Travel Journal

On Sumatra, the small town of Padang and its surrounding region is home of the Minangkabau people, an ethnic group of muslims in which the mother is head of the family. Their culture is easily recognisable, not just by their brightly coloured traditional clothing, but by the pointed roofs of many houses, resembling the horns of a buffalo.

After arriving, I headed up to the nice little town of Bukittinggi, two hours north-east of Padang, up in the hills and therefor pleasantly cool. Traffic is slow-paced, many houses have the huge peaked Minangkabau roofs, and just about everything is within walking distance. It features a traditional Dutch bell tower, completely intact except for the peaked roof that was installed a couple of decades ago. To the southwest, the town is flanked by a deep canyon, providing a gorgeous view of green hills and ricefields next to small farms, deep down.

As my remaining time in Indonesia was short, I decided to stay the days I had left in Bukittinggi, to explore the town and its surroundings, and then head back to Padang, where I would take a flight to Singapore. Visiting other parts of Sumatra would involve very long bus rides, as this is a huge island, and most parts are only accessible by bus (there is no rail network to speak of).

The Merdeka guesthouse I stayed at was housed in a traditional Dutch villa, with high ceilings and long corridors, and it was with the friendly staff that I arranged a rental motorbike. I drove on winding roads with 180 degree turns, towards the enormous Maninjau crater lake, underway stopping frequently to look at the beautiful scenery. Small villages in lush valleys usually had one or more mosques, with brightly coloured roofs, adjacent to green patches of ricefields lined by palm trees. Thick forests would surround the villages, the typical leaves of banana trees were the most visible from the distance.

I went over several peaks of hills before I got to the highest one, enclosing Lake Maninjau, and I gazed in awe at the gorgeous view of the deep blue lake, in stark contrast with the green hills and mountains surrounding it. The road that led down to the lake provided even more stunning views, and in the unlikely case I got tired of looking at this beautiful display, there were the monkeys again, dozens by the side of the road. I spent some time driving around the lake, taking in the scenery, having lunch at a waterside restaurant, before I headed back.

Back in Bukittinggi, more news reached me of the devastating floods in the Philippines, which worried me as this would be my next destination. On my last evening in this lovely town, I spent quite some time in an Internet cafe with the slowest connection imaginable, to check for travel advisory and weather forecasts for the Philippines.

Sumatra was a fitting end for my travels through Indonesia, and although I didn’t get to spend a lot of time in this beautiful province, I thoroughly enjoyed its natural beauty and the very friendly people. But after nearly two months in Indonesia, it was time to move on. This nation is still struggling with its relatively new democracy, violent uprisings and their ruthless supression in parts of its vast territory, enormous corruption that is crippling the already sour economy, and the influence of the military in politics. Only a couple of months ago, Munir, one of Indonesia’s most prominent human rights activists, died of arsenic poisoning on board a flight to The Netherlands, with many suspecting the Indonesian military’s hand in his death. Fortunately, there are many Indonesians who try to turn this country around.

Despite all the negative issues, it is quite easy to fall in love with this beautiful country, its intruiging culture and its very friendly and charming people, not to mention the food which makes your mouth water just thinking about it (except curried cow brains or satay of cow’s tongue - no, I will not get used to that).

I was quite sad to leave Indonesia, and I quietly said goodbye as I boarded my Garuda Indonesia flight to Singapore, where I would, after a bit of trouble, continue my journey to the Philippines.

Jakarta is indeed an enormous capital, population now over 20 million, with a constant layer of brown smog hovering over the city. Like Surabaya, it is clearly not designed for walking (Yogyakarta being a wonderful exception to this rule), so I took many buses and angkots, and used the efficient Transjakarta express bus system, to get around town.

I explored the Pelebuhan Sunda Kelapa, the old port to the north, and went for a walk through the tiny alleys in a small village of houses built on stilts, some no more than pieces of cartboard put together. Just about everyone greeted me and wanted to know where I was from. Small wooden bridges led me over the heavily polluted, oily water, kids swimming in between the floating rubbish, small boats bringing people to other parts of the harbour. Dark clouds were already releasing rain in the distance, a far away rumble of thunder sounded, and winds were picking up force as I talked to some kids, looking out over a polluted harbour with many enormous Macassar schooners and small boats navigating in between. On my way back into town, I stopped for shelter and a hot cup of coffee at a small warung, and watched the rains wash the dust off the streets. After the downpour had ended, I went for a walk again, admiring the many old Dutch warehouses, some with the logo of the Vereenigde Oostindische Compagnie on it, the old Dutch trading company that flourished during Dutch rule of the former East Indies. I walked past a typical Dutch hanging bridge, such an unusual sight in this Asian capital. Some of the older people I talked to spoke a lot of Dutch, some had family living in towns or villages in Holland, and many reminded me of the Dutch occupation of Indonesia, always with a smile or a laugh. In retrospect, I am amazed and quite ashamed that I have never received any education at school about this dark period in Holland’s history, which went on until the late fourties of the previous century, almost as if this taboo subject is to be forgotten as soon as possible. Only now, here in Indonesia, I’m learning about our influence and our unfathomable naivety, once claiming this land as our own, partly out of commercial gain, partly out of the wish to ‘help’ and ‘educate’ the Indonesian people, no matter how honest those intentions may have been. However, a lot of Indonesians have told me that they believe that their country wouldn’t be nearly as developed as it is now, without the Dutch influence.

They love abbreviating words here. The everpresent Wartel stands for Warung Telekom, or Telecom Shop. A Warung Internet has the more ominous sounding name of Warnet. And one day, I went to the Monas, or Monumen Nasional, the enormous, socialist-style tower in the middle of Jakarta, with a big bronze flame on top. Locals with a sense of humour refer to it as “Sukarno’s Last Erection", and the top deck provides a grand yet very smoggy view of the city. In the big, dark, airconditioned room at the base of the tower, there was a relief map of Indonesia, in its original state, before the separation of some of its territory.

I explored some of Jakarta’s enormous shopping malls, walked on the huge boulevards with 6 lanes of traffic, gazed at the many skyscrapers in the central business district, and explored some of the nicer, greener areas with old Dutch mansions, where the constant noise of traffic would die down to a distant hum, and people ate at little foodstalls. When it was raining, and this was actually quite often, sometimes for only one hour, sometimes the entire evening, I would sip coffee at a small warung or cafe, or retreat to my air-conditioned hotelroom to watch some television.

The humidity, heat and pollution of the city is quite exhausting, so I was eager to leave Jakarta, which I did on the first day of December, by flying to Padang on the enormous island of Sumatra.

