Planes, Trains, & Automobiles…..and Ships

In the next 72 hours we’ll hike to a 3726 meter summit and sleep on the side of a slightly active volcano (the same volcano that’s been dominating my horizon the last 5 days and taunting me). This island is a huge draw for diving. The extend of my time in the water has been limited at best – its just too perfect above the waterline. Everyone comes and dives and gets certified andsnorkel, and bla and bla and bla. I strut by the diving schools and immediately turn my head 180 degrees east and fix in on Gunung Rinjani.

Its the second tallest volcano in Indonesia….and if you ever took ‘Earthquakes and Volcanoes’ (aka ‘Shake ‘n Bake’ — aaka ‘easy jock course 101’) with Thomas Manley (aka P_ _ _ _ Manley) for an easy J-Term ‘B+’ you’d know Indonesia has just a few volcanoes. Anyway, Rinjani…big volcano.

So at dawn on Tuesday morning, while you guys are cracking beers and getting into Monday Night Football, I’ll be watching the sun rise from the summit of a volcano. Not a bad view. Just ask Thomas O’Neil Jr.

PLANES:
After three days on the mountain we get a ride to Mataram airport on Lombok (Scott: this is where the rubber band planes come in). Thirty minute flight from Lombok to Denpasar, Bali. Its twice as cheap to fly one-way ($27usd) between the islands then it was to take the 2.5 hour ferry (which we did). Get into Bali at 8pm and crash with our old cook Lilis.

AUTOMOBILES:
We spend the day in Bali ditching all the stuff we packed we don’t need. Why? Cause the holiday is over. Its time to start getting dirty. Fitz knows it. I know it. Fitz is ready for it. I’m ready for it. Repack and have Toya (best driver on the island) drive us the 3 hours out to the western tip of the island, home to the transit town of Gilimanuk – staging point for our assault on Java. Spend the night there and up at 6am….why?…

SHIPS:
…to catch the hour-long ferry from Gilimanuk (Bali) to Ketapang (Java). Then procure some mode of transportation to get us the hour south to Banyuwangi. At which point…

TRAINS:
…we navigate the local train station…and get ourselves on the 5 hour train…to some town I can’t remember the name of…where we sleep for the night…then wake up real early at dawn………and see It: Bromo….

I’ll be back online when I’m back online….

Thanks for reading.

Volcanoes Rock!

Its official now: There is no greater place on Mother Earth (other than the lower section – behind the “Move Those Chains” guys – at Ravens Stadium for a 1:00pm kick-off with the sun shining) than the tiny sand bar island of Gili Trawangan, Indonesia. Yesterday: you’re dead tired for the previous day’s 22 hours of consciousness, and a healthy dose of “island good times,” so you turn out “crap” on the internet, rest, buy soap, read a book, relish the realization that there is no where on the island where NOT wearing a shirt is looked upon in even the faintest glow of negative. The sun sets on the western and untouched side of this sand patch at 6:30pm-ish. Why? Cause these are the tropics. Cancer to the north and Capricorn to the south. But this more than the tropics. This is the Equator. With the Earth’s Belt a mere several hundred miles to our north…the sun first touches Gili T at 6:22am (as I witnessed this morning) when it rises above the crater line of the ever looming 3,726m tall active volcano on the adjacent eastern island of Lombok: Gunung Rinjani. And twelve hours later it goes to sleep in another volcano. This time to the west and into the island of Bali. Its tallest peak: the dormant 3,142m tall volcano of Gunung Agung ends the sun’s run for the day. To see both (as I will in about 2 hours) is the reward for learning that Bali is an island of hustle and bustle. Three million trying to make a go. Whether it by the land or rupiah, everyone and everything is in constant motion. Different story all together on Gili T. Different story? Different medium. This place moves at a pace that makes Tortola look like Chicago. And then you have to remind yourself this isn’t some sweet little island resort place in the middle of the Lesser Antilles. This is Indonesia. 200,000,000 Muslims scattered across more islands that women Clooney has bedded. This is Indonesia. The land of surfing lore and radical extremists. And we haven’t even scratches its surface. Back to being tired…

The sun makes its way down and you sit in little huts on the beach, resting perfectly on a mountain of cushions and pillows that have the appearance of having witnessed a thing or two. You eat chicken soup and inhale a pizza. A bottle of water is a requisite. Few words are spoken since you can’t take your eyes off the sight in front of you. The crater rim of Rinjani towering above you on an island…three islands away. And we make up our minds: we will climb it. The tab comes and you laugh for being charged $2.50 for the best bowl of chix noodle soup you’ve ever had. We leave by 6:30pm so we can make sure to get seats….er, pillows on the floor at the island movie theater. Open air movie theater of course. Max capacity: about 35, spread 5 across over 7 or eight rows. Shirt: optional. Sandals: optional. Audience: international. Subtitles: incoherent assemblage of the English lexicon.

