Farewell to Southeast Asia
January 27, 2010 | Location: Indonesia, Laos, Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand | 8 Comments
One hundred and forty-five days ago, Helene and I began our adventure around the world.
After a short layover in Japan, we headed down to Indonesia, to Denpasar and Ubud on the island of Bali. Relaxed but increasingly annoyed by the overgrown tourist industry of Ubud, we took the slow train across the island of Java, in the most exciting two weeks of our trip to date. We stopped in the towns and cities of Banyuwangyi, Probolinggo, Surabaya, Yogyakarta, all the way to Jakarta. From Jakarta, we flew to Singapore, where we spent an awesome two weeks with our friends Audran and Joëlle, discovering soup tulang, durian and amazing Indian food.
From Singapore, we rode the bus across Malaysia to Melaka, then to Kuala Lumpur, and from there flew to Bangkok, where we happily renewed with the city’s superb street food. We discovered our happy place in a small ocean bay to the south, then ventured forth to Vientiane, Laos, where we lost ourselves in the awesome French food. On the way back, we rediscovered the joy of traveling off the beaten path by exploring the cities of Isaan; specifically, Udon Thani and Nakhon Ratchasima made a strong impression.
After all this time, South-East Asia feels like home. In farewell to the region, here’s our very personal roundup of the high and low points of our adventures so far.
Best Street Meal: Nasi Goreng, Yogyakarta, Java, Indonesia
We found this street stall not too far from the backpacker area by following our noses – no joke! The owner was so friendly and charming, I took to calling her my Indonesian auntie. The next evening, her granddaughter cooked our nasi goreng (fried rice) and soto ayam (chicken soup) in a wok over charcoal. The food was so amazing, it beat any fried rice I’ve had before – and I’ve lived three years in China.
Runner-up: The famous and fabulous noodle soup in Bangkok, Thailand
Best Upscale Meal: Yantra Restaurant, Singapore
When my friend Audran said he’d treat us to a fantastic Indian meal, he wasn’t kidding – Yantra’s menu was so exquisite, it makes my mouth water just thinking about it again! Yantra marked one of the first moments in our trip where we just knew we had to go to India next. Thanks again, Audran!
Runner-up: Le Vendôme’s superb French comfort food, in Vientiane, Laos
Best Drink: Java Joss, Yogyakarta, Java, Indonesia
What happens when you take a boiling glass of sweet Javanese coffee, then dunk in a piece of glowing coal? Coffee heaven! We had to look hard to find this one, as it’s only available north of the train station after 6 PM, from a line of street stalls along the sidewalk. The caffeine kept me up all night – it was totally worth it.
Runner-up: The incredible avocado shake with chocolate syrup and condensed milk, in a flowery alley of Surabaya, Java, Indonesia
Worst Meal & Drink: Breakfast in Banyuwangyi, Java, Indonesia
After a string of amazing food in Denpasar, Bali, it came as quite a shock when we went out for the free breakfast of our local hotel in Banyuwangyi, on the Javanese side. The soto ayam (chicken soup) was barely recognizable, and filled us with sadness. Worst yet was the coffee – in an island known for its coffee beans, it’s shocking to find a cup of java that tastes like the inside of an intestine – no, really, it did.
Runner-up: Pad thai on the street in the Khaosan Road area of Bangkok, Thailand. I’ve had a better pad thai in a mall in Canada, and that says a lot.
Best Beer: Beerlao, Laos
More than just a beer, Laos’ Beerlao is a matter of national pride. You see its charmingly antiquated logo everywhere in Vientiane, making the beer near-ubiquitous in the Lao capital. It’s best enjoyed with ice, Lao-style, cooling down on a terrace.
Runner-up: Indonesia’s awesome Bintang beer
Best Accommodation: Bladok Losmen, Yogyakarta, Java, Indonesia
An amazing city, super friendly and helpful staff, a pool(!!), a balcony… We could have moved into that room on the third floor of Bladok Losmen. We spent all our evenings sitting on the balcony gazing at the city and listening to the evening call to prayer (and then downing a Bintang or two), and even indulged in the fancy but entirely satisfying restaurant downstairs. At $15 USD a night, this was the absolute best value we found.
Runner-up: Souphaphone’s gorgeous rooms ($25 USD) and friendly staff, Vientiane, Laos
Worst Accommodation: Sama Sama Guesthouse, Melaka, Malaysia
I’ve never run away from a guesthouse after dark – until that night when one of us stepped on a fat cockroach in the dark of our room. Coupled with the crappy shared toilets and the flimsy bed that complained all night at my weight, we just couldn’t face another night there. In Sama Sama’s defense, though, the guy working there was an absolute gentleman about the entire thing.
Runner-up: Orchid Guesthouse and its lethargic staff, located down a burning garbage-ridden road in Surabaya, Java, Indonesia
Most Beautiful Place: Happy Place, Thailand
The sound of the ocean usually woke me up in the morning, and we spent our days strolling along the ocean front. We loved the place so much, as a matter of fact, that when I blogged about it, I didn’t dare reveal the name lest some Lonely Planet writer stumbled upon it and ‘discovered’ it. I’m still gonna keep it to myself, but feel free to ask me by email!
Runner-up: Ubud, Bali, Indonesia – touristy but genuinely gorgeous for its numerous temples, flower offerings and startling rice fields
Scariest Moment: Hit and Run in Bangkok
You get used to the way Bangkok taxi drivers hustle in traffic. Then one day you climb aboard a cab with a driver who appears to be high-strung on amphetamines – allegedly, a common problem with taxis in Bangkok given how many hours they have to work in a day to make ends meet. Our driver proceeded to drive like a madman, and when he bumped a couple riding a motorcycle to the ground, he just sped away as Helene and I yelled our heads off at him. We opened the car doors to threaten damage to his cab if he didn’t stop, but that didn’t seem to scare him as much as the prospect of facing the cops. When the traffic in a side-alley forced him to stop, we took the cue – and jumped out of the cab.
Runner-up: Driving at high speed the curvy, narrow roads of Mount Bromo, Java, Indonesia; good thing we didn’t miss a curve – and plunge to a fiery death hundreds of meters below
Friendliest Place: Probolinggo, Java, Indonesia
“Welcome to Probolinggo!” grinned a young man, shaking my hand. This type of exhuberant display of friendliness was our first real contact with Java – and we fell in love with it. People asked us to pose for pictures with them, and a group of kids yelled at us enthusiastically from the other side of the busy boulevard. Helene ended up spending a long, merry hour talking to the girls, who gave her a rock star ovation when they saw her walk by the next day. We love Probolinggo!
Runner-up: The friendly and upbeat people of Nakhon Ratchasima, Isaan region, Thailand
Coolest Fellow Travelers: Kara and Damien
Kara and Damien, two Americans on a year trip, wrote me one day to discover the secret of our Happy Place. They asked nicely, so I relented. We hooked up for a street-side meal and a few drinks, and became fast friends. We gave them our Rough Guide to Thailand, and we inherited a cozy wool sweater given to them by friends in Jordan, an Indian SIM card, and plenty of advice on India and the Middle-East. Here’s to our next encounter on the road!
Runner-up: Beatrice, a cool German woman traveling independently at 62 for the first time in her life
Worst Fellow Traveler: Papa Bill
We call him “Papa Bill”. He latched unto us in Probolinggo, and just wouldn’t let go. Loud, disrespectful, narcissic and scatterbrained, he walked around with his younger Thai wife in tow, and through sheer inspired negligence ran into trouble faster than I could blink. When we boarded the train in Probolinggo, his presence and his numerous insults to the Indonesian people – spoken at loudspeaker volume – chilled the previously friendly atmosphere in seconds. He then proceeded to take pictures of workers outside the train, yelling “Yes! Yes! Yes!” to quell their protests. When the train came into the station in Surabaya, we didn’t think twice – we ran.
Runner-up: Any of the dozens of inconsiderate and condescending tourists that give us a bad name with the locals, especially around Khaosan Road
What Now?
It’s been in the cards a long time – we’re headed to India! Whether it was the vibrant lights of Deepavali in Singapore, or the street-side delights of a South Indian restaurant in Melaka, we’ve been craving a visit to the Indian subcontinent since the very first days of our trip.
On January 29 2010, we’re boarding a flight to Kolkata, in West Bengal. A new chapter begins for the Backpack Foodie!
Southeast Asia in Blog Posts
Indonesia
Singapore
Malaysia
Thailand – Bangkok and the South
Laos – Vientiane
Thailand – Isaan Region
Bali to Jakarta in Four Meals
October 15, 2009 | Location: Indonesia | Leave a Comment
Babi Guling: Denpasar, Bali
After two weeks in Ubud, Denpasar was a homecoming. The sidewalks, once devastated and dangerous, were now a welcome challenge. Whereas we used to scrutinize the small food stalls, we now embraced the Balinese capital’s food scene with an enthusiasm borne of one too many tourist plates.
You’d think the largest Muslim country in the world would be the last place for decent pork, but on the Hindu island of Bali, they prepare the beast with fine abandon. The pig itself is roasted on a spit for hours, during which the cook rubs the skin with coconut water. This results in a golden-crisp skin that melts in your mouth. This is babi guling, roast suckling pig, and you’ll find plenty of Balinese to call it their favorite dish.
I knew right away that our guesthouse had steered us to the right place. There wouldn’t be any silverware on display here; heck, there weren’t any walls. When it runs out of pig for the day, the restaurant folds up and leaves only an empty sidewalk.
The stall is a museum display of pig anatomy that fell in the hands of a deranged chef: fragrant blood sausage, fried intestines, as well as crispy and curried organs line up from the tail to the golden-roasted head.
Every part is intriguing, surprising and delicious. Listen: bacon has nothing on babi guling.
Soto Ayam: Probolinggo, East Java
We had stepped off the tourist path in Denpasar; now it was time to go get lost in the wilderness outside. Helene and I caught a local bus to Gilimanuk, and during the four hour ride through the hills of West Bali, a poor woman in front of us lost her stomach to the many bumps in the road. Helene gave her some tiger balm to help with nausea, and as rice vomit still sloshed about our feet, we shook her hand as she got off the bus. From Gilimanuk, we took the ferry across the Straight of Bali, then rode a crowded bemo (local minibus) south to Banyuwangi. The next morning, five hours of train took us to the small town of Probolinggo.
Most tourists only see Probolinggo’s train or bus station; but when we explained to a tour operator who tried to corner us into a package deal that we were not particularly interested in the nearby volcanoes, he stared at us as if we had professed a taste for barbecued babies. Yet once we stepped into the city’s traffic-choked streets, we knew we were somewhere special. Smiles and waves soon left us dizzy, as the entire town seemed to cheer our presence. A teenager, his face split in half by a grin, shook my hand, exclaiming, “Welcome to ProboLINGgo!” Everywhere we went, we found simple, wholesome, amazing food, and amazing people cooking it.
We found a small restaurant painted in blue, with an antique vise-like ice shaver in front. It belonged to a pencil-mustached old man, who welcomed us with a gentle smile. Verses of the Qur’an hung on his walls, complementing the man’s quiet, knowing pride. Helene ordered soto ayam: a chicken broth served over rice and bean sprouts, with pieces of chicken and a healthy dose of lime. This was no industrial bird: the flesh was darker from oxygen and exercise. Like the roosters that woke us up in Indonesia, this bird had once serenaded the sunrise.
The next day, we met the man’s three grandchildren, who waved us over from across the street. A small army of excited girls soon crowded Helene, eager to practice their English, and fascinated by the snow on Helene’s postcards of Canada. S-, a neighbor girl, wearing an orange dress and a white hijab, stared at us with wide, piercing eyes. When her face exploded in a smile, she exposed her missing front teeth.
Later, on the way back from an Internet café, the girls waved at Helene across the street. Encouraged by Helene’s response, they were soon cheering at her in riotous enthusiasm. In Probolinggo, I was the partner of a pop star.
On our last morning in town, enjoying the powerful sweetness of kopi (coffee, always served with cane sugar), Helene taught the owner’s two granddaughters and their now hijab-less neighbor how to fold origami frogs. T-, the youngest of the three, showed incredible skill despite her age. S- became braver, and fired off sentences in Indonesian at us, prefaced by the English words ‘My name is’. She figured we would automatically understand anything that came after these three words.
Nasi Goreng: Yogyakarta, Central Java
Two hours to Surabaya, and we crashed for the night. The next morning, we caught an early train to the Central Java city of Yogyakarta, five hours away.
Yogyakarta was everything I expected Ubud to be. Touristy enough to afford us a clean room and a broadband connection, yet far enough away from the tourist circuit that the people we met were gentle, smiling and warm. Here, we slowed down our pace, and decided to wait out the remainder of our stay in Indonesia, sitting on our balcony, watching life go by, only telling the time by the calls to prayer.
At dinner, we followed our nose. One such trail took us down a side street, to the stall of an old woman and her daughter. We stood watching them chop vegetables, then cook them over coals in a thick wok. We sat down and enjoyed an amazing bakmi ayam (noodle soup with chicken). The older woman was so happy to hear me compliment her dish with my rudimentary Indonesian that she soon patted my shoulders every time she came by. She laughed heartily, and I felt I had found an Indonesian aunt I never knew I had.
“Bakmi enak!” she laughed, repeating my words over and over.
The next evening, we came back, but my Indonesian aunt was gone. Instead, her daughter was manning the stall with her twelve year-old girl, who expertly cleaned the wok and tended the coals. Together, they cooked us the best nasi goreng (fried rice) I ever had, and cap cay ayam (sautéed vegetables and chicken) for Helene. We ate slowly, watching the sparks fly from the coals, my adopted niece standing close, fearless, a fire priestess in training.
Java Joss: Yogyakarta, Central Java
Java had provided me an amazing selection of coffee so far, but there was one more cup of java I had to try.
After the mosques announced nightfall, we made our way north of the train station. We found the street: narrow, with low tables strewn across the broad sidewalk to the right, and mobile stalls on the left. A heady smell of roasted coffee welcomed us: it was time for java joss.
We sat on the wooden bench of the smallest stall we could find. The owner put two scoops of coarse coffee grounds in a glass, added unrefined cane sugar, then topped it off with hot water. When the glass was warm enough, he picked up a piece of glowing coal.
The glowing coal went into the glass. Steam hissed, and the smell of caramelized sugar filled the air. Java joss was born before our eyes.
I didn’t sleep that night from the caffeine rush. It was worth it.
Epilogue: Jakarta, West Java
Eight hours after leaving Yogyakarta, we are sitting in an air-conditioned restaurant in Jakarta, lapping up its meager wifi. We have fled the smog and the noise, and are celebrating the end of our 1,000 km trip.
Urged by Ubud to step off the beaten path, we have traveled Indonesia and met its people and food. I think back on Probolinggo and the man who shook my hand. I think of my aunt in Yogyakarta.
I think of all the other meals, too: the Chinese Indonesian woman in Denpasar, and her sweet and spicy fruit. The Muslim woman who served us rice and vegetables. The rice we bought from a street stall in Ubud, our first glimpse of real Indonesian food. The gado gado on a Probolinggo sidewalk. The girls who cooked an amazing nasi goreng near our Denpasar guesthouse. Professor Ayi’s chicken satay (sate ayam) in Probolinggo. The sweet and spicy sate babi – pork skewers – in a dusty Denpasar stall. A fresh durian juice, with tones of onion and Brie cheese.
This is how I was meant to travel: by slowing down, and enjoying people and culture, one meal at a time.
Where to Go
Denpasar has too many amazing street stalls to single them out – brave the sidewalks, and try one out for yourself! For babi guling, you’ll spot them around lunchtime, and they’re usually gone by dinner; ask your guesthouse or hotel for a street stall nearby.
Probolinggo was an amazing experience, but I wouldn’t describe it as ‘beautiful’ or ‘calming’. Your experience may vary, depending on your resilience to busy Asian cities. I strongly recommend Professor Ayi’s sate ayam; you’ll find him with a street cart marked ‘P. Ali’, across from the clock on Probolinggo’s main street. He’s the cart with the lines waiting for take-out.
Yogyakarta offers an incredible dearth of cheap local grub, including the delicious nasi gudeg (rice with young jackfruit and coconut), which you’ll find east of the kraton (Sultan’s Palace). For java joss, you need to go after dark: follow Jalan Malioboro north past the train tracks, and turn left on the first street past the station.
Wherever you go in Java, take the time to stop in the cities not listed in your Lonely Planet. Smile at people, and sit on a dirty sidewalk filled with manual workers or taxi drivers. You’ll be in for a fantastic experience.
All the Way Over There
October 7, 2009 | Location: Indonesia | 2 Comments
Pain jolts down my back, yet I make it down the next tree root. We passed three groups of tourists so far, and they’ve all turned around. Not us.
A young Australian couple greets us as we near the next bend of the footpath through the jungle.
“Are you coming from Yeh Pulu?” I ask, smiling through my exhaustion.
“Yeah,” says the young guy. “It’s really small, not worth it at all.”
They pass us, and we set about descending a steep path. Helene keeps an eye out for critters and bugs.
A lesser man would have turned around. Me, I’m on a vision quest.
The Vision
It started a long, long time ago, in a country far, far away.
In February 2009, I still had a steady job, an apartment with plenty of stuff in it, and a growing disquiet at the back of my mind. When my good friend John suggested we participate in a Lakota sweat lodge ceremony together, I jumped on the first plane from Edmonton to Vancouver.
I went to the ceremony out of intellectual curiosity, but I got a genuine epiphany out of it. On that day, I admitted to myself that I had already decided to quit my job and travel. In the steam and darkness, I saw spirits dance at the edge of my vision.
I saw something else: a relief carving of the Buddha reclining.
A long, long time ago, in a country far, far away, I set about fulfilling my vision. Eight months, a job, and an apartment full of stuff later, I might just accomplish that task, if I don’t stumble down a cliff to my death.
Ubud Out of the Rain
Ubud has grown on Helene and I. It came at us with nonstop rain and an earthquake, so left us no choice but to relax a little. We still resent the yoga crowd and the uninterrupted flow of pariwisata (Indonesian for tourists.) But we’re learning to relax, and sure enough, days turn into two weeks. We watch the rain fall, and wonder if the sun will ever return. Explained a tour operator, “In the rainy season, not even the holy men of Bali can keep the rain away.”
Yet one of the holy men must have worked overtime. One morning, the sun comes back, and we’re stunned with the possibility of actually doing stuff. Helene mentions Goa Gajah and nearby Yeh Pulu, and says the words ‘buddhist relief carvings’. The quest is on.
Getting to Goa Gajah is a matter of chartering one of the many drivers looking for work along any major street in Ubud. We recruit a guy with a pleasant smile and ear piercings the size of espresso cup saucers. When Helene walked past him the first time, he asked her the usual “Transport?” Then he added, with a touch of desperation, “Please?!” Helene was charmed.
Elephant Cave
Without an expensive guide to make it worth our while, Goa Gajah, the Elephant Cave, is over in a few minutes. We see the cave, take a few pictures, and linger around the stall of a middle-aged woman selling fresh coconuts. When we finish ours she opens it in half, then chops a piece of the shell to scoop the flesh. We exchange a few words, then set about finding Yeh Pulu. Helene read it can be reached from Goa Gajah, so we circumvent the place searching for a footpath.
We find the path lingering along a rice field. We ask a few souvenir merchants: “Yeh Pulu?” They point onward.
When we come across a young French couple and their Balinese guide, we ask again. The guide has a different answer for us.
“You want to go to Yeh Pulu?” he answers in flawless French. “You should go back up to the main road. You can reach Yeh Pulu this way, but it’s two kilometers through the jungle.”
I don’t know why we didn’t turn around right then.
The Path
Our first encounter along the path is with an old man wearing Bali religious garb. We ask him about Yeh Pulu, but he insists that we approach a small altar.
“Bali gods, elsewhere, all the same,” he tells us, his hands joined in prayer above his head. He burns a little incense, then splashes our faces with holy water. I can barely see through my glasses now. Then he points to a 20,000 Rupiahs note ($2 USD) on the altar, and his intent becomes clear. Yet his act is so simple and fresh, we don’t have the heart to shoot down his scam. Helene puts 5,000 Rupiahs on the altar. The old man hides his disappointment. He pockets the note hastily, lest the next group gets the same idea to leave the equivalent of fifty cents. He motions vaguely. “Yeh Pulu.” He readjusts his smile, and turns to the next tourists.
We have passed the guardian of the treshold; Joseph Campbell would be proud.
The path cuts through a beautiful landscape of lush jungle, filled with giant bamboo, coconut trees, and species of fruits we can barely recognize. We even spot a pineapple growing in the wild. The flora comes with a hearty side of fauna, and Helene soon becomes suspicious of omnipresent giant red spiders.
As I put down my hand on a tree trunk for support, it occurs to me I should check where I lay my fingers first. Sure enough, when I finally look, there’s a giant red scarab lying dead next to my fingertips, and he’s being torn to shreds by an army of ants. Lesson learned.
The further we go, the more perilous the path becomes, and the more determined we are not to turn around and face again all that we’ve already overcome. Soon, I’m sweating and aching, and wondering if my next step will take me down the cliff to the dirty water below.
Three groups of tourists have turned around, and warned us against going further. But we press on. I feel like a wushu student being turned away at the monastery to test my resolve. The sun is setting over the jungle. I try not to imagine myself tumbling down in the darkness, rolling over all those red spiders.
Over There
Yet somehow we make it.
We soon come upon a small Hindu temple rising from the jungle. A dark man as thin as his bones, is collecting bamboo rods. He smiles at us broadly.
“Yeh Pulu?” I ask, hopeful.
“Five minutes this way,” he answers in English. He waves at us and shoulders his burden.
As we climb the final steps out of the jungle, we feel we’ve just surfaced in another world. Gone are the tourists, the touts and the organic cafés of Ubud; the tourist buses only make it here by getting hopelessly lost. An old man, watching time crawl by, kindly chases away two growling dogs, then smiles at us. In the distance, we hear the loudspeaker chants of a local temple, accompanied by a clucking choir of chicken. Children beam at us on the streets, proud to practice their English with us. Each time, it goes something like this:
“Where are you going?” they ask with a smile.
“Yeh Pulu?”
“Over there.”
Yet Yeh Pulu still eludes us, and we walk another fifteen minutes. I’m starting to ponder whether “Yeh Pulu” means ‘Over there’ in Balinese.
“Where’s over there?”
“Over there!”
Revelation
My sciatica is throbbing. I’m getting dizzy from dehydration. Yet somehow, ‘over there’ becomes ‘right here’. We enter the path that leads to Yeh Pulu at last.
I start to wonder how I’ll react when I see the relief carving from my vision.
We walk down further steps as the sun sets over rice fields. Men and boys stare at us as we pass a communal mandi (water basin used for washing).
And then here we are. All the way over there.
And the rock carvings look absolutely nothing like my vision.
The Elixir
We retreat from the path’s end, Helene already laughing at me. We stop for refreshments at Café Yeh Pulu, further up the path. I swallow a bottle of water whole. Then I set about drinking a fresh tangerine juice from the nearby orchard.
The juice tastes like summer in the shade. I feel better just by staring at it.
After we’re done, we chat with the owner, a smiling young woman whose husband owns a wood carving shop next door. She shows us the passion fruits growing in her backyard. She asks us where we’re from.
“Do you know how to catch the bemo (shared minibus) back to Ubud?” asks Helene.
“Oooh…” she shakes her head. “There are no bemo at this time. It’s too late.”
Fortunately for us, her husband drives tourists around from time to time, and he agrees to drive us back to our homestay in Ubud for his usual fee, despite having to put down his carving and put a shirt on. The alternative for us was a seven kilometer walk along a ravaged sidewalk, dodging motorcycles who can barely see us in the dark. I make sure to shake his hand when he drops us off back in familiar territory; it’s the least I can do to the man who saved my ass.
Of Visions and Journeys
Now, about that vision quest.
It’s possible my quest is much larger, and the reclining Buddha relief awaits me somewhere else, far from here. Or it’s possible my mind made it all up, and sent me on a meaningless chase without a goal.
But I think there’s another explanation.
Once I stepped out of the comfort of my life in Canada, and set out on this path through the jungle chasing an illusion, I had already fulfilled my quest. The journey is the destination.
What matters is that I got from Edmonton to Yeh Pulu following that dream, so I could sit down in a café and enjoy the taste of fresh tangerines.
All the way over there.
Where to Go
If you’re in central Bali and are curious to see either Goa Gajah or Yeh Pulu, they can be reached easily from Ubud.
The easiest way to reach them is by chartering a driver, which should cost you approximately 150,000 Rp ($15 USD) for the ride over, and the return. You can also get there by bemo, but as my tale illustrates, try and make it back before sundown.
The jungle footpath isn’t such a hard trek if you’re prepared for it. Make sure you have good shoes. If you want to just go to Yeh Pulu from Goa Gajah, you should make it back to the entrance; you will be able to access Yeh Pulu from the main road.
Entrance to Goa Gajah and Yeh Pulu each cost 600 Rp ($0.06 USD) per person.
GeckoTV Episode Guide
September 28, 2009 | Location: Indonesia | 5 Comments
GeckoTV is an exciting reality TV-less show on display at most homestays in Ubud, Bali, Indonesia. This season chronicles the tragic story of “Gecko Zero”, a gecko outcast trying to find meaning in a harsh world – but mostly looking for a bit of light in which to eat bugs. In the grand tradition of shows such as 24, all action happens in real time, to the beat of one episode per night.
Season 1, Episode 1: “Geckos in Position”
The episode introduces Gecko One, Gecko Two and Gecko Three, the three lizards on watch outside the Backpack Foodie’s homestay. Each is assigned one lamp, and spends evenings chasing bugs. The episode, albeit slow, introduces familiar concepts of future GeckoTV episodes: most importantly, the strategic importance of standing near lights is explained. The show’s catchphrase is established: “Gecko One in position! Gecko Two in position! Gecko Three in position!”
Season 1, Episode 2: “Enter Zero”
The drama ratchets up in episode 2, as Gecko Zero enters the scene. He has a crooked tail, and so although his history of territorial fighting is not explained, it is nonetheless obvious. Gecko Zero is immediately recognized as a sympathetic figure in the way he refuses to fight Gecko One despite being larger.
Season 1, Episode 3: “Exile in Light”
Episode 3 furthers the plight of Gecko Zero, as he continues to get chased by Gecko One out of the right corner of the patio roof. In a dramatic turn of events, Gecko Zero is chased all the way to the center, where he descends along the central chandelier. Things look up for Gecko Zero… Until he meets the mysterious Gecko Lamp, who previously appeared invisible in the flourish of the chandelier. Is there no place for Gecko Zero in this world?
Season 1, Episode 4: “Bug Wars”
Gecko Zero returns to the right side of the roof, yearning for peace with Gecko One. Things degenerate as Gecko One gets fed up with Gecko Zero snatching up bugs. The conflict is intense, and Gecko Zero’s tail is further twisted and maimed by One’s attacks. Will Gecko Zero find peace?
Season 1, Episode 5: “Gecko Infinity”
This episode is infamous for “jumping the shark”, as numerous new geckos are introduced, including Gecko One-Point-One, Gecko Two-Point-One, and Interior Gecko. Although many more conflicts are portrayed, they soon overwhelm the viewers, who prefered Gecko Zero’s simple plight.
What I learned by watching GeckoTV:
- Real life is a lot more interesting than TV.
- There isn’t much to do at night in Ubud, besides sitting on the porch drinking Bintang beer. Good thing there’s geckos!
Lost for Authenticity
September 19, 2009 | Location: Indonesia | 1 Comment
I disliked Ubud the second I stepped out of the taxi into the pouring rain. But three nights, one cockroach, one earthquake and an unspecified number of roof rodents later, the Balinese resort town is starting to grow on me.
Today, I decided to give the place a second chance. I’m going native. I sit in local restaurants, drink as the locals do, and eat typical Ubud food.
Surrounded by Australians and Japanese in vaguely Southeast Asian clothes, I take another sip of my iced café latté, whose ice, the menu informs me, is made from “reverse osmosis H20″. I ponder the relative merits of yoga and Balinese massotherapy as relaxation methods.
Yep, I’m turning into an Ubud local already.
Denpasar to Ubud
Our stay in the region started well enough.
We arrived four hours late in the provincial capital of Denpasar: due to a power outage in the Manila air traffic control center, our Japan Airlines captain initially turned around for Tokyo, but decided to land in Okinawa instead before circling the Philippines airspace. Once we checked into our guesthouse, we passed out from exhaustion, and only hours of relentless jackhammers next door woke us up.
Helene and I found a lot to like in Denpasar, despite the unending thunder of construction and motorcycle engines. Sure, the sidewalks of Denpasar were shoddy at best, their tiles often broken or missing, revealing deep storm drains underneath. Yet as we walked the streets of the city, we were charmed by the smiles of children, the numerous offerings to Hindu gods, and the smell of flowers. In Bali, even the cigarettes smell nice: the men all seem to smoke a brand of clove you could mistake for incense.
Denpasar is not picturesque, but in retrospect it offers what I look for in my travels: a glimpse into normalcy, and the chance to interact with residents as equals, outside the trappings of tourism. The local expatriates we met all seemed mellowed by their time in Bali. On our last morning, grabbing a bowl of rice and vegetables from a hijab-clad lady running a street stall, we were greeted by a German man wearing Hindu religious attire. “I eat here every morning; it’s great,” he told us, before joking in Indonesian with the shop owner.
It seemed our stay in Indonesia could only get better. We commandeered a taxi and headed north to the mountains and to Ubud.
The Tourist Hordes
Touted as the cultural alternative to the party-soaked, overdevelopped beaches of Kuta, Ubud is used as an example of a local culture thriving under the influence of tourism. Away from the multinational resorts that blight many countries of the Majority World, Ubud encourages its visitors to embrace local culture and appreciate the numerous rituals of Balinese daily life.
Sadly, however, the Ubud residents embraced tourism not willingly, but as a survival mechanism.
Travelers have been lured to Ubud as early as the 1980s, and initially showed little respect for the daily lives of residents. Tourists would enter the homes of locals during religious ceremonies, thinking they were witnessing a staged attraction. They were ejected from temples as they disrupted important rituals, and “No Tourists Allowed” signs soon marred the intricate house facades and temples.
Showing remarkable lucidity, or perhaps fatalism, Ubud decided to embrace the inevitable: residents founded their own tourism office, with the intent of educating visitors about their way of life, and inspiring their respect. This survival technique proved admirable, and perhaps saved Ubud from being completely ravaged by the tourist hordes.
Today’s visitors to Ubud are drawn by the promise of spirituality and artistic inspiration. It’s easy to imagine author Elizabeth Gilbert, walking down Monkey Forest Road, politely turning down touts and shopkeepers, on her own road to spiritual enlightenment and recovery from divorce. Long before Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love became a bestseller, Ubud had already established itself as a prime New Age vacation resort.
Inspired by the Balinese displays of spirituality, people of all ages brought external concepts such as yoga and organic-certified farming to the town. Whatever the Balinese think of seeing these concepts blended with their own religious customs, they’re not saying.
The Curse of Authenticity
Sitting on the terrace of the fancy Kafe on Hanoman street, I have come to accept my status as one of the tourist swarm. I try to avoid eye contact with a newspaper vendor on the sidewalk, and ignore the taxi drivers vying for my custom on a slow Saturday afternoon. As a tourist walking down the streets, you face a barrage of “hellos”, as shopkeepers try to entice your patronage every ten meters. Gone are the shy smiles: here children ignore foreigners, jaded by their presence.
I may sound like I’m condemning the tourists who came here before me; but the truth is, I am as guilty as they are. As a world traveler, my drug is authenticity; yet every time I visit a place deemed ‘authentic’, I put demands on it. I will eat in a local restaurant but raise my nose at the KFC stand, even though students probably eat a lot more of the latter than the former. My choice is based on Western values, and on a mental construct of local life.
When we describe a culture as authentic, we are ensnaring it under a glass dome. We demand of other cultures that they present a quaintness unchanged by the passage of time and the lure of modernity. When we eat in a Japanese restaurant, we are worldly; when the Chinese eat Italian pasta, they are being ‘corrupted’ by Western influences.
And in the event that I find a secret jewel, untouched by my own culture, where the children gape at the color of my skin, and I feel transported back to the Middle Ages, what then? If I write about it, am I not acting as a scout for the tourist hordes, opening a trail that will soon turn into the highway for a tourist bus?
Am I doomed to corrupt that which I love the most?
From Authenticity to Truth
I was chased out of my room this morning by an earthquake originating off the coast of Bali. Helene and I took refuge on Kafe’s terrace, looking for a wifi connection that we might use to reassure family back home, as well as check on the news. In retrospect, the disquieting rumble of the earthquake shook a worry loose in my mind. I chuckle, thinking it might well be my most authentic Indonesian experience to date.
That Ubud managed to become a tourist resort without Marriotts and Hiltons locking up its vistas into compounds might very well be reason for hope. As for myself, I hope that my desire to treat as equals the people I meet in my travels will suffice to prevent me from enshrining them in the mothballs called authenticity and tradition.
Ubud is teaching me to seek truth above authenticity. Whatever Ubud used to be, it is what it is now, and it’s not my place to judge it, only to experience it in a spirit of mutual respect.
I chase away my worries; it’s time for an organic salad.
