90 minutes. The ladies' side was clearly labeled "bayan." Deep breath. Let the adventure begin.

Diyarbakir, My Heart (Or: How To Communicate Without a Shared Language)

We flew from Kathmandu to Sharjah in the United Arab Emirates.  The only thing I'll remember about the UAE is that drinking water is not freely available in the airport--guess that's what happens in the desert?  The flight from Sharjah to Istanbul didn't arrive until midnight, so in typical Davo and Nico style, we slept on the cold marble floor of Istanbul's Sabiha Gökçen Airport.  The following afternoon, we flew to Diyarbakir, a predominantly Kurdish city in southeastern Turkey.

Why Diyarbakir?  Why not.  ;-)

Ok, I'll stop being cheeky.  :-P  The well-worn grooves in the Asian backpacker tourist trail left me disillusioned with the potential for meaningful travel experiences.  I wanted to get a little farther off the beaten path.  Most tourists to Turkey stick to the western half of the country, but everything I've read highly recommends a visit to the eastern half.

Sold.

It was clear that we were the only foreigners on the flight to Diyarbakir.  Diyarbakir's airport terminal is smaller than Ithaca's.  All signs were in Turkish.  We said, "Otobüs" to some men in uniforms.  It worked!  The pointed us outside.  The bus driver knew only one English word:  "Yes."  Well, I guess it's time for adventure!

We were dropped off at some place near the old city.  I'm used to locals staring openly at me, and we sure drew some attention.  Within five minutes, a group of children had noticed our big backpacks and circled us like puppies wanting playtime.  A young woman shook Dave's hand vigorously and kissed my cheeks multiple times.  This was the pattern for the next few days:  someone talks to us loudly and slowly in Turkish, repeating the words again and again, as if that would help me magically understand (it's hilarious!!).

ercan, ugur, and another guy whose name i forget

Ten minutes later, three non-English speaking students befriended us and appointed themselves our unofficial tour guides for the evening.  Together, we toured the "mean streets" of Diyarbakir.  Diyarbakir had/has a bit of a bad reputation due to local activity by the PKK (Kurdistan Workers' Party), a terrorist organization according to the USA and the UN.  This is a poor city by Turkish standards, and my impression is that many Turks from the west find it backward, provincial, and conservative.  Young people frequently told me that they had 7 or 8 siblings.  A surprising number of men sit in teahouses in the middle of the day--unemployment is high.

We visited the city walls, the central bazar, and the Ulu Mosque, and we drank tea together.  The students identified themselves as Kurds, not Turks, and were very proud to teach us Kurdish words and to drink Kurdish tea.  Kurdish pride is everywhere and constant.  When the man selling me a bus ticket randomly indicated that Diyarbakir was Kurdish, not Turkish, I said "roj bash" ("hello" in Kurdish) to him, and I thought he would die of happiness on the spot.

woman wearing the white headscarf typical of diyarbakir

muhammed and sabra

As we were walking to our couchsurf host's apartment, a man stopped us to invite us to dinner at his home.  Muhammed, who is studying to be an imam (Islamic leader), lives with his mother and his sister.  We learned that his family is Zaza, which is related to but not the same as Kurdish.  His mother made an amazing vegetable dish of eggplant and tomato, served with bread and rice, with a drink of ayran (a watery yoghurt).  It was delicious!  When she saw Dave's bare feet, she insisted on giving him a pair of socks.  I liked her a lot, and I think she liked me, as well.

We spent this entire evening in the company of new friends who know maybe a dozen English words between them.  A shared language is not necessary for communication, nor is it necessary for a good time.  With the university students, we pantomimed our sentences like a three-hour game of charades.  Better entertainment than communication, but guaranteed to provide plenty of laughs!  At Muhammed's house, we used Google Translate to "talk" back-and-forth.  The translations aren't always perfect, but it's possible to talk about more than "I like ___" and "This is called ___ in my language."

on top of the city walls

The next day, we wandered around the old city again.  My journal lists twelve separate awesome interactions with Diyarbakir citizens, from someone who wanted to practice English with us to multiple invitations for tea.  The old itself has a medieval feel, a twisting maze of tiny streets flanked by ancient taupe buildings.  I had the best meal since New Zealand--some sort of cold eggplant dish with rice, fresh bread, and multiple salads.  Pomegranates, olives, and cheeses are sold on the street.  We climbed up onto the city walls and watched the sun set over the city.  There is nothing to interest tourists here, and that is precisely why I love Diyarbakir.

the courtyard of a centuries-old hotel,
back when europe was in the dark ages and the muslim world was the light of civilization

I couldn't take enough pictures to truly express our experiences, but here's a start:

8 Things I Love About Cambodia

Women love to wear coordinated pajama sets during the day.  I haven't quite figured that one out, yet.