Spoken:
-Phil, how are we going to get the tiger out of the bathroom?
-Why the hell are you asking me? I’m not the one with a hospital tag on my arm.

Subtitled:
-Phil, tiger no friendly in bed2room.
– Ask us where? No emergency shirt found.

Movie: The Hangover. After being forced to order something off the menu (in exchange for the viewing pleasure) I decide on 2 scoops of vanilla to go with one of strawberry: $2.50usd. That’s what they call the price of admission. In bed by 9pm.

Ring tone (changed to “Destiny”) acting as alarm clock, goes off at 6:00am. The fan is off (power is never on in the morning), the door is open (neither one of us shut it), and Fitz is sawing logs on the other side of the room. I grab my camera and hit the as-yet-un-SWEPT-dirt-STREET and head the 200 meters to the beach. A few couples slowly walk, hand in hand, down the main highway (single lane dirt road) that sits not more than 100 feet from the water…those hundred feet representing a golden white sand oasis. The sky is getting light but no sunrise yet. Not a cloud in the sky so the unobstructed views to Rinjani make you rub your eyes. This is Indonesia. That’s a volcano. This is going to be the best sunrise I’ve ever seen. Good time for the camera: set up the tripod, get the view I want locked in the viewfinder, hit record, grab a seat, and enjoy the next 15 minutes as the sun breaches the ragged crater rim that acts as the horizon. Not a bad way to start a day. Hey look at that. Its 6:45pm on Thursday evening in Pennsylvania. Think I’ll call a girl who has a thing for McDonald’s nuggets in a city park, an addiction to Ray Laymontague (or Ray LaymontAN if you want to get it right), and a talent for choreographing naps. At 9am you speak with a man whose name is “Black.” He’s introduced as “Black” and then introduces himself as “Black.” We’re in our due diligence stage of assessing the feasibility of climbing to the 3,700m summit of Gunung Rinjani. We discuss the duration: 3 days and two nights on the mountain. We discuss the route: Boat to Lombok. Transport to the village of Senaru. Itinerary: Day One: Senaru to the crater rim. Roughly 4,500 feet of vertical climb over 5-6 hours. Camp at the rim. Day Two: Hike down into the crater and camp at the hot springs. Day Three: Hike back to the crater line and down to Senaru.
“Wait, why can’t we climb to the summit?”
“Because the mountain is alive.”
Apparently the baby volcanic cone (Gunung Baru) inside the crater is making some noise. As such you aren’t allowed to climb to the summit because of the gas. Closed for 3 months. That’s if all this checks out (other organizers – ok, one…and he barely spoke English – corroborated this apparent fact). Cost: $80usd…each. We’ll come back to this development in time….

Down to the beach. Having finished High Fidelity (hey Small, don’t turn into the protagonist. He reads skinny), I trade the book at the local book swap. This hut doubles as the internet resource and can sell you toilet paper as well. I locate the Lonely Planet’s Southeast Asia on a Shoestring guide in a deep bookshelf in the back that time seems to have forgotten. Lonely Planets are essentially the backpackers and travelers guide to the world. They are the proverbial Road Bible. I carry the 2008 edition in my bag. So what did I discover on the shelf that time forgot, in the store that time forgot, on the island that time is yet to discover: Lonely Planet’s Southeast Asia on a Shoestring…publishing date: 1985! You can ship home all the Balinese wood carvings you want. All the artwork you can carry. Me? I’ll take a vintage 24 year old road-worn bible. Trade? No. This is a treasure you buy. I trade High Fidelity for Michael Lewis’ The Blind Side. If you’ve never read Liar’s Poker, or Money Ball, or Panic then you don’t know that the most talented author on the planet at making true stories, of potentially dense material topics, leap off the page is…..Michael Lewis. Sitting on the beach logging my first real ‘beach day,’ captivated by the story of the Baltimore Raven’s Michael Oher, life is tough to beat. A leggy blonde (of clear Nordic decent evident by the few exchanges she shares with her clearly Nordic boyfriend) to my right, the ocean in the foreground, a cloudless Rinjani in the background….this is paradise found. When the sun gets to about 2 o’clock I change positions, not by adjusting a chair, but by walking to the other side of the island. Here you find five Dutch stunners lounging in about 2 feet of stagnant water, Bali in the distance, white sand under your feet, blue sky dominating everything else. It’s hot so you of course wade out and join five Dutch stunners. The usual small talk exchanged, they gaze in astonishment or envy or disgust when I answer I’m traveling open-ended. It’s the perfect scene. Placid water protected by a reef. A volcanic island on the horizon. A deserted white sand beach and attractive company. But back to Michael Oher…Blind Side: get the book and read it.

