Thursday, June 3, 2010

Post 30: Schools Out

Note: this is a sizeable entry but I divided it into three parts to make reading a little more manageable.

Bali

My trip to Indonesia was not what you might call “organized”. The travel group was an ever-evolving entity, with a revolving door of people that entered and exited at different points on different days at different times. There was no set schedule and no reservations- my favorite way to travel. Logistically, it made the most “sense” for me to fly to Indonesia by myself, a day after Haley and Kelly, but two days before Kelsi and Rachel. Thus I found myself patrolling the halls of the Bangkok airport at 3 am, hyped up on caffeine and free samples of rice cakes. I flew into Bali’s Densapar airport and pulled out a wrinkled sheet of paper with Haley and Kelly’s hotel address. The room was empty when I arrived, but the girls left me a note with directions to the beach. I found them easily enough, sprawled out on sarongs and already acquainted with most of the local, young, male, surf instructors.
For the first couple days, the three of us stayed in Legian, a beach in the most touristed, party-strip of Bali. The area is swamped by foreigners, as well as bars, clubs, restaurants, and shopping. The beach is beautiful, although not clean, and peddlers cruise the sand selling everything from toe rings to ice cream. The beach faces west, so around 5pm we moved our toasted bodies out of the sun and into chairs underneath the palm trees; chairs conveniently located next to a cooler where you could buy cheap, locally brewed beer and watch the sunset. We woke up around noon the next day, after having braved a monsoon and gone dancing on a pirate ship, and set out for another beach day. Sitting there on the sand, I felt far away from my life in Thailand. The vacation was right around our one-year anniversary of living at site, and it was time for a rejuvenating adventure.
After our beach days, we headed inland to Ubud, an arty enclave in the jungled center of Bali. It is known for being home to hundreds of artisans and their workshops, as well as for its local charm, and excellent food. I fell in love with it as soon as we arrived, totally digging the quaint European town meets Southeast Asia vibe. The roads curve around the winding hills, with a seemingly endless string of boutiques, cafes, jewelry shops, and restaurants lining the narrow sidewalks. At one end of the main road is a Royal Palace, where every evening Gamelan music and dance performances are held. At the other end sits the monkey forest, a heavily wooded enclave filled with monkeys and worn stone temples dotted with gargoyles, large and small. We disembarked near the palace and wandered down dark and residential alleys until we found an enclave that said “guest house”. The Balinese live in compounds, with ornate carved doorways that lead into intimate courtyards; surrounding the courtyard are multiple little houses for the various segments of the family. It is common in tourist spots for families to rent out their available rooms, and thus we found ourselves in the home of a local family. After our depositing our bags, we spent the rest of the day exploring, moseying into the shops, longingly eyeing the beautiful restaurants, and tried out Balinese oil massage. We ended our stroll at the monkey forest. The monkeys were rather aggressive, and I was far more enchanted by the temples which seemed to be born out of the forest and the demonic gargoyles.
Kelsi and Rachel were supposed to meet us that evening in Ubud, and by pure luck found their way to our guest house 15 minutes before Haley, Kelly, and I were getting picked up for a sunrise hike of Mount Batur, at 2 am. They quickly jumped on the bandwagon, and thus five rather than three girls loaded into the van, much to the surprise of our driver. We drove for about 90 minutes, stopped for a banana pancake breakfast at the foot of the mountain, and then began the actual climb around 4 am. We were accompanied by no less than 5 local guides, all hoping for tips. It was chilly and dark, so I focused my energy on not tripping. We walked and walked, stopping every now and then for water and a breath, and then soldiering onward with our intrepid entourage. Finally after an hour and a half, we reached the summit. It was shrouded in fog, and we huddled together for warmth in the little hut at the top, glaring at the clouds. We waited and waited, changing huts once or twice, but it was too foggy to see the sunrise. Disappointed, we began the walk back down, and while when the clouds cleared, the sun was already up, the view of the valley was breathtaking. The volcano was surrounded by rice fields and farmlands in innumerable shades of green. Overtop of this in certain areas was thick black rock formed by lava, which dried like a lumpy blanket over the land, its dynamic flow frozen in time and still full of movement. At the bottom was a large lake formed in a crater formed by an eruption long ago, dotted with homes slowly coming to life in the early morning.
Our plan for the next day was to visit Besakih- Bali’s Hindu mother temple- and then drive out to the coast for snorkeling a ship wreck and a bit more beach time. The temple was beautiful, built against a mountain (Mt. Agung) and divided into the three parts- Shiva, Brahma, and Vishnu. The Shiva section was central and the most striking. A long staircase leads up to the courtyard at the top, which is only open to devotees and houses the sanctuary and offering area. The whole temple complex is terraced, with many different levels, sacred spaces, and structures on each tier. A guide led us around, explaining about the history of the temple and a bit about Balinese Hinduism. There was a funeral that morning, so we watched a long procession of people wearing Shiva’s colors of black, white, and yellow walk up the stairs carrying large baskets filled with offerings on their heads. The temple was beautiful itself, but also afforded wonderful views of the mountainous and fertile central plain of the island. We finished our tour just in time for a midday rain and hoped the weather wouldn’t interfere with our snorkeling plan.
Fortunately, it cleared up by the time we made it to Tulamben, and we were able to go snorkeling. To really see the shipwreck involves scuba diving, but it was still fun to paddle around looking at all the fish and bits of the boat’s stern visible from the surface. Tulamben isn’t much of a town, so we had our trusty driver take us to a beach called Sanur, down closer to the capital and allegedly beautiful, quiet and clean. It was dark when we arrived, but Kelsi and I were all excited about the prospect of quality beach time the next day (Haley and Kelly left Bali a day before us), without garbage and throngs of tourists. The planets were aligned, and it was a lovely beach on a lovely day. We lay in the sun and swam out as far as we could in the translucent water. A dozen brightly-colored rowboats lay on the sand, with eclectic designs painted on the bow, and thin flags fluttered in the air. We had a good portion of the beach to ourselves and no-one tried to sell us anything. It was the elusive, idyllic beach we had been searching for.
Our initial plan was to spend our last night in Kuta, near the airport. The cab driver convinced us it would be good to go to Jimbaran for dinner, a small fishing town where there are scores of fresh seafood barbeque restaurants on the beach with sunset views. Jimbaran is not a place where people tend to stay overnight- generally they get a cab from Kuta for dinner and then return. Kelsi and I, short of funds, decided to stay overnight. Our cab driver insisted there would be nowhere to stay, but we were stubborn, and roamed the streets for an hour searching for a guest house. We attracted some questioning stares, but as Peace Corps volunteers, we are so used to being the oddly placed foreigners that we were unphased. Our ramblings brought us into an open-air fish market and down muddy alleyways until finally, finally, we found a place. Sweaty and exhausted, we waited for the water and electricity to be turned on so we could bathe and cool off, and then walked down to the beach to enjoy a few beers on the sand before dinner. The local guy who helped us locate the guest house was a waiter at one of the restaurants and said we’d get a discount if we ate there. When the sun began to dip lower in the sky and the fading light made silhouettes of all the fishing boats anchored in the water, we picked a table on the sand and giggled over the romance of our situation. Picking live fish out of a tank was quite the adventure, as both of us were weirded out by selecting a fish to be killed, and on a limiting budget. Sated and sad to be leaving Bali, we went to bed early in preparation for our 5 am flight.

Jogyakarta

When Kelsi and I did our minimal planning, we agreed we wanted to visit more than one island. Bali is the most well-touristed island and for good reason, but in a predominantly Muslim country, we wanted to break out of the Bali bubble. We opted to visit Jogyakarta on Java. Jogyakarta is considered the cultural center of Java. Jogya was also an accessible journey from Bali and there are two famous temples within daytrip distance. We had three days and planned to spend the first day exploring the city itself; then the last two days we would visit Borobudur, a Buddhist temple, and Prambanan, a Hindu temple. We found a windowless room in a cheap guest house, but there was complimentary tea and coffee, as well as a quaint balcony for guests to hang out on.
Jogyakarta is a center for batik production, and anything from dresses to backpacks to fine art paintings are sold. When we walked down the promenade on Jalian Marlioboro, we were bombarded by hundreds of batik vendors. We emerged at the other end, in front of the Colonial post office, and sat down to rest our feet. While we consulted our map, a friendly looking Indonesian man sat down on the other side of the bench and began asking us questions in excellent English. Kels and I were on a guard a bit, but quickly warmed to our smiley and helpful new pal, Wayan. He showed us how to get to the palace and explained the cheapest way to get to the temple the next day. He asked if we were interested in art, and said if we wanted to see the best batik artwork, we should visit an art school where the government subsidizes students and teachers, as well as masters. It was a 15 minute walk away and not a tourist trap. Wayan gave us a rough sketch of how to get there, and helped us cross the chaotic street by flapping his arms like a bird.
Kelsi and I wandered around slightly lost, until another, very small man approached us with a huge grin. He pointed to my tan skin and said “brown-very nice, very nice. Where are you from?” When we said America, he squealed with glee and asked where we were going. We told him, and he again squealed with glee. “But how do you know about this place? Foreigners do not usually know.” We told him about our friend Wayan and he said “Wayan! I too work at the post office. He is my friend. I am so happy you want to visit the art centre. I will help you get there,” and he guided us in the midday heat to the art centre, which was of course, down a narrow alley. The inside looked very much like an art school, with canvases stacked everywhere and two college-aged girls hunched over cloth in the back, under the watchful eye of the teacher. A man came to greet us, and he too spoke excellent English. He further explained about the centre and their mission, and invited us to look around, ask questions, and urged us not to feel obligated to buy. We were in heaven. Kelsi and I must have spent an hour wandering from room to room, rummaging through the stacks, picking our favorite paintings out, discussing what we thought some of the artwork meant, and asking the man dozens of questions about the works and the artists. We fell in love with the place and its ethos. Despite our thirty-minute discussion that very morning about how admirably frugal we were going to be in Java, neither of us could resist buying small paintings. Feeding our souls was more important than our bodies, and we were willing to exist only on food from street carts and oatmeal in order to support the arts
The next day, we went to Borobudur, the UNESCO Buddhist temple about an hour away. Borobudur is allegedly the world’s largest Buddhist stupa and is said to be the greatest piece of classical architecture in Indonesia. It is a representation of the Buddhist cosmic mountain, Meru, and is shaped like a pyramid, with nine, increasingly smaller levels. Each level has walls on either side, as well as four staircases oriented at the cardinal directions. Pilgrims are supposed to start at the East and walk clockwise around the base, ascending each time at the East staircase, and continuing to walk around this way until reaching the top. The base represents the earthly world, and thus the walls on the lower level are somewhat oppressive, and covered in carvings depicting sensual pleasures. As each level gets smaller, the walls also begin falling away to reveal glimpses of the surrounding valley. As the thick stone falls away, so to, do material concerns. The summit is nirvana, a platform with unencumbered and breathtaking views. The journey around the temple is meant to represent the path towards enlightenment.
PS: We did not make it to Prambanan, as we spent the entrance fee money on paintings.

Singapore

Unlike the small and spare Jogya airport, the Singapore airport was huge, spotless, and filled with intriguing sculptures. We took the subway into the city center and emerged onto wide, clean streets with skyscrapers lining the horizon and not a street-seller in sight. Nobody noticed us, much less called out to us, and the general vibe was so orderly and calm that Kelsi and I felt like singing through the streets. Thailand and Indonesia are wonderful, vibrant countries, but sometimes it feels like you can’t take two steps without an unfortunate smell, being hassled to buy something, or being stared at like a freak. Between the quiet, the shining, open sidewalks and the cosmopolitan crowd rushing by, we felt blissfully anonymous. In addition to modern architecture, shopping, and strict laws, Singapore is also known for its food. It was a country which started as a trading post, and thus from its inception was the melting pot of Asia. Malay, Chinese, Thai, Indonesian, Indian, Arab, Japanese (and so on) all went for trade purposes and stayed. Like Americans, most people from Singapore have a country they are originally from. They moved to Singapore and settled in neighborhoods with distinct personalities resonant of their homes. The most prominent of these are Little India, Chinatown, and Arab Street. Kelsi and I were determined to visit and eat in every neighborhood, a food and temple crawl of sorts.
Our first stop was Little India. On our way, we walked through the Bugus arcade, which is a covered market with everything from dresses to dildos. On a search for coffee, we happened upon one of the legendary Singapore food courts. It is basically a pavilion with dozens and dozens of stalls selling all types of Asian food. We walked through overwhelmed and wide eyed until we found a coffee stand. We were continuing on with our coffees when a rainstorm broke out and after seeking refuge and purchasing an umbrella, we ventured back out into the storm, not wanting to waste any of our precious day. We made it to little India soaking wet and chose a restaurant filled with Indian men, which we figured it must be good. We ordered a biryani platter to share and followed the example of the other patrons by scooping the rice and curry up with our fingers. Now only slightly damp, we ventured off to peruse the rest of the area. Little India was charming, and the two/three story, brightly painted buildings formed a cool contrast to the skyscrapers in the background. The scent of curry wafted out of restaurants, ornate Hindu temples peeked out from behind gates, and colorful saris hung from store fronts. Our senses felt happy.
From Little India, we mosied East to the waterfront where there was a giant Ferris Wheel. The Ferris Wheel was $30, so Kelsi and I opted to sit on the sidewalk, rest our feet, and watch its slow movement instead. Our dinner plan was to visit Arab Street, but as we weren’t hungry yet, we bought a bottle of wine (we calculated it was more cost effective than beer) and drank it on the roof of our hostel, watching the sunset mingle with the neon lights of the city. Arab Street was a quaint and refined, a neat array of cream colored buildings and cobblestone lanes, all under the watchful eye of an elegant mosque. Keeping with our tradition of sharing sampler platters, we searched out a restaurant with Meze, hookah, and sidewalk seating. We each had $5 left in our daily budget after dinner, and walked to back to Little India with the hope that one of the backpacker bars would have drink specials. Turned out there were no drink specials for under $5, but a bar owner took pity on us and offered free beer in exchange for going inside-the bar was empty. Sold. 2 hours , 5 new friends, multiple pints, and 1 free pizza later, Kelsi and I still had our $5 intact, as well as a lesson on Shiraz from a Tazmanian sailor and debate about James Joyce with a Malaysian-German kid raised in America.
On our last day, we visited the beautiful Asian Civilizations museum. The museum is housed in a stately, white European building with wood floors and high ceilings. We saw many familiar Southeast Asian images, but it was very different to experience them in a museum context rather than as a part of daily life. After the museum, we went to Chinatown for the last stop on the food crawl and final opportunity to buy souvenirs. It was the most clean and orderly Chinatown I have ever experienced. Chinese lanterns hung from the sky and there were stalls of herbs, clothes, and trinkets everywhere, but the usual seediness and chaos of Chinatowns was absent. Singapore’s Chinatown is home to a famous Buddhist relic temple, with hundreds of small Buddha images lining the wall. The temple practices Vajrayana Buddhism, the Dalai Lama’s strain, and so many the images and rituals were saw were unfamiliar us (Thais practice Theraveda). Just down the road at a Hindu temple, we watched the lead-up to a coal walking ceremony, where men dressed in white cloths wrapped around their waist prepared a fire pit behind a group of musicians. The proximity of all these varied and vibrant religious traditions was astounding. To walk past saffron clad, Buddhist monks, and then spot a Yogi 10 seconds later. In front of a mosque. Next to a Chinese fortune teller. With a sleek mall in the background. That was Singapore.
We spent our last dollars on Subway at the Singapore airport, and returned to Bangkok exhausted and ready to stay in one place for a while.

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