There are itty bitty Cambodia kitties everywhere, and they're all friendly.

I love biking everywhere.  And it's not just tourists--Cambodians bike, too.  Although they put multiple people on a bicycle, on the theory that:  (number of wheels) x 2.5 = maximum capacity of vehicle.

Calves are ridiculous looking and induce smiling.  Water buffalo are funny, too.

Bananas on a stick.  I rest my case.

Cambodian food rocks.  More on that here.

We've been here 10 or 11 days, mostly going about the business of life...  sleeping, eating, thinking, wandering.  Not a lot of sightseeing or vacation type activities.  Just living.  And in the process of everyday life, we got to know a few people.  It's reassuring and pleasant to recognize the same face every day.  We've eaten pretty much every meal in one of two restaurants.

Breakfast and lunch at Navy Kitchen:

Dinner at Five Sons:

And last, but certainly not least, is my friend that I greet every evening:

"Fat Frog," or as I like to say, "FAT FROG!!!" hangs out on the first floor of my guesthouse.  He stands next to a column of ants and snatches one after another, hoovering up the entire colony.  He's actually not that fat, but when he sees me, he puffs up.  Haha, I'm giggling just looking at his picture.

This are the little things that make me feel at home.  Silly routines, recognizing faces, noticing little details...  life on the road is just like life at home.  Same same...  but different.

Bali Highlights

Written September 22, 2010

Davo and I ended up staying two weeks on the island of Bali.  We considered leaving for another destination in Indonesia, talked about it, even made some tentative plans, but it never happened.  We ran into several ex-pats who were in a similar situation, except they ended up staying 5, 12, or 20 years.  We did escape, eventually.

Before this trip, when I thought of Bali, I thought of night clubs and bikinis.  Sure, you can go to Kuta, get shit-faced, and stay that way for a week.  It's Australian version of the Cancun spring break, and if that's what you're looking for, you'll be happy.  Unsurprisingly, we didn't go to Kuta at all.

We based ourselves in Ubud, the cultural capital of Bali, a place that seems to attract romantics, soul-searchers, and a lot of tourists.  If you've read Eat, Pray, Love, or seen the movie (which I haven't), Ubud is the place where the love part of the story happens.  It is a romantic place, the type of place that's made for honeymoons.  Or you can wear white linen shirts, open at the neck, and sip an organic latte while you wait for your yoga class.  It's the perfect place to write that novel you've been meaning to start, an ideal place to take a sabbatical, to sit around with a good book or to browse the myriad number of chic boutiques selling anything and everything with an "ethnic" flair, from stylish sundresses to faux antiques.

For me, Ubud was a great place to reflect on a lot of things.  It was quiet, yes, and touristy, yes, but it was a place where I could relax without spending physical and mental energy on being overheated, dirty, and stressed out, which pretty much sums up travel in the developing world.  Accommodation is cheap and plentiful.  Staying in a family compound is a great way to see the same faces again and again.  We stayed at Suartha's and Gusti's, and both were lovely.  There are plenty of people that speak English.  There are plenty of very nice places to eat, and even a few cheap and delicious mom n' pop places serving Balinese food.  This is a traveler/ tourist haven; you only need to show up.

The only tourist attraction in Ubud (actually, in Bali) that we visited is the Monkey Sanctuary in Ubud.  It's a nice walk in a green, shady part of the city.  Oh yeah, and there are tons of naughty, cheeky monkeys who will steal any food on your person/ in your bag and will do the freak-nasty in front of your ten year old daughter.  Very naughty, indeed.

The best parts of Bali, though, are outside the tourist centers.  Davo and I rented the crappiest car I've ever seen--seriously, the doors must have been made from aluminum foil, they were so thin--for three days in order to explore the countryside.  We drove up the east coast, across the northern coast, then came back through the mountains.  We passed little villages and rice paddies.  Everyone smiled at us.  It was very nice.

We also rented bicycles to explore the areas closer to Ubud.  While you can't see the lovely mountains, nor the beautiful beaches, it was a great way to see where the people who wash my clothes and serve my meals spend their lives.

We also rented motorbikes.  It was my first time riding a scooter, and it was AWESOME!  It was an automatic, so all I needed to do was ride.  I would definitely consider having a scooter (instead of a car?) in the United States, should I need a motor vehicle.  Seriously, who allowed this kook onto the roads?

The Balinese people are nice, as all people are.  Coming from Java, my impression is that the Balinese people aren't quite as outgoing and warm as the Javanese, who (unless they work in the tourist industry) immediately want to befriend you.