When the equatorial sun finally burns through the multiple layers of SPF 30 you decide to head back to ‘civilization’ (a hefty 20 minutes over a sand road), find a beer, and share. This island is like Byron Bay, NSW, and Australia. People come for three days…and leave 3 months later. Except the world knows of Bryon Bay. The world, but a handful of lucky folks, is thankfully still unwise to the magic of Gili Trawangan. But all that will change in time I’m sure…

Not today and not tomorrow, but get here soon….

Ubud = Rain. Gili T = Shangra La

By my calendar its September 23rd. If we landed on September 11th then by my simple arithmetic this is Day 12. It’s a scary thing when you look back and realize the last time you actually put words on paper was 4 or 5 days ago and during that lapse so much stuff/life worthy of description has occurred. And as I sit here, struggling to get this out, you can’t help feel a bit flustered. On one hand the last 4 days haven’t been anything life altering. The cosmos are still hanging up there, the Orioles remain a disgrace, and I learned it can rain a lot in Bali. That said however there are countless daily experiences, momentary flashes of life: a smile exchanged, a handshake, a head nod to a woman in the fields as you pass by at 40kph…that when amassed become the backbone of your experience. Wow. Writing today is pulling teeth. Could be the fact we were up for 21 hour yesterday experiencing the single best of traveling yet. But before that, I feel obligated (really to no one other than myself) to put down in words the last handful o’ day from my cheap seat (and since the days and soon to be weeks have rapidly become a jumble of random beds, random faces, random meals, random sights, random smiles…may this recap be a random jumble):

The motorbike ride to Ubud takes 90 minutes. The town: uninspiring. The vibe: over-hyped. With mild disappointment I head to the outskirts of the village in search of nothing in particular. With four hours to kill until I meet the others, lunch and a good bar stool to watch the world go by sound like sensible decisions. Biking up the hill I pass a bar billowing smoke from its entrance. I’ve just stumbled across the best BBQ ribs joint in SE Asia: Naughty Nuri’s. The bar I’m about to call home for the next 3 hours is shaped likes an “L.” I sit with my back to the wall and order chix soup. I utter not a word for the first two hours. Simply order food, drink a Bintang, and observe a lineup of expat characters, so colorful and authentic and raw they could have fallen from the pages of Hemingway. I would later befriend all with the simplest of international gestures: buying a round of beer. Graham was the 55 year old British silverback with enough lines on his face to give Keith Richards a run for his money, a penchant for margarita, and the look of Sir Ian McKellen.

Editors Note: This is pulling teeth. Some days your fingers fly across the keys and the flood of memories and moments and highs and lows just flow like Niagara. Today is not one of them. But the thing with traveling in this style and manner is that yesterday’s memories are so immediately replaced with fresh faces & places, beaches & villages that unless you’re capturing the seemingly endless spool of travel fiction that is written every hour, every day…much will inevitably (and sadly) fall through the cracks and be lost to the great black hole of “travel memory.” But am I writing this for you or for me? Is this for your entertainment or my personal record? I doubt anyone (save a few parents and an aunt or uncle) actually reads this stuff…

This is crap. But I’m posting this crap to help paint the fact that sometimes you’ve got “it”…and sometimes you’ve got…crap. Today is crap. Crap as far as the eye can see. Crap because I could paint a picture of Nuri’s bar and its patrons and make it jump off the page. I remember thinking in that moment at the bar (fueled by Bintang and soup) “this will make a great email. These GUYS in front of me will make a great email.” Well, I can’t exactly summon the words today. But today is the day to capture it, whether I’ve got the touch or not. Its a logical day to write. A logical day to burn several hours catching up with the world. And it just so happens that on this day, the day that Nuri’s was to be captured for moms and dads to hear about….my fingers just didn’t feel like dancing. But one has to write because next time I sit in front of these keys, Nuri’s will be a distant memory…the smell of the BBQ won’t be as familiar and the first sip of Bintang on draft won’t taste as cold. Thus…crap.

I’m laboring on though…

Ubud: It rained for 3.5 days. The place was a complete and utter mess. With Ramadan ending shortly, bus loads of Muslims from Java (pronounces “JA-far” by the Balinese) head to Bali for holiday. Rain + bus loads of tourists + traffic congestion = Ubud gets a C+ in my book. Highlights include few: Adam and I went for a “MANventure” on our bikes and ended up getting caught in a (very predictable) afternoon rain shower. Comedy quickly ensued as two Yanks buy rain ponchos from the village market. While we were off touring the rice paddies the girls were holding down the fort at Nuri’s and entertaining advances from the bar owner (Brian from Queens – a character who’s personal story was the stuff of expat lore). Apparently Devin’s threshold for dirty martinis is about…3. More stuff happened…and then more stuff…and then 38 year old Glenn from Perth proclaimed his love for Adams girlfriend…we all laughed…and more stuff happened…and then we woke up the next day and…guess what: it was raining. So nothing really happened. But then stuff did happen…and everyone emailed at their leisure cause that’s what you do on your 3rd straight day of rain in a tiny village that’s overrun by holiday-seeking Javanese. Stuff happened…photos were taken…we delicious ate pork known far and wide as Ubud’ famous “suckling pig.”

The villa we stayed at ($25/head/night) came complete with a pool (which was never used) and 300 black market DVDs (each costing $1.50usd).

Valkyrie: surprisingly good.
Into The Wild: inspiring filmmaking. A must see. Haunting soundtrack.
Gran Torino: I hope I’m as buff as Clint when I’m his age.
Milk: San Francisco has gay people? Who knew…

Our house keeper was one of the nicest people I’d met yet. He only has one eye. Worth mentioning? Not worth mentioning? Worth mentioning.

Also worth mentioning: There is a line of ants marching with military-style precision across the monitor right now.

Ubud: Yup. Not too sweet. More to do with the weather than anything else. Wait, not done yet. Also worth mentioning (albeit slightly odd): Went into a really nice spa to get a message. Upscale place. Middle of Ubud. All the trimmings. The masseuse: a guy. All I could think about was Johnny Drama in the Las Vegas episode of Entourage. Message: 7. Weirdness factor: 10. Moving on…

OK, I feel like I’ve satisfied the last few days. They won’t be lost to the black hole of time at least….

Main Event…..

Tuesday September 22, 2009 (Day Something, call it Day 11):
Challenge: Drive from Ubud to Kuta. Pack for 5 days. Return motorbike. Make way to Benoa Harbor. Board ferry to Gilis Islands by 8:30am.

6:00am: My cell phone alarm goes off. Unlike the phones in the states the ring tone options are all some derivative of techno music. The ring tone options have names (i.e. “Swimming” and “Sunlight” and “Morning”). Each one better than the last. And again…all dance music. I’m set on “Happy Daisy” if you must know…

6:20am: We depart Ubud and I motor us the hour from Ubud back to Kuta. Rush hour traffic in Denpasar. We stick out juuuust a little bit…

7:30am: We arrive at Lilis’ house and repack with warm clothes for a potential volcano hike we may do in the days to come. Fitz is getting a ride with Lilis to the harbor. I need to return the bike. She knows the score. Be on the ferry at 8:30 or spend another night in Bali. I’m making that ferry. That’s for sure. Our paths split…

7:45am: I return the motorbike to the shack where I rented it. I instruct Doya (rental dude) to ride on the back with me to the ferry dock and after I board the ferry to the Gilis he can have his bike back. Saves we a taxi and precious time I don’t have (ferry leaves at 8:30am).

8:20am: With Doya on the back and giving hand directions over my shoulder, we high tail it across town to Benoa Harbor. As I bob and weave like a Bali pro Doya remarks: “You drive good.” I’ll take that from an islander.

8:22am: I buy a one-way ticket to Gili Trawangan. I catch my breath.

8:40am: I’m the last one to board. No Fitz.

8:41am: No Fitz

8:43am: Fitz. She makes the ferry and earns the right to enjoy the best day yet. Lombok is the most immediate island to Bali’s east. Roughly the same size, it is home to Rinjani. The second largest volcano in Indonesia. Just off the northwest side of Lombok are three tiny islands known as the Gilis (GEE-lees). The ferry ride is 2.5 hours. The weather clears, the skies turn blue, the water color turns electric, and having not seen the sun for 3-4 days…I weep with joy (on the inside).

The Gilis are three islands. Gili Trawangan (aka Gili T), Gili Meno, and Gili Air. Gili T is the party island. Gili Meno is the honeymoon island. Gili Air is the super quiet island. We go to Gili T. Wow, what a shocker.

http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&source=s_q&hl=en&geocode=&q=gili+trawangan&sll=-8.359277,116.050129&sspn=0.077616,0.110378&ie=UTF8&ll=-8.343057,116.044378&spn=0.036686,0.055189&z=14&iwloc=A

The Gilis were once described as the “the road weary traveler’s lucid fantasy.” I couldn’t agree more. There are no cars. No bikes. Just sand, horse drawn carriages, real travelers, and friendly locals.

11:30ish: The first look of Gili T is a winner. Native boats line the shore. Bikinis line the sand. Street food vendors line the single lane dirt track that represents “Main Street.” I take us to the low rent district. Fitz can’t stand the heat. She finds a chair. I find our accommodations. I set off in search of our first real hostel. Down a dirt road that ends at the base of a little mountain, I secure a room after 15 minutes. Two beds. Two mosquito nets. Ceiling fan. Native kid strumming Guns ‘N Roses on the acoustic. $20usd/night. Perfect. The main drag is lined with little beach bars. Each more appealing than the next. I walked the circumference of the island in an hour. The western side is virgin. There is nothing but sand, serenity, silence, and a surreal view to the island of Bali. Its moments like yesterday where I physically pinch myself. Not a human in sight, nothing on but board shorts and sunglasses, 150,000 rupiah in my pocket and discovery to be had.

6:30pm. We find ourselves hiking to the top of hill for sunset. The prayer call from the local mosque rings in the background as we tackle the 300 steps to the “roof” of Gili T. The sunset view is a postcard. Not a person in sight.

8:00pm. Having made friends with the travelers in the room to our left (Dave & Chris) and to our right (Sebby & Alaie) the six of us head off into the night in search of food and discovery.

4am: I drunk dial a pretty girl in America. She laughs at my state given its 4 in the afternoon. I sleep.

When the time and feeling is right we’ll move on, but for $20-30/day…this undiscovered flat little nugget of sand in the Indonesian archipelago will make a great home in the meantime. I feel pretty blessed to be here now, as this is precisely the type of hidden gem that will sadly be transformed into something entirely different in the years and decades to come.

Yesterday was a good day. Yesterday was a great day. Yesterday was a day I earned. With so many variables to contend with, each one having the ability to derail your best intentions at any given moment, its days like yesterday that build confidence and get the blood running. We could have gotten a flat tire. Missed the ferry. The boat could have sunk. We could have not been sandwiched between four incredibly cool people in a random hostel. But none of that happened. It all clicked. And when it all clicks as a backpacker, like it did on 9/22/09, there are few better highs in life. And then you realize….wait….this is my life now….and all you want to do is capture the moment, the feeling, the high…and share it.

This entry was ½ crap and ½ fluff.

I’m going to have some street food…for the 2nd time today…and talk to a local…

Funny Foods & Seawater Cocktails

Day 6:

I don’t know. I really don’t know. It could have been the mysterious “grey matter” street food from the 114 year old lady at the market. It could have been a second helping of the grey matter. It could have been the tofu dish with a side of not-so-cooked rice at had at the “warung” that afternoon. (Warung – mobile food vendor, usually consisting of a push cart, propane tank, magical assortment of mystery meats and other food objects. Purveyor of said warung should process no more than a kindergarten grasp of English. Mastery of the head-nod and smile is required.) It could have been the shower water that I forgot to spit out. It could have been the stray dog I open-mouth-kissed. OK, scratch that. In any rate I woke on Day 6 with the belly. The Bali Belly. Not talking vomitous sickness here, but more the “I’m gonna curl up on the couch and do little but sip water and read” stomach virus. As this kicked in sometime during the night I slept poorly, which is a not a difficult state to achieve given the AC doesn’t blast more than 18 Celsius (not sure what that is but I’m positive its not cold) and the mosquito net leaves open four slits just big enough for the insect world to have one helleva smorgasbord on my persons every evening. (Heat + bug bites) / stomach virus = discomfort. It’s fairly simple. So I burn a day and catch up on reading and writing. Reading : High Fidelity. Why? Mike O’Neil said this book “is my life in a nutshell.” So far it rings true. The main character falls hopelessly in/out of love with various girls while having an on-going affair with his one true love: his record collection. Several “cipro” tablets later and I’m right as rain. Ciprofloxacin – it’s like the atomic answer to bacterial infections in your tummy. We did experience a massive black out that evening (the electrical kind). Not a big deal since we have no TV or radio. Throw on the headlamp and the reading continues.

Day 7:

Feeling better and up at 6:30am, I head out to run recon on Ubud. About 30 km in the hills of central Bali , Ubud is the Zen-center of the island. Apparently the book Eat, Pray, Love…or Love, Eat, Pray…or Pray, Eat, Love takes place there, which brings all these middle age women there in search of yoga, spiritual awakening, and…Ralph Lauren? There is one. I’ll wax on more after spending some time there starting Saturday. If the get-in-touch-with-you-inner-che vibe doesn’t do it for me…the volcanoes are but a mere two hour motorbike ride north. I’ll be going one way or another. Back to the villa by noon. Switch into board shorts, head to Kuta, rent an 8’ board, and hit the surf. Four hours and countless 3-second-long rides later I emerge from the Indian Ocean feeling great. One Bintang ($1.00usd) and two orders of spring rolls ($2.75usd) later I head home feeling satisfied with the day. Any day in which you can combo 4 hours on a bike with 4 hours in the drink should and must be considered a triumph. Back to the villa and Devin informs me that Lilis’ family will be joining us for an authentic Balinese dinner. Lilis is our 27 year old housekeeper/cook/interpreter. Her and Devin have formed an incredible bond and are very much the Balinese equivalent of BBF (best friends forever). By 9pm we have seated on the floor surrounding out villa table the following:

Dad – 61 years old. Doesn’t speak English despite having a serious affinity for CNN, MTV, and Animal Planet. He provided much comic relief at dinner).

Nyoman – 31 year old brother of Lilis. Engineer. We bond over Bintangs and an international understanding that females are much too handle. He enjoys playing American techno songs via his phone. Great guy.

Maday – 28 year old cousin of Lilis. Speaks little, says much. After four years of marriage, has but a four year old son. Friends: take note.

Sume – Devin’s personal message therapist. Great grasp of English and good timing for sarcasm.

Sume’s boyfriend – Utter not a word.

Lilis’ cousin – head chef for dinner.

Lilis – head interpreter for dinner conversation.

Truly some of the most caring and friendly people I’ve met. Truly enriching and memorable experience.

Day 8:

Surfing is a bit like golf. One day your shoot the lights out…next day you can’t sink a 5’ putt. This morning I couldn’t make a putt inside the leather. The Indian Ocean had its way with me…yet the temperature is nice, the sun is shinning, and tomorrow we head out for Ubud.

Note: this island is dirt cheap. Three hours worth of internet the other day ran me $1.60usd. The hard part is getting here. The harder part may be leaving.

Indefinite Walkabout

What’s the quickest way to get from DC to Bali? I haven’t the foggiest clue. Day Uno went something as follows:

On time departure from Dulles (Washington, DC) at 9am following the proverbial waterworks of a goodbye from Mom’s Fitzpatrick and O’Neil. Moms: Got to love them. Given the amount of farewell pomp and circumstance we’d undergone in the last week, we were both more than ready to blast off for parts (pseudo) unknown. 5 hour flight to San Fran. Good news: bulkhead. Bad news: The Proposal. Got to love that Ryan Reynolds though. 2 hour lay over in San Fran. Was able to speak with my 97 year grandfather from a payphone (“what the *&% is a payphone?”) thirty minutes before takeoff. He wished me good luck and, following my explanation of why I was calling out of the blue, probably questioned whether he had hallucinated or was his grandson really going to Indonesia. In any case we boarded Singapore Airlines and got comfortable for the 12 hour flight.

Good news:

The steerage section was 30% full (i.e. “hello sleeping four seats across”).

Alcohol free international flights. Apparently they’re not used to seeing 6’1” Americans throw back nine Singapore Slings in the span of ninety minutes.

Duplicity. Got to love that Clive Owen.

It’s a great thing looking out the port side of the plane as you cross the Bering Strait in the late afternoon light (nine SSs deep) when suddenly…”Hey Fitz…take a look at Siberia.” First glimpse of Asia (albeit from 34,500ft). Classic.

Singapore Airline’s new motto should be: “Good food. Friendly people. Mirrors on the tray tables.” True story. Mirror on the tray tables. Escobar Airlines, anyone?

Bad news:

Terminator: Salvation. They should end the franchise already. Got to love that Christian Bale though.

12 hours later we land in Seoul. Not to actually change planes mind you. We disembarked and were immediately ushered cattle-style into the quarantine zone. Greeted with surgical masks and the whole nine yards, it was my turn in line when some guy put a Star Trek looking device to my neck…pressed a button…a light flashed…a noise was made…and I was ushered through. I guess I passed and don’t have “herpes simplex-ten.” Beverly Hills Cop: Part II. Anyone?

1.5 hour layover then re-board and on to Singapore. The five hour flight was boring but I did establish my dominance over Fitz in one-on-one Tetris courtesy of in-flight entertainment.

We land in Singapore at 2am local time. Pretty sure we had somewhere around 20 hours of day light the prior day heading west. We grab our bags, bought some gum, walked outside, spit on the ground and popped some Juicy Fruit. Ahhh Singapore. We wandered Changi airport for hours. The place lives up to the hype. Four story shopping mall. McDonalds with free internet. Two hotels. A wall of indoor ivy that would make Camden Yards jealous. And McDonalds with free internet. We board our 10am Air Asia flight and much to our surprise the plane isn’t held together with rubber bands and duck tape (sorry Scott). Three hours later we land in Bali.

*I clearly have little regard for editorial consistency. “4 hours. Four hours.” Moving forward…

We get a cab to our place and experience our first taste of the Asian chaos…

One word: traffic. And I’m not talking about “God I hate sitting in traffic on the Jersey Turnpike.” I’m talking traffic in the sense of motorbikes everywhere. Everywhere? Everywhere! Bikes pass you on the left. Pass you on the right. Two bikes across a lane…three bikes…four bikes. One passenger to a bike…two passengers…three passengers. I’ve become convinced after logging roughly 150 miles on a bike on this island already that the Balinese don’t understand the concept of a straight line. Lane markers? What’s the point. Traffic signals? Just a suggestion. Three way intersections? Comical. Sitting in the back seat watching this world of controlled, organized, and apparently functional chaos whiz around us I immediately feel in love. Probably 80% of the vehicles on the roads are bikes. They drive on the left here. They also go the wrong way down one-way streets. They weave. They bob. They cut off. They pass when no one in America would consider it, but they all make it by OK. Stray dogs drift from sidewalk to dirt to street and back. They’re fearless. They must know the drill. Saw a lady texting on her bike.