The busride on the public, non-airconditioned bus to Bandung, Indonesia’s third city in the west of Java, didn’t go very smoothly. We left Yogya around 9 am, and during midday, we passed a small village with signs for Benteng (fort) Van Der Wijck, one of the Dutch legacies in the area. One of my fellow passengers told me that the road we were now traveling on had been built by the Dutch, including the nearby railway lines and the many bridges we drove over.

Then, during the hottest moment of the day, we got stuck in an enormous traffic jam, on a tiny road in the middle of nowhere. Some vendors, from the sparse houses we passed, were running outside, selling water, food, or coconut milk. People in groups stood watching this busy traffic that was whizzing past at 1 km/hr, while it was getting hotter and hotter inside the bus. As my clothes were now drenched in sweat, I was a tiny bit relieved to see that my fellow Indonesian passengers were also having lots of trouble staying cool. After almost two hours, we finally cleared the traffic jam, but not before I had witnessed (and smelled) the beginning signs of a burned-out clutch, and I said to myself that I wouldn’t be putting any money on this bus reaching its destination. I didn’t realise how foreseeing this thought was, as after about fifteen minutes, the bus actually broke down, and the driver parked it in front of a house in the middle of nowhere, letting all the 50 passengers off. There was nothing we could do but wait, while some passengers were arguing with the driver, and the person selling the tickets was trying to halt other buses, to no avail.

After five hours, during which some passengers had been able to get onto other (already full) buses, I got on a mini-van that had been called in from a nearby town, together with 16 other passengers and luggage seemingly for 100 people. We left the rest of the passengers behind, as the chauffeur quickly drove off into the dark night, heading for the town of Tasik, where I would need to change onto a night bus to Bandung. As we went over winding mountain roads, people around me started throwing up, but I was too tired to care much about that, and we reached Tasik by midnight. I had a very late dinner, before continuing my journey to Bandung, during which I fell asleep.

It was around 2:30 am when the bus conductor woke me up, and I got out into the cool night, onto the deserted ring road around Bandung. I boarded an angkot, or kind of fixed-route taxi, which took me on a one hour ride into the city center, during which we passed many busy markets, where lots of people were selling and buying fruit, vegetables, meat and fish. Feeling dirty, exhausted, and a little ill because of a cold that I had caught underway, I got off in the city center and started to look for a hotel. That proved to be difficult, as most were booked solid because of the Idul Fitri holiday. It was light by the time I had found one, in that dreamy, half-awake state that, in retrospection, makes you wonder if it all really happened.

From what I heard, Bandung is a pleasant and relaxed university-city, quite cool as it is higher up than most other big cities. Unfortunately, the rain season had announced itself with unprecedented strength, flooding parts of Bandung. Combined with feeling ill from my cold, I decided to take it easy, and therefor didn’t get to see a lot of the city. One day, there was an uncharachteristically strong police presence in the city, but dressed in the unusual green, old army fatigues. I went up to some officers, who explained to me that they were “cleaning up” the city. Naturally, I asked if that involved some large action to apprehend lots of, say, pickpockets, but instead the officers made a gesture as if sweeping with a broom. They meant literally cleaning up the city and removing the rubbish (and good luck at that, boys).

At one of Bandung’s train stations, I bought a train ticket for Jakarta. They have three different classes of train travel here: the ekonomi class, which usually departs from different stations on seperate, slower trains, and then bisnis and the more luxurious eksekutif classes. A relaxed, three hour ride in the bisnis class of the Parahyangan train brought me from Bandung to Jakarta. More gorgeous landscapes underway, Java has some beautiful scenery with its green hills and valleys.

Jakarta, once named Batavia by the Dutch, is Indonesia’s capital, a huge, busy, polluted city that never sleeps, hated by most and loved by some. I’ve spent some time walking huge distances in a tiny part of the city center, gazing at the almost socialist-style (and mostly tasteless) monuments and buildings. As I was walking one evening, a slight drizzle started, which soon changed into heavy rain, and then into a tropical rainstorm, lightning illuminating everyone and everything in a fraction of a second. It was almost immediately followed by the sound of thunder, resonating off the adjacent buildings, a little like the crashing of waves but then amplified a thousand times. The bolts of lightning would follow eachother every five seconds or so, sometimes succeeding the previous one so quickly, that the roaring sounds of thunder would merge into one, big thunderous explosion. The glass in the windows would shake, car alarms went off, while the enormous downpour of rain continued. People huddled together to find shelter at bus stops or under extended roofs of buildings, while the streets were being turned into rivers. This violent display lasted for about one hour, after which the lightning and thunder stopped as suddenly as they had started, and the rains changed back into a drizzle, then to stop completely, an hour or two after they had started.

Born on the countryside, I have always been fascinated by big cities, and more about my explorations of Jakarta will follow.

During the Idul Fitri holiday, when almost everybody in Indonesia has the week off and uses it to visit family and friends, or just go on a holiday, prices for transportation and accommodation skyrocketed (tip: not a good time to visit a country with an Islamic majority). It is a little weird when everyone says to friends, and companies use the sentence as a slogan on banners in front of their office: “Mohon Maaf Lahir Dan Batin", which means so much as “Please forgive me for all my mistakes", but then the prices are still raised.

For tourists, of course, the prices can be even higher. A ‘helpful’ tourist office wanted to sell me a bus ticket to Yogyakarta, my next destination after visiting the Bromo-Tengger-Semeru National Park, for around 20 Euros, but instead I got on a public bus, exhausted and in dire need of a good sleep, and paid as little as 3 Euros for the 8-hour journey, or the equivalent of a 30-minute busride in Holland. Unfortunately, I didn’t take my un-Indonesian long legs into account. There was so little space between my chair and the one in front of me, that despite my attempts to find a suitable position, sleeping was just impossible. The express bus stopped a couple of times to let more passengers on until it was full, and then went with reckless speed towards Yogyakarta, overtaking traffic left and right. There were several near-accidents, as the cost of a human life seemed to go down the further the bus was behind schedule. But we eventually arrived at Yogyakarta’s brand new bus terminal in the middle of the night, and I waited until early morning so I could take a bus into the center of the city, to find accommodation. Awake for 27 hours, exhausted beyond belief, sweaty and smelly, I checked into a fine wisma (guesthouse), had a shower, and the moment my head hit the pillow, I was asleep.

Yogyakarta is a nice city, it reminded me of Vietnam’s Hue in the way it has an enclosed imperial palace, called the Kraton, where currently the 10th in a succession of kings (called sultan) is presiding as governor of the greater Yogyakarta area. The sultans, and the city itself with its esteemed education of state leaders (including Soekarno) and other politicians, were instrumental in the support for revolusi, or the overthrow of Dutch rule after the second world war, and reformasi, or the change into a democratic government after Suharto’s dictatorial regime. I toured the Kraton palace area, the renovation of which had been sponsored by Dutch Queen Wilhelmina in the late twenties of the previous century, and went for long walks in the area around it, which seems to be a city within a city. A bird market with thousands of doves, singing birds, chickens and even flying foxes, is adjacent to the Taman Sari, the Water Palace, which the sultans and their families once used as their private swimming pools.

On my second day in Yogyakarta, I visited the famous Borobodur temple, a huge complex 70 kilometers northwest from the city, built in the 9th century AD. It consists of six square levels, with three circular ones on top, reached by stairs on each of the four sides. On every level, many Buddha statues in little chambers, elaborate murals and small chedis. The circular levels have the famous latticed stupas with Buddha statues in them, some incomplete, missing heads or hands, some complete, in a peaceful pose as if in deep meditation. I sat down to gaze at the stunning site and its surroundings of rugged green mountain ridges with so many palm trees. One Indonesian man came up to me, asking if he could take my picture. I thought I didn’t understand him quite well (you want to take a picture of me?), but then his friend sat down next to me, and he took a picture of his friend and me, and then the friend took another picture. Apparently emboldened by the first man, many, many others followed, including whole families with wife and daughters all wearing the muslim headscarf, sitting around me, to be on the photo with this white man. After about fifteen photos, I cracked a joke to the crowd that was now gathered around me, about photos costing lima puluh ribu rupiah, or 50,000 rupiah, and they all had a good laugh, before continuing to ask for more pictures. When I got tired of it, after about 25 photos, feeling a little too much like Tom Cruise, I got up and walked around again.

In the late afternoon on the following day, I visited the Prambanan temple complex, 50 kilometers east of Yogyakarta, the biggest Hindu temple complex on Java, also built in the 9th century AD. Instead of one big temple like Borobodur, this complex consists of several seperate ones, the largest of which stands 47 meters tall. All are elaborately decorated with murals displaying the Ramayana, stories from the Hindu religion. The temples had dark rooms, with statues of Shiva, Durga, Ganesh and Agastya, and one had a statue of the bull Nandi, affectionately touched by many Indonesians. Around the temples, the whole area is littered with thousands of fragments of other temples, now overgrown with grass. I sat down on one of the blocks of stone, and watched the sunset bathe the temples in a dark red colour.

The next day would see me driving around on a rented motorbike, feeling wonderful again to be so free, going through the beautiful countryside, stopping at little villages for food and drinks, talking to the locals (the usual topics being languages, countries, cultures and the prices of common goods). I went on a shopping spree in Kota Gede, famous for its many silver shops, and selfishly bought two presents for myself (two silver hangers with necklaces). I carefully went through Yogya’s busy traffic, exploring the modern part of the city in the north, before going back to the city center, slowly going through the tiny streets around the Kraton, stopping for some food and a coffee at a warung. It was my last evening in Yogyakarta, and I said goodbye to this nice and friendly city.

On the following day, attempting to travel to Bandung, I would have another not-so-smooth experience with public transportation, but more about that in my next post.

The flight to Surabaya took only 45 minutes, during which I had a look at a novelty for me: an invocation card in the seat pocket in front of me, asking the Gods of 5 religions in 3 languages for a safe journey. Interestingly, the Buddhist one was the shortest, one sentence basically blessing everyone and everything.

Surabaya is a big, hot and humid city, with round the clock traffic jams and its accompanying pollution. It is semi-modern in the way that it has its share of luxurious hotels with tight security and gigantic shopping malls with western prices. In between, little alleys with shabby houses, people washing themselves in the dirty water of the rivers next to heaps of rubbish, lots of homeless people asking for money.

During dinner on my first evening, I met some locals, including charming Wayan, who was born on Bali, but now runs his construction company in Surabaya, his girlfriend Tammy who is studying economics, and his employees Herman and Sugen, all a little younger than me. Their hospitality and friendliness was immense, considering me a guest in their city. They drove me around in the huge city that clearly isn’t designed for walking, and made sure, despite my attempts, that I didn’t pay for any of the drinks or food we enjoyed. Wayan’s command of English was very good, but Sugen and Herman didn’t speak any, so they taught me a little Javanese (Bahasa Jawa, pronounced Bohoso Jowoh), which like Balinese consists of 3 social levels, depending on the person you’re addressing. After several evenings enjoying their hospitality, comparing information on both our countries, playing pool and listening to music, there came the inevitable moment of saying goodbye, always a little difficult.

The following morning, I took a public bus towards Surabaya’s main bus terminal in the south of the city. Heads turning when I got on the bus, people smiling and even offering their seat for this strange white man. Buskers would get on, alone or in pairs, playing their guitars and singing Indonesian songs, and then going round with a small plastic bag, asking for a donation. Usually, when one busker got off, another would immediately get on, so during the hour long busride we were constantly provided with music. At times, a very young boy or girl would get on, singing a song with a beautiful voice, making the beat with a wooden stick with several flattened caps of bottles pinned to it. Many vendors got on, throwing little things in your lap, like pens, bags with safety pins, or even little books with law amendments and photos of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono’s new cabinet members. After a while, they would collect their goods again, or the money from those who had decided to buy it.

I changed buses several times, always the only tourist on board. I stayed the night in the city of Malang, before heading further east towards the tiny village of Cemorolawang, high up in the mountains, at a stone’s throw of the entrance to the Bromo-Tengger-Semeru National Park, the reason why I visited this area. It was quite cool, almost chilly, the locals wearing thick jumpers and blankets wrapped around them, some wearing hoods, only revealing their eyes.

The following morning, it was the first day of Idul Fitri, I got up at the ungodly hour of 3:30 am, after hitting the snooze button several times, to do what I had set out to: climb Mount Bromo. I dressed in the warmest of clothes I had, a daypack with essential items on my back, and I stepped out of my very basic room into a dark night with the brightest of stars and planets above me. At the entrance of the park, a mere 100 meters from my hostel, locals had gathered, offering me rides on their ponies, which I declined by saying “Mlaku mlaku!", which means so much as “Walking!". I went down the steep descending road to the enormous valley of solidified lava and volcanic sand, now nothing more than complete darkness, the surrounding mountains outlined by the stars. Very faintly, I could see the white poles marking the “road", ending abruptly in a dry bed where once pyroclastic flows must have gone through. Closer to Mount Bromo, the terrain ascended and became much more rugged, and I had to pause a couple of times, hearing nothing but the howling of the icy cold wind and my own gasps for breath in the thin mountain air. When I got to the base of Mount Bromo, an active volcano flanked by the now dormant Mount Batok and Mount Kursi, the sky had already turned a vague red, as I walked up the long staircase leading to the top of the volcano. The smell of sulphur was now very strong, and when I reached the top, I could see the sulphurous steam evaporating from the cracks in the dark surface of the crater, some 200 meters down. Standing there, 2400 meters above sea level, shivering in the wind, I watched the sky become bright red, and the surreal landscape all around me slowly changed colour. When the sun finally appeared from behind the mountain range in the distance, it immersed the top of the mountain peaks in a bright yellow light, and I gazed at the enormous valley that resembled a moon landscape. Mount Bromo hissed a little, sometimes releasing more steam, sometimes quieting down.

Back down at the base of the crater, the grey ridges of the volcano were now clearly visible, devoid of all plant life, volcanic rocks scattered everywhere. A husband and wife had set up a table with drinks and food at the beginning of the staircase. They were Hindu, their skin dark and wrinkled, and they spoke Bahasa Tenger, which is very similar to Bahasa Jawa. While I waited for the water to boil, so I could finally warm myself to a hot cup of Javanese coffee, they told me that they had witnessed the last eruption on June 4, 2004, when all the locals had to be evacuated to the city of Malang.

When I had finished my coffee, I walked further down towards the black, desert-like valley, to find a Hindu temple, a serene yet out-of-place structure in such a surreal landscape. Flanked by the green Mount Batok, it has no roof, just consists of a walled compound with statues and gates, looking out over the valley and its surrounding mountains. When I got to the inner square, a Hindu prayer had just commenced with 30 people attending, in front of a pillar with a boma face, in the background the massive Mount Bromo.

I walked up to Cemorolawang again, pausing several times to catch my breath and to look back at the landscape. It was around 7:30 am when I got back to my hostel, and had a well-deserved breakfast. As I had decided to leave for Yogyakarta that evening, there was one more thing I still needed to do: climb Mount Pananjakan, and get to the viewpoint at 2700 meters, to get the best view of the whole area.

After regaining my strength at the hostel for about an hour, I started to walk again, through the village, past people working on the fertile land. Of course no rice fields here, but acres with sweet potatoes, spring onions and even corn. Many locals greeting me with friendly smiles, wrapped up women with wrapped up babies in blankets slung around their shoulders, men on ponies passing me. After half an hour, the asphalt road ended, and a small ascending path continued, providing me with a very arduous climb that took more than two hours and led me through the mist of clouds. The views just kept on getting better and better during my very frequent breaks, and when I finally got to the top of the mountain, the viewpoint offered me an amazing view of this incredible landscape. The small village on my left, with roads where I had walked on two hours ago now being tiny lines intersecting the small patches of farm land, and to the right, deep down, the massive black valley with its three volcanoes and the Hindu temple. Far in the background was Mount Semeru, with 3676 meters the highest volcano of Java, emitting puffs of dark smoke.

Of course, the way back down went much quicker, but I was quite exhausted when I got back to the hostel, and over coffee and lots of water, I pondered on how powerful mother nature can be and how insignificant we humans really are.

I had now been awake for 11 hours, done more than six hours of arduous walks and naturally was quite tired, but little did I realise that I would spend another 16 hours awake. But more about that in my next post.

Upon arrival in Lombok’s Lembar harbour, after five hours on the ferry with mostly Indonesian people, I had seen the coast, beaches lined with palm trees and in the background brown, arid hills, quite a difference from Bali. During the trip by tourist shuttle bus to the small coastal town of Senggigi, the landscape changed the further north we got, becoming more and more green.

On Bali, it had been difficult to penetrate the superficial layer of charming people and beautiful landscape, to understand the hardship these people must endure in their daily lives, but here on Lombok, the poverty was clearly visible. Sheds serving as houses, pony-drawn carriages, kids playing with rudimentary toys. There was rubbish everywhere, carelessly thrown alongside the road, on big landfills, or in or near the already very polluted water of the rivers. Many open sewers with their accompanying stench, and I had forgotten how big rats can become. I suppose the poorer the people, the less they care where their rubbish ends up, something I also noticed when I spent some time on the Navajo Reservation in the US state of Arizona, some seven years ago. But don’t they realise the extend to which they’re polluting their own environment, or is it out of sight, out of mind?

Senggigi is an unremarkable, desolate little town, clearly suffering from the slump in tourism. As it was now the rainy season, usually in the afternoon the heavens would open up for about an hour and streets would instantly be turned into rivers. Again, there were many hawkers in Senggigi, who are quite persistant, and the conversation always goes like this: “Hello mister, how are you? Where are you from?” After I answer, they are usually able to name a dozen Dutch football players, after which they ask me to buy some of their goods (mostly consisting of necklaces, armbraces, rings and decorated lighters), and they’re not taking no for an answer. I’ve seen some tourists get very angry at them for persisting like this, but I’m always trying to be polite and to smile, as I understand they’re very poor and see us tourists as walking dollar bills. Still, it’s quite full-on.

Following the advice of a fellow backpacker from Russia, I decided to visit Gili Meno, the quitest one of three Gili islands, just off Lombok’s coast. The husband and wife who owned the losmen I stayed at in Senggigi drove me to Bangsal, where the boat to Gili Meno would depart from. Deeper into Lombok, I finally saw some of the natural beauty Lombok is known for, wonderful green mountains and deep valleys, covered in thick unspoilt jungle. The winding road led us through Monkey Forest, where hundreds of small monkeys sat together alongside the road, eating, grooming eachother, or lazily watching the passing traffic. Bangsal harbour was merely a beach with some small boats, and after wading through the water, I got on the boat, squeezed in between the provisions, together with a dozen locals. After an hour, we arrived on Gili Meno, which is best described as a tiny tropical paradise, population 300. I checked into a newly built bungalow, less than 30 meters from the beach, and of course I directly went for a swim in the lukewarm, deep blue water. It’s magical to swim with a backdrop of the lush green mountains of Lombok in the distance. Sometimes thick, dark clouds would hover over the mountains, you could hear the thunder and see the rain coming down, but on Gili Meno, it remained dry, almost desert-like.

I rented snorkelling equipment for a day, and entered the sea just in front of my bungalow. Unfortunately, most of the coral has been destroyed by a combination of global warming, El Nino, and dynamite- and dragnet fishing by the locals. The beaches and sea bed are full of dead coral, and with the disappearance of the coral, the habitat of thousands of fish and other creatures has also vanished. Still, there were quite some fish present, like beautifully coloured butterfly fish, rabbit fish, enormous tuna, many large turtles, and flying fish, jumping great distances across the water surface. I was fascinated by a large octopus, who hid and changed colour as I got closer, and when I turned around, imagine my surprise when I saw a one and a half meter long white-tipped reef shark (Triaenodon obesus), holding still in the water, just 4 meters in front of me. It turned, and swam towards me, to reaching distance, as if it wanted to take a look at this strange, masked creature in front of it. Then suddenly, it swam past me with great speed, leaving me once again impressed at the elegance of the shark and the gracefulness with which it moves through the water.

As it is now Ramadan, the muslims are not eating, drinking or smoking from sunrise to sunset, and in this last week they are preparing for Idul Fitri (sugar festival), a two day celebration where they visit friends and families, and give eachother gifts (also consisting of sweets and dried sugared fruits, hence the name). Ramadan is a way for them to clear their mind and body, and to remind themselves that there are people less fortunate, who aren’t able to eat a meal every day. As a lot of muslims are still working, they are concentrating by quietly reciting small mantra-like prayers, of which Allahu al Akhbar (God is great) is the most (in)famous. From learning more about Islam, I can see that it is a very peaceful religion, but unfortunately it is so much abused by the extremists who call themselves muslim. And I am amazed at the polarizing influence of the media, as terrorism which is committed by for instance Christians or Hindus is simply called Terrorism, but when committed by (proclaimed) muslims, it is Islamic Terrorism.

After the sunsets, I frequently ate delicious Indonesian food at a local warung, a lovely experience to sit among the locals, who taught me some of their Sasak language (which differs not only on the three islands, but also on Lombok as well). Densi, a very friendly 38-year old muslim who owns the small warung, and spends his time taking tourists on snorkelling trips, taught me more about Islam, as I ate my nasi campur and as he smoked one cigarette after another (no surprise, after not smoking the whole day). His wife cooks the food, and he has two daughters who go to school on Lombok, and one son, who still lives with his parents.

After staying on the wonderful little island for five days, I went for my last swim around sunset, the dark blue water ending in a sky of red, with a large sun slowly sinking in the sea, seemingly passing through the clouds. On the other side, the green mountains of Lombok, enveloped in dark clouds. When it was dark, I went back to Densi’s warung again, and I said that I wanted to see a little more of Lombok. Although he had never been there, he said that Senaru was a very nice place to visit, and he asked if we perhaps could go together. I thought this was a very good idea, and we would meet up the following morning to go to Lombok together.

That morning, Densi and I took the boat back to Lombok, I stored my backpack at a friend’s of Densi’s, who allowed us to borrow his small Honda motorbike with two helmets. Off we went, I drove through Lombok’s beautiful countryside, Densi sitting on the back. Again, the environment was hot and dry, little vegetation and dry riverbeds. We passed hundreds of school children, dressed in brown-yellow uniforms, some of which said “Bule!” ("White Man!") or hello, while waving. We passed through villages, were people waved at me, said hello or “bule” again, which made Densi laugh a lot. After a while, the road went up and the landscape changed, becoming more green, and cooler, with a beautiful view of green rice fields, palm trees and those lush green mountains in the background. After almost one and a half hours, we came to the village of Senaru, where I parked the bike, and we walked on a path that led us down, to see the large waterfalls, which were amazing. The water seemed to come out of the mountain wall, covered in lush green vegetation, plunging 15 meters down with a loud noise. It was quite cool, the water crystal clear and icy cold. As this was the first visit for the both of us, we were both very impressed. We gazed at the scenery for a while, and then laboured up the path back to our motorbike, allowing for several stops as Densi was still fasting. I had lunch at a restaurant before we went back, and we stopped at a tiny village where his sister lives. I sat on the small straw mat under the thatched roof of the hut where his sister and her husband lives, very basic and poor. They were all fasting, but offered me coffee and two sweet bread rolls, which I tried to eat as quietly as possible while Densi went inside to pray.

When we got back to the place of Densi’s friends, we returned the motorbike, and I collected my bags and said goodbye to Densi. I was then ushered onto a public bus as I wanted to go to Ampenam, part of the Mataram city area, the capital of Lombok. The public bus was a mini van that could seat about 10 people, including the driver, but eventually around 18 of us, me being the only tourist, were cramped in this little bus, listening to the loud Indonesian-Arabic music. Closer to Mataram, I changed into a bemo (a converted pick-up truck serving as taxi), which brought me to Ampenam, where I checked into a hotel, while the loud readings from the Kuran of three different mosks descended on me.

The following morning, I went with a 23-year old Boeing MD-82 from Lion Air to Indonesia’s second largest city of Surabaya, on Java, which will be the starting point for my explorations of Java. But more about that in my next post.

I arrived in Lombok yesterday, taking the slow ferry from Padang Bai to Lembar, and then I travelled up to Senggigi, where I’m trying to finish these two posts on my Travel Journal before heading to one of the Gili Islands, where I suspect Internet access will be much more difficult to obtain.

My last week in Ubud, Bali, was so filled with social activities, I was invited to so many lunches, dinners and ceremonies, that I hardly had the time to write about it in this Travel Journal. So I will now try to tell you a little more, about the inspiring people I have met, on the cremation ceremony I attended, and how I ended up working a little at the ARMA Museum in Ubud.

Zanzan, my friend at the ARMA museum, took me around Ubud in the early morning, and we drove through tiny villages, past rice fields where people were planting or harvesting rice, through forests and landscapes that have inspired so many artists. Children in uniform going to school, whole families on one scooter, villagers working together to prepare for the cremation ceremonies that would be held on the auspicious day of Friday 22 October. Zanzan explained about religion and its influence on agriculture, about the layout of a village or living community, and together we admired the views that were so well captured by various painters, like Walter Spies. When we got back at ARMA, he treated me to an early lunch, and we talked about how Mr. Agung Rai had inspired Zanzan, and how this museum was set up only with the promotion and conservation of the culture of Bali in mind. In exchange for the insight into Bali life and culture that Zanzan had given me, I offered to help him a little with his laptop, and to share my ideas on how the museum could further promote Balinese culture, perhaps by applying for funding or sponsoring, and how to improve visitor attendance. That week, I ended up working quite a bit in the museum, making me realise that this might be something I would like to do when I’m not travelling, as a museum in general, and ARMA in particular, is such an inspiring place. I was invited to dance and music performances at the ARMA Open Stage, which were actually more amazing than the ones I had seen before, and I was intruiged by the jegog music, with elaborately decorated bamboo instruments. The more traditional kecak performance at ARMA’s Open Stage made the one that I had seen before at Padang Tegal, and which I have described in this journal, look tame and without passion in comparison. I had the honour of meeting Mr. Agung Rai, a very charismatic man, and his wife, during many occassions, and was invited to join them for dinner, gorgeous food at the Kafe ARMA, prepared by one of Bali’s greatest chefs, Deddy Kuswara. I was invited to join a Hindu blessing ceremony, where I too received the blessings with rose water, flowers and leaves you put behind your ears and in your head band, and the cermonial rice you place on your forehead.

Zanzan offered to show me one of the most important cremation ceremonies that would take place on Bali, near Ubud. On the morning of that Friday, I met a Mr. Khambata, a very interesting 68-year old man of Parsi-descent, who was born in Bombay and enjoyed the classical British education there, before moving to London to become a surgeon, which he practiced for almost 40 years. Upon retirement, he became a teacher to many visiting opera singers in London, on how to use their voice. He expressed jealousy of the fact that I’m doing what he had wanted to do all his life, visiting all those countries that I still have on my itinerary, which he has only been able to do in the past years or so. This again made me realise how fortunate I am, to be able to experience all this.

Together with two Taiwanese tourists, Mr. Khambata and I went to attend the cremation ceremony, or ngaben, which is central to Balinese Hinduism. It is a way for the children to pay their debt to the parent, who has nurtured and protected them during life. It is also extremely expensive, and a ceremony may be performed many months or years after someone has died. Sometimes, a whole village mounts a joint ngaben ceremony every few years, the preparations taking many months, and the remains of the people who have died in the mean time will be exhumed, cleaned, and then cremated.

To show respect, we were dressed in sarongs, wearing the traditional head band. We joined the procession, following an eight-tiered, approximately 15 meters tall ceremonial tower, or naga banda, constructed on a bamboo-pole platform, extravagantly decorated. The higher the tower, the more important the person for whom this cremation ceremony is mounted. The tower was carried by about 30 people, who were frequently sprayed with water along the way, as it was a very hot day and the tower must have been very heavy. They either moved with great speed, or stopped completely to allow for the raising of telephone cables, so the tower could pass through underneath. This wasn’t always successful, and the tower ripped many wires loose from their fixtures, depriving some homes temporarily of communication. In front of the procession, a large black bull was being carried, constructed of wood and covered with black velvet and gold, which would be used for the cremation itself. Behind us, another bull and a smaller tower followed, for a second ceremony. Everywhere, there was music, people laughed and made jokes, as in their Hindu tradition the passing of a loved one is a thing to celebrate, not to mourn. The procession turned a corner, and the tower was spun around and around several times, to confuse the evil spirits about its direction. Many onlookers including tourists gazed at this amazing display.

After a while we arrived at the temple courtyard where the cremation would take place, and the bull was placed in the center of the square. The hundreds of people installed themselves in the shade of a large community hall without walls, to look at the cremation. Vendors came selling pizza, ice-cream, drinks and other snacks, and people chatted, laughed, and met up with friends. The back of the bull was cut open, revealing the wooden frame. The remains of the deceased, wrapped in blankets, were removed from the tower and given to a family member. The tower was then discarded, and the family and close friends of the deceased formed a line, carrying the remains of the deceased wrapped in blankets, some of her favourite belongings and clothing, and many offerings, consisting of meat, flowers and fruits. They placed all this carefully inside the wooden animal, and the back was once again placed on the wooden frame. Prayers were said, and the bull was set alight. It didn’t take very long for the bull to be completely engulfed in flames, radiating an intense heat. When everything had been consumed by the fire, the ashes were collected and placed in what looked like a small chair, draped in silk, put among many elaborately decorated baskets with offerings. At a later point, the ashes would be scattered in the river, and it would take them to the sea, where the soul would be released. Having shed its body, the soul would proceed to the upper world, to wait for reincarnation, or for those who have attained spiritual purity, to be absorbed into nirvana.

Mr. Khambata had invited me to dinner, and many more would follow in the coming week, and we discussed this intruiging display of a culture and religion that is so unlike my own. Mr. Khambata is best described as a walking library of knowledge, and we discussed many issues including the differences between Balinese and Indian Hinduism, history, politics and literature.

I spent the last two nights in the luxurious ARMA Resort, courtesy of Zanzan, and marveled once again at the beauty of the gardens, the sound of water everywhere, mango and coconut trees, the smiles of the employees who all knew me by name, and in the distance a farmer working in the rice fields, a line of ducks following his every movement. My room was decorated with many hibiscus flowers, and the welcome message “To Mr Frezzo” was hand written on the petals of a white flower, placed on top of a basket with exotic fruit, which I thought was lovely.

I was quite sad to leave Ubud and my friends behind, but such is the nature of traveling. I know I will be back in Bali, who knows when, but my time there was the most inspiring I’ve had for many, many years.

As always when visiting another country, I have been trying to learn the basics of the language a little. Not just to show some common courtesy for the people who live here, but also as I enjoy it so much.

Here on Bali, they have their own language, which is very different from bahasa Indonesia. The Balinese language only exists in spoken form (and is consequently disappearing slowly), and it’s based on a 3-tier caste system. So you use different words depending on the social status of the person you’re speaking to. I thought guessing the age of someone (which you have to in, for instance, the Vietnamese language) was difficult, try to guess someone’s social status (hello, are you a royal person or someone of great nobility?). Although everyone speaks Indonesian, they adore my poor attempts at speaking Balinese, and the reaction usually consists of a deluge of Balinese, which I then cannot understand of course.

The Dutch influence on the Indonesian language is visible everywhere, ranging from dokter, apotek, notaris, bioscoop (cinema) to oom (uncle) and tante (aunt). It also worked the other way round, but usually for food, as Indonesian restaurants in Holland use the Indonesian names for the dishes on the menu. So I order pisang goreng (fried banana) for starters, followed by nasi goreng (fried rice, mixed with veggies and meat), with sambal (ground chillies) and kecap (soy sauce). I could very well have been in an Indonesian restaurant in Holland, except that it tastes so much nicer here and is so very cheap.

The most common names for people here on Bali are the ones that signify the order in which they were born. So if you’re the oldest, your name is Wayan, if you have only one older brother or sister, it’s Made, then Nyoman, and number four is Ketut. So my name would be Friso Ketut, as I was born fourth in line.

They do love their canine friends here, usually for company or protection of property, and at night they roam free on the streets (dozens if not hundreds of them, barking, howling), a lot of them being the kind of dogs you’d like to avoid, nasty, and some quite clearly ridden with wounds and flees. And they do seem to look both left and right before crossing a street, also reacting to the sound of a car horn.

To discover Bali a little more, I rented a scooter from the guy at my local losmen, and ventured out into the busy traffic of Ubud. Compared with (for instance) Thailand or Vietnam, the traffic here goes quite orderly, and it seems that most people on motorbikes or scooters wear helmets (but why do they drive on the left side of the road?).

I love that sense of freedom, when you have your own transportation, so you can decide which places to visit or how long to stay there. I came across beautiful scenery (deciding what not to photograph is usually the case), and visited some stunning places, like Gunung Kawi, a holy site for Hindus, located in a little valley, near the village of Tampaksiring. You walk down about 300 steps, and the landscape just gets more and more beautiful, those bright green rice fields, waving palm trees, flowers in every colour, the sound of waterfalls, and a little brook carrying very clear water down to another village. Gunung Kawi itself consists of 6 ancient chedi’s, carved out of the rock walls, about 20 meter in height, quite a sight. To show respect, you have to take your footwear off, so I continued barefoot on the scorching hot rocks, sweat pouring down my face, trying to find shade so I could gaze at this stunning site.

I then continued on my scooter, after spending some time talking to the villagers who maintained the site (I had my first salak there, or snakeskin fruit (Zalacca Edulis), with a thin crispy skin that looks indeed like the skin of a snake, and it has a soft yellow-white fruit, tasting almost like an apple). I stopped for some wonderful nasi goreng at a local warung (family restaurant) in a tiny village underway. I spent some time at the village of Penelokan in the north, where you have a beautiful view of Mount Batur. Now a dormant volcano, it erupted some 15 years ago. One patch of green had been spared, the trees forming a little oasis in the middle of a dark sea of black, solidified lava. On the right, by contrast the intense light blue of Lake Batur.

Passing through the little villages is so nice, there are so many temples, and community areas where people work together. In a lot of villages, the penjor is displayed, a religious symbol created during the special galunga days, once every six months. This 10-m high pole, made from bamboo, straw and banana leaves, symbolises the defeat of evil and the importance of modesty and humility.

Around dinner time I wasn’t very hungry, so I had some lovely pisang goreng and coffee, at this open-air kind of restaurant market. It was dark when I returned to Ubud, and sat on the porch in front of my room, listening to the sounds of crickets and geckos, marveling about all the beauty I had seen that day.

The day after I had witnessed the Balinese dances, I ventured out into Ubud on a rented bicycle. This eventually proved quite a challenge, as Ubud is situated in a reasonably hilly area, and of course I am a Dutchman with a fascination for hills and mountains but alas no experience with cycling over them (I remember a half day cycling in New Zealand, some six years ago, and I needed four days to recover from that). But this landscape invites you to stop and gaze at it, it is so beautiful with its green ricefields with different levels, the many coconut and banana trees, the beautiful houses with thatched roofs. The cutest little kids that wave and say “hello” about twenty times, with a proud mother smiling behind them.

In the south of Ubud, the famous ARMA is located, or Agung Rai Museum of Art, a must see for anyone visiting Ubud. Founded by Mr. Agung Rai and his wife, with the proceeds of the adjacent cafe, restaurant, and art gallery, ARMA is a complex consisting of several grand Balinese-style villas, enclosed by a stunning garden. A collection of paintings by both Indonesian and foreign painters is displayed in two of the villas. In the other buildings, classes of Balinese dance and music are taught to Ubud’s youth, as ARMA conserves and promotes Balinese culture. It is quite unusual to see an effort like this, as the Indonesian government isn’t known for its cultural stimulation. It is to the credit of Mr. Agung Rai that this gem of a museum exists in Ubud.

After having walked around for a while, I decided it was time for coffee (kopi), and I wrote a little in my analogue or paper version of this travel journal. Sitting at a table next to me, was a woman dressed in a beautiful bright purple sarong, wearing the make-up of a dancer, playing with a lovely baby boy. The woman turned out to be Mrs. Agung Rai, one of the dancers who oversee the teaching of the dances at ARMA. A man introduced himself to me as Zanzan, and he turned out to be the father of the boy, and very proud at it, radiating while he showed his son to me. Zanzan works closely with Mr. Agung Rai as Operations Manager at ARMA, and he will be accompanying the youth gamelan orchestra of ARMA on a tour of Balinese dance and music in Europe this November. We talked about history, culture, Indonesian politics (his uncle was the Minister for Culture in Megawati Sukarnoputri’s cabinet) and of course Balinese dances and music. After a while, he offered to show me the places in Ubud where tourists usually do not come, and where the environment and life more closely resemble the indiginous life of the Balinese. We made an appointment for the following Tuesday for the tour, and after saying goodbye, I continued to walk around the ARMA complex to admire the stunning gardens and guesthouses of the ARMA Resort. Little brooks, ponds with statues of animals made out of stone, waving palm trees, and in the distance those stunning green ricefields.

There are so many art galleries around here in Ubud that you could fill all the museums of the world, easily. There is some unremarkable art, and some stunning, abstract paintings, impressionist and realist. There had also been a Writer’s Festival, which would have been interesting, but it had just finished when I arrived in Ubud.

To my delight, I managed to find out where a kecak dance was going to be held, that evening at the Padang Tegal, a temple in the center of Ubud. I went there early to get a good seat, and by now it had become quite dark. The stage, inside the gated complex of the temple, was lit by a dozen oil lights. Around 50 dancers walked onstage, all men, dressed only in black and white chequered sarongs and wearing a flower behind one ear. They sat down in a large circle, and used only their voices to produce the accompanying music, a rythmic, hypnotic chant, changing rapidly as they performed their trance-like movements. Female dancers dressed in beautiful costumes appeared, and at times a male dancer, wearing the costume of a demon or ferocious animal, as they depicted great stories from their Hindu religion. They moved in between the 50 kecak dancers, they spun around eachother in what seemed to be a chase or a fight, a contest of strenght or the depiction of the sadness.

The large group of dancers alternated their trance-like movements very rapidly (during a real performance, without the tourists, they would indeed be in trance). One or two people would give the voice commands that would change the movements, or change the chants, and the movements and chants would frequently lead to a climax. Hundreds of hands in the air, waving and shaking, the whole group becoming one moving object, standing, sitting, swirling around, moving back and forth, suddenly standing up again and facing eachother, arms raised as in a contest, and suddenly they would cease their movements. The chants then changed, and they would continue along another rythmic path, that would lead to a new series of movements.

Later on in the performance, two small, delicate Balinese girls, elegantly dressed in yellow-white dresses, were literally carried onto the stage by a group of women, who then sat down behind them, singing. These two girls performed another trance-dance. They would increase their rapid movements along with the chants, during which they would exhaust themselves so much that they collapsed, and needed the support of the onlooking women to stand up again. They continued dancing, and collapsed again for several times. Although re-enacted, this was so very moving that the audience fell completely silent, the bright flashes of cameras ceased, and people just looked in awe at yet another immensely powerful display of Balinese culture.

The last performance was done by an old man, performing the fire dance. A couple of men lit a big heap of coconut shells, which radiated so much heat that I was afraid, sitting at about 10 meters from the fire, that the lens of my camera would melt. While carrying an animal on his back, made out of bamboo and straw, this man seemed oblivious to the heat and to the burning, walking in trance through the fire, over the coconut shells, kicking them around as in contempt of this force of nature.

After what had seemed 5 minutes, but was indeed more than an hour, the performance was over, and I left the Padang Tegal that evening feeling very moved, silently going back to my guesthouse.

The last image on my mind, before I finally fell asleep, was of those two delicate Balinese dancers, their movements accentuated by the light of the oil lights, their exhaustion almost too painful to witness.

Selamat malam!

The past few days were so filled with activities that I did not have time to write them down online! And already I received a worried text message from a family member.

After only a short time in Kuta, I decided I needed to leave that place, and quick. True, it’s got a lovely beach, but it is so touristy that it isn’t nice anymore, with too many hawkers and the wrong kind of loud Australians (sorry my Australian friends). So I booked a bus to Ubud, also known as the cultural capital of Bali.

Ubud is indeed a lovely village, and although still touristy, it’s pleasantly slow-paced and quiet. Upon arriving I checked myself into a nice losmen, or family guesthouse, and I have a nice room with fan and shower for around € 3. I immediately set out for a long walk to explore the village. Almost every house, like so many in Bali, seems to be a temple, with ornate walls and beautifully decorated gates. The richer families have large courtyards, with little pagodas with statues in the garden, adjourned with trees that have beautiful flowers in every colour.

In the evening, I attended an hour long performance of Balinese dances, at the courtyard of the Ancak Saji Ubud Palace, right in the center of Ubud. This was a beautiful setting, the dances were performed in front of a 15m tall gate, of course elaborately decorated with ornaments, and lit by a dozen oil lights. The gamelan orchestra was composed of two dozen men. Most of the instruments are Balinese-style xylophones, with carved wooden casings painted red and gold, and these are named according to their size, and therefor pitch. The xylophone with the lowest pitch, or ugal, is mostly used to enhance the rythm, and then going up in pitch, there are the: gangsa, kantilan, penyacah, kalung, and jegog, which produce a wonderfully enchanting melody that I cannot compare with any music I’ve heard before. There are several gongs, also named by size: gong, kempur, klentong, that produce that deep reverberating sound. One man plays a flute (suling), and then there are instruments that I can only describe as a row of bronze pots, kempli, riong. Finally, six drums (kendang) make the beat, and together this sounds amazing. And this was only to accompany the dances, a combination of classical and modern Balinese dances.

Six female dancers appeared, dressed in bright red, purple and yellow sarongs, decorated with gold, wearing golden necklaces and crowns decorated with flowers. They performed the Puspa Wresti, a modern ritual dance, bringing flower offerings to the temple. Their faces transfixed in a frozen smile, their eyes sometimes rolling from left to right, their fingers waving to the rythm of the music, the waving of their arms seemed to symbolise the shape of flowers. Other styles of dance then followed, for instance the barong dance, with a man wearing the boma mask, the face of a good demon. This face, with its bulging eyes and protruded teeth, is seen everywhere in Bali, as decoration on walls, paintings, clothing, as it brings good luck to the owner. One could not help but stare at the mask, while the dancer performed his elaborate movements to the rythm of the music.

Most of the classical dances have their base in Bali’s Hindu religion. I was thoroughly impressed with the amazing display that was put before me that evening, and I could not help but wonder how bland and boring my Dutch culture is, with its silly clog dancing. I wondered, could this be because of religion? Apparently not, as for instance the protestant minorities here in Indonesia have wonderful services with beautiful singing, much more elaborate and seemingly passionate than protestant church services in the western world. Could it be that the more modern a society gets, the more of its culture disappears? But in that case, what about Japan? Are Asians just better at preserving and promoting their culture?

I thought, as I walked back from the dance performance, feeling energised and inspired, that one more thing on my absolutely must-see list of Indonesian culture was the very intruiging kecak dance, so vividly displayed by Ron Fricke in his film Baraka, one of my favourite films ever. Little did I know that I would actually witness it the following evening. But more about that in my next post.

Sampai jumpa!

Friso

Hello everyone,

I have arrived on Bali, Indonesia. Click to view a map of Indonesia (opens in new window). You can locate Bali on this map by finding Denpasar, the capital city.

I spent my last evening in Singapore walking around the city center. It struck me again that Singapore is much more multicultural than (for instance) Holland, and I do hope the people get along as well as they seem to do on the surface. At the Chinatown night market, there were of course a lot of Chinese people and tourists, but also people from India or Bangladesh, their dresses in the most brightest of colours, their skin very dark, having a look at the night market after having said their prayers in a nearby Indian temple.

I am so fascinated by big cities. Walking around in the Central Business District between those incredibly tall skyscrapers, feeling very small, is quite something. I sat down near the water front after almost having strained my neck from looking up. The waterfront was lined with cafes and restaurants, and statues of lions, and I watched the Chinese-style boats with lanterns float by, allowing the tourists on the boat a nice view of the Singapore skyline. As I stared into the distance, I thought about my future travels, and the fact that the real exploring was about to start with my flight to Bali.

Again, that amazing friendliness you are greeted with, that I’ve also experienced in Thailand and Vietnam during previous travels, the huge smiles and people you don’t know saying hello to you. But also so many people trying to sell things to you, who try to drag you to their shop, with such persistance that I have to try hard to remain polite. I am in a hotel in Kuta, a littlebit expensive for my shoestring-style of travelling, so I might check into a cheaper guesthouse at a later point, but the pool and gardens of my hotel are wonderful. I really haven’t decided on how to explore Bali or its surrounding islands, I will have some quality pool- or beach-time and think about a possible itinerary.

On the way to this Internet cafe, I walked past the monument that was erected in honour of those who died during the bombings, two years ago, here in Kuta. Although the Balinese people don’t want to hold remembrance services as it is apparently not their custom, the families of the victims and the embassies of the countries involved clearly have. The enormous sign with the names of too many victims was adjourned with flower wreaths and very moving little notes and letters from the families, with little photos. It was very sad.

On a more brighter note, the tourists seem to have flocked back to Bali. I can’t compare it to pre-2002, as this is my first visit, but it seems very busy here.

Right now I could use a little food, so I will leave it at this and get me some pisang goreng and maybe some spring rolls. Yummm.