This island is predominantly Hindu, in contrast to the rest of Muslim Indonesia.  Religion is a part of everyday life here.  Balinese women make offerings every morning and again around 4 p.m.  On the sidewalk or at a doorway, they put out these little banana leaf and bamboo trays with flowers, bits of rice, and maybe a cracker.

I saw a really beautiful parade down the main street of Ubud, which was random and quite memorable.

There are dozens upon dozens of temples that permit visitors.  Unsurprisingly, the ones I enjoyed the most were the quietest ones that saw the fewest tourists.  They still felt like places of worship instead of roadside attractions.  Besides the formal temples, every family compound has a little shrine.

In my previous life in the United States, many people are religious, but I don't know many for whom religion is a daily or hourly fact of life.  I felt really privileged to observe these traditions in Bali, since they clearly mean something to the people here.

Jakarta: Introduction to Pretending to be Indonesian, and Other Stories

When I think of Jakarta, I think of motor vehicles.

I think of mini-buses built in the 60's belching greasy, tar-colored smoke while men hang out the doorways, rapid-fire yelling the destination in auctioneer's staccato. Black SUVs with tinted windows sealed off from the airborne grime outside tailgate through the traffic at a snail's pace. Swarms of motorbikes weave around the larger vehicles, flowing through the street like water down a river. They buzz buzz buzz, a constant background drone eerily similar to the whine of a wasp's nest, rising to a harsh mechanical roar as they take off en mass from a cluster in front of a traffic light. Smog hangs over the city, clearly visible from the top of the National Monument, 150 meters above the traffic.

When I think of Jakarta, I think of heat.

Even supposedly air conditioned spaces are only marginally cooler than the smothering heat outside—I guess Indonesians get cold easily. As I write this, I'm sitting in an "air-conditioned" train car. A few rows ahead of me, an Indonesian man is wearing a wool beanie. My pant legs are rolled up and sweat is pooling in the small of my back. This morning, when Rheden left for work, he was wearing FIVE LAYERS to protect himself against the "morning chill." My glasses fogged up as we took our goodbye picture. Go figure.

When I think of Jakarta, I think of Rheden and his family. Dave and I researched couchsurfing/ homestay hosts in Jakarta separately, and out of the several hundred willing hosts, we both picked Rheden independently. He's in his mid-twenties, a teacher who describes himself as friendly with a mother who loves to cook. On our first night in Jakarta, he met us in front of Rumah Sawit Fatmawati on his motorbike. He looked at us—we are both bigger than him—and our backpacks—which are nearly bigger than him—and he laughed. Rheden laughs a lot. (We bottomed out the bike more than once. I didn't know that was possible on a motorbike.)

Rheden lives in South Jakarta, in a neighborhood of clay roofing tiles, children, skinny feral cats, and roving poultry. He lives in his parents' house, and his sister's house is 15 meters away, but the line between "his house" and "her house" is fuzzy and probably irrelevant. The blocks of houses are reached via small alleys punctuated by random ramps and stairs. The houses are extremely small by American standards. There is a living room, then a bedroom, then a kitchen next to a bathroom, where there is a water spigot and a non-flush squat toilet. The atmosphere is warm in both temperature and residents' temperment.

Back to the night we met Rheden. Our education in how to be Indonesian started right away with demonstration baskets of roots, leaves, and spices used in traditional Indonesian cooking, most of which were completely new to me. I carefully noted their names in bahasa indonesia on my notepad. We cooked fried rice and fell asleep on the floor of the living room.

Rheden wakes at 4:30 a.m. to prepare for morning prayers. Unaccustomed to the amplified wailing coming from the mosque, so did I. Around 6:00 a.m, he went to work, while I went back to sleep. Intent on ensuring that we'd have a complete instruction, however, he left an itinerary with his mother and sister for our day. We were going to visit a traditional market and a tofu factory, but our late start meant we walked at Indonesian pace (about 1 km/hr) to pick up Aldi, his 6 year old nephew, from school.

We stood sweating in the sun in the school courtyard while kids circled us, whispering. One bold boy shouted, "WAT IZ YOR NAME?" which touched off a chorus of giggles. In bahasa I responded, "Saya Nee-coe," and the laughs got louder. Dave pulled out a camera and asked, "Foto?" and the riot of jumping, squealing, and screaming began.

Of course, this level of interaction led to an impromptu bahasa and English jam session in the courtyard, reviewing the terms for "tree" and "shade" while sweat soaked through my shirt. And this, of course, led to us being ushered into a class of forty 9 year olds and, via gestures, encouraged to talk to the children. Even if I can't speak bahasa, I can entertain. So we continued our bahasa and English jam session, reviewing words from shoe (sapatu) to house (rumah). After an awkward, somewhat formal meeting with the headmaster—was she secretly annoyed that we interrupted her classes?—we were released into the steamy street.