Unlike anything I’d seen before, but it all just…works. What an introduction to Southeast Asia.

We get to our place. It rocks. Pool.. Lush gardens. Two separate huge rooms. Huge terrace. In all honesty the place is sweet and I’d recommend it to anyone. $30/day/each. But bla bla bla. Fitz will rightfully go on at length about that kind of good stuff I’m sure. But I was ready to get into this island. So at about 2pm our housekeeper walks us down the street to her friend’s shop. I rent a moped (henceforth referred to as “bike”) for $30/week. Fitz would have gotten one too but after watching her “test drive” down the street I/we decided not a chance in hell. Back to the house, drop off Fitz, and I immediately head off on said bike to explore for an hour.

(From an earlier email I sent…)

I’ve spent time on a moped before and know how to handle myself, but nothing in the western world can prepare one for the sensory overload of making that right turn onto the main artery into town. Nothing. Its zero to pandemonium in 2.0 seconds. Flat. The learning curve is steep. Handle yourself and dive in or be a tourist and take a taxi: I like the water temperature. After 15 minutes on the bike I had complete affirmation about Bali . I now get IT. I understand how this not-so-tiny-island is the obsession that the world makes it out to be. It’s a beautiful cocktail of rough and noisy, unpolished and colorful, congested and tranquil, exotic and intoxicating. Having spent over 20 hours on the bike the last five days, its impossible to describe the feeling of flying down timeless alleyways doing what you think is 35mph only to look down at your speedometer and realize…it doesn’t work and fixed at zero. But that’s part and parcel to the magic of this place. Bali’s not the tightest ship, far from it. But it can’t be. And it shouldn’t be. The chaos is at the core of its charm. Everyone here is just trying to make a go of it. The shirtless bricklayer sweating in the midday sun rearranging the new sidewalk forces the bleach-blonde surfer guy clad in nothing but board shorts and facial hair to walk off the sideway and into the street. By doing so the taxi car must stop to avoid hitting the surfboard he’s carrying. By doing so the bikers, unused to applying brakes, cross the median of the bustling two lane road and flow into oncoming traffic in an effort to pass the taxi. It’s at this moment, as I witness this dance unfold up ahead, that I face two decisions: brake and fall in line or follow the locals and pass on by. The first day I braked (naturally). Day Two I passed. And when you come to that all-too-often stop in traffic shortly there after, and the bikers are lined up three across, your hands gripping the brakes and sandals resting on the asphalt, sweat running down your forehead from the equatorial sun roasting your black helmet….you can’t help but look to your left…then to your right…digest the foreign profiles of these Indonesians…reflect on the fact that neither of these traffic veterans have likely ever left the island of Bali….and smile. Smile cause you’re in it. You’re in deep. I can’t remember how many times I caught myself bobbing and weaving through traffic as a world of foreign colors, smells, tastes, and faces pass you by in the blink of an eye…and each time I not-so-quietly utter out loud to no one but myself: “Holy sh*t…this is Indonesia .” And if I wasn’t using both hands to ensure a safe return home…I’d pinch myself and say it again. “HOLY SH*T! THIS IS INDONESIA!”

(…back live).

Having had a day to rest up I was eager to head out and explore. That’s kind of what I do. And there truly is no better way to experience this island than by bike. Having joined forces with two of Devin’s friends from San Fran (on holiday for two weeks), I did some research and charted us a course. Destination: eastern tip of the island (aka Amen peninsula). Following a breakfast Devin and I meet up with Adam and his gf Stephanie. We set out from Kuta at 9am for what would turn into an 11 hour adventure across the island. I had our route picked out which would take us up into central Bali and east to Amen.

God was I ready for something like this! Little idea of how this would go down. With Fitz on the back we cut across hectic downtown Denpasar. Words won’t and can’t do justice to the feeling of flying down a crowded city street alongside the native islanders with not another white person in sight. It’s certainly not the Bali the lion share of ordinary tourists experience, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. And now I’ve got three other Yankees along for the ride. An hour in and we’re out to the southeastern coast. All is going well. We’re excited to be rid of the city cluster fu (THUMP THUMP THUMP….). Flat rear tire. Here we go… We pull over and it’s as flat as ________ (fill in non-buxom American actress of choice). I dump everyone at a café and head off in search of a tire repair. Not 30 seconds on the road when a guy honks…points to my tire…then points to a shanty 100 meters up the road. No words exchanged. (Yup. That’s right. I’m metric now. Deal.) I pull in and prop the bike up. A shirtless fellow of middle age appears from behind a counter top. Few words are exchanged and he goes to work. I pass the 10 minutes of repair work waving my hands to a shy four year old. $6.00USD later I’m off and running. Patched up we head into the hills and to a land that time truly seems to have forgotten. Only pictures and video can truly paint the picture but imagine lush green valleys with rice fields extending seemingly into the ocean. Faces and smiles staring back at you as they wave and you return the favor. Twisting turning hills (incredible on the bike) climb higher and higher. Lush jungle dominates the road. Hidden mountain villages pop up everywhere. The roads play host to countless stray dogs (all looking like dingoes). Chicken and cows and the occasion lamb walk alongside the road as the world passes you by at 50kph. And the smells: good god they’re incredible. Burning wood fires and that earthy aroma that tastes distinctively third world.

The bike is not work to drive but it’s great to stop when inspired for a rest. I pull over at an incredible vista of rice fields. A group of 10 men and boys sit under a tree not 10 meters away. I walk over and suddenly they’re essentially forcing me to drink palm wine (non-alcoholic) from a gasoline can. Its all smiles all around as it goes down. Handshakes follow and the offering of everything from cigarettes to rice to more palm wine. How does one say no to such hospitality? After a few such encounters you realize that this scene could very likely be played out in every village…all day…every day on the island of Bali. The Balinese are just that incredibly friendly and inviting.

We make it all the way to the far coast and pass through villages on the eastern tip of the island that wouldn’t be believed. Everyone waved and smiled and waved some more. Old and young. Then you realize this is the Bali that no one sees. No surfer dude from Aussie or playboy from Europe that call Seminyak their vacation home ever make it here. The smiles and bewildering looks only reinforce a belief that the two old native men sitting in their hut with no running water and no electricity watching four Americans fly by on bikes probably exchange something like:

“Hey Frank, haven’t seen any of them in these here parts for some time eh?.”

“Yup. You said it Paulie.”

In all honestly we have learned that most native Balinese don’t leave their village or immediate area. Ever. So people from the west could spend their entire lives and never visit the other side. Its kind of like fly over country in that regard.

We make it back to civilization and enter Denpasar after night. A not-so-thin coat of black grime that we (ok, maybe just I) wear as a badge of road warrior pride. We fight the chaotic traffic after dark and return to our villa safe and sound with one helluva day under our belts. Bedtime: 9pm.

Following morning I can’t sleep. Its 5am and I’m wide awake. Where’s the Lonely Planet Bali guide? I read up about Denpasar and hit a passage about the Pasar Badung market in the center of town. “Best experienced at dawn….” is all I have to read before I find a cure for the insomnia. Teeth brushed, I’m back on the bike at 6:30am.

Monday morning rush hour: its raining…kids are walking to school in uniforms…bikes speed everywhere with purpose…the frenetic energy is piercing. It’s on…again. My faculties are immediately switched to hyper speed again. I navigate the traffic circles and alleys and finally find the market. I park the bike, zip my pockets, and dive in for the unknown. Worth mentioning that I’d been easing into the whole “street food” thing the last few days, but this morning was a no brainer. Exchanging 6,000 rupiah ($0.60) I’m treated to a breakfast of rice, what looks like diced chicken, some red stuff that had serious kick, some grey matter that I’d later learn is a distant cousin of pork, and some green stuff all wrapped in a giant reed. Everyone was looking at this kid with anticipation as I shoveled breakfast down the hatch with my fingers. All smiles and a few laughs. It was delicious but I was more curious about how the body would react. Oh, well…I’m pregnant now…might as well have another. After round two I head inside a massive building complex and into what would be a vegetarian most unholy of nightmares: third world slaughterhouse. Every type of barn yard animal you can imagine was hanging from individual stalls (minus skins). If I was the novelty act outside…I was the main event in here. Everywhere I looked, scores of eyes shot back…eyes and smiles. Felt totally safe and comfortable. Maybe it helps when you tower over your audience. (Production Note: Having shot a great deal of solid footage in the prior days (i.e. Fitz capturing rush hour traffic from the back of a bike ((totally safe Moms)), this was clearly the goldmine I’d been looking for. It makes one rather anxious pulling out a tiny camera in a place like this and drawing even MORE attention to yourself…but I had to. I mean this is the stuff I came for. This is the stuff I want to share. Gold.)

Back to the house by 9am, adrenalin high. Over to meet Adam and Stephanie. Down to Uluwatu (aka Temple of Greedy Monkeys).. Seriously, I saw a man bribe a particularly greedy monkey with not one but two bananas in order to retrieve a stolen set of sunglasses. Tom, its Hanuman heaven. You’d love it. Leaving the temple we head up to one of the best surf (or at least well known) breaks on the globe.

Great little hut on the cliff side makes for a killer place to put down some noodles and watch a fleet of Australian “dude-bro’s” ripe 15 foot waves. Mooney. Lucas. You were missed.

I’m tired. More to come. Thanks for reading…