That afternoon, we went to the city center to visit the National Monument (not worth the queue to go to the top) and the Istiqlal Mosque (worth every precious moment inside and around).

We took pictures with at least half a dozen random Indonesians, who apparently enjoy photos in which they appear with a white person.

We went out to dinner with Rheden and a friend, Cha Cha, to sample still more local foods and stopped by a fruit market to pick up local fruits for a tasting party. And, with Rheden and Cha Cha's help, we secured train tickets to Jyogjakarta. We fell asleep with a tired little Aldi in bed next to us.

Somehow, Rheden survives on a few hours sleep per night, but we slept in and planned on relaxing for the day. We spent the morning studying bahasa with the help of Dian, his sister, and "Bu," Mother. Dian and one neighbor speak a little English, but we're so far off the beaten path here that we were told that most of the children in the school have never seen a Caucasian in person before. The more bahasa we know, the better. After studying, Dian and Bu prepared us yet another delicious traditional lunch. Dave played badminton with Aldi in the street, but the shuttlecocks kept getting stuck on the roof.

We walked at Indonesian speed to the market with some of the neighbor women. It was like being on parade—everyone stares, a few people shout something in garbled English. Dave is the tallest person in the street, and I'm second tallest. At the market, we see a package of shuttlecocks for sale, and we conspire to return to purchase them as a gift for Aldi. Reverse the slow crawl to the house, a lame excuse about purchasing snacks for the journey tomorrow, and we're back into the street (although this time the walk takes 8 minutes instead of 30).

Being here is like being a child all over again. I'm learning to speak, what to say, how to say it, when to say it. I'm learning how to cross the street here (when in doubt, find a local and follow him). I'm learning how to eat like an Indonesian (mix everything together; enjoy chilis). I'm even learning how to go to the bathroom properly (no toilet paper here, nor a toilet seat). My mission to the market for badminton shuttlecocks was the final exam: could I find my way through the alleys, cross the busy street, correctly purchase and pay for the shuttlecocks, and beat the neighborhood gossip back to Aldi so his present would be a surprise?

I'm proud to report that our mission was a success, and Aldi loved loved loved his present.

On our final night in Jakarta, we enjoyed our fruit tasting party with two other French couchsurfers. I finally tried durian, the king of the fruits, with its reputation for being smelly but delicious. (It was somewhat smelly and somewhat delicious, but didn't live up to its reputation). My favorite was rambutan, which looks like something out of a sci-fi movie.

We left Rheden, Bu, Pak, Dian, Alex, Aldi, and Mutiara in South Jakarta this morning. Rheden and his family are amazing: I've never experienced hospitality and generosity like theirs. I think it will take a while to process and appreciate the experience fully, but I think it was the absolute best introduction to pretending to be Indonesian.

Photo journal:

Sweating in Singapore

Our flight left Darwin nearly three hours late, so we arrived at Singapore's Changi International Airport long after the trains to the city stopped running. Since the cost of a taxi was about one day's budget for Indonesia, we wisely decided to take advantage of the free wi-fi, air-conditioning, and spotless floors by sleeping in the airport.

zzzzzzzz...

We wanted to chill out in Singapore, so we didn't attempt to arrange a couchsurf host. We walked around Little India the first day and Orchard Street the second day. We skipped the tourist attractions, like Sentosa Island, and I don't feel like I missed out on anything. Otherwise, we slept, caught up on email, tried new foods, and Dave played pick-up ultimate frisbee one evening.

little india streetscape

Impressions of Singapore: it's clean, orderly, logical, hot, well-planned, hot, a melting pot of ethnicities, surprisingly easy for English-speakers, hot, wealthy, and hot. I've read that it has the highest quality of life in Asia, and 11th highest in the world.  Singapore is right at the equator, which means it's 80-90 degrees year 'round. Fortunately, air conditioned spots are easy to find.  Read the Wikipedia article for more basic information about Singapore.

super orderly public transport even tells you how to board and alight from the MRT

My favorite memory of Singapore is the awesome availability of fresh, cold juices and drinks, especially sugar cane juice.

sugar cane juice on the left; glass jelly juice on the right

I also tried mee goreng and laksa. I thought both were typically Singaporean, but I've seen "mie goreng" everywhere in Indonesia, so maybe not. Mee goreng is rice vermicelli noodles in a spicy sauce. Laksa is a spicy soup of noodles, tofu, and rice cake.

laksa:  this is delicious

Photo Journal:

Some recommendations if you plan to visit Singapore: