Indonesia became my friendliness baseline, my initial reference point for cultural warmth and hospitality. The people are most definitely one of the highlights. It wasn’t all peaches and sunshine. There were, as everywhere, bad apples. I fondly remember the gentleman who knew I was walking in the dark by myself toward Mt. Bromo down the wrong path but refused to help because I had no interest in paying for a horsey ride. A-hole. Such encounters were the exception, not the rule, and in no way tarnished my overall experience. If anything, such experiences were a gift. I can’t help but chortle at the memories.

Disappointments? I had a few. I’ve mentioned the immigration cluster-fuckage many times. Beyond that? Well, the surprising level of development and tourism infrastructure…

Buuuuuuut… it’s far better to regret the things you did do, as opposed to the things you didn’t, eh? When was I ever going to be on the edge of the Sumatran jungle again? It’s unanimous, I was indeed a schmuck for this indiscretion.

I did, however, embark on a quest for the lost Café of Internet. Like my quest to execute a jungle quest, it ended in frustration. For internetting, I had two options—a shop in town or a place on the outskirts past an upscale hotel. Due to the unstable nature of the electrical grid, I was directed toward the latter. Why, exactly, I can’t recall. Perhaps, my informant intuited generator power at the out-of-town establishment.  The “lost” cafe was allegedly a twenty-minute walk from my guesthouse. 

The area’s biggest draw is orangutans, and for good reason. They’re spell-binding little bastards. (Actually, some are quite large.) The term “orangutan” was coined in the seventeenth century and is derived from the Malay and Indo words orang, meaning “person” and hutan, meaning “forest”. And when you meet them you understand the appellation “person of the forest.” All in the eyes, my friend. All in the eyes.

Not far from a cove of guesthouses (including mine) lies a rehabilitation center. The surrounding area contains a mix of wild and semi-wild (rehabilitated) orangutans. Every day at 8 a.m. and 3 p.m. rangers feed “attendees” and offer a public viewing. The most popular activity is a two-day, one-night shallow trek into the park to spot “wild” orangutans.

On my world trip, I took a little “trip”. And it was fucking glorious. Absolutely magnificent, kind sir… or ma’am. Drugs in Indonesia are a big fat no-no. Illegit. Too illegit to quit. Shrooms technically fall into this category, but no one seems to care. They are sold openly in Bali, the Gili Islands, and the Lake Toba region. It’s so blatant, I was sure they were legal, or at least not illegal. Nope. I guess it’s on the books, but the books are out of print. And that was fine with me. 

What does “openly” really mean? More than one Toba restaurant had mushroom omelette on the menu. Ideal, as I love breakfast and tripping my balls off. A winning combo indeed, so gimme a “P” for paradise, eh gov’nah?…

Upon return, she recieved me with a smile and a cup of tea. Soon after, we went for a stroll in the hills behind her village. Ratna was one of twelve children; her father a Batak king whose jurisdiction stretched to adjacent villages and up the mountain. He died when she was four (she was forty at the time) and unfortunately, didn’t pass on a king’s ransom. I guess the crown wasn’t what it used to be by his reign (more of a leadership/advisory role, I deduced). Power without glory. Her father married twice, Ratna’s mother being the second following the death of the first.

Ratna spent most of her adult life away from Toba, living first in Jakarta with her extended family—brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, etc. She worked at a transportation/cargo company based…

So, I sold the fucker. I sold it for less than half of what I paid, but this was better than the alternative. I thought for sure I’d be handing the keys to some lucky bastard in Medan with instructions to “Live long and prosper.” Profits be damned. I was willing to take what I could get. While waiting for a ferry from Parapat to Tuk Tuk (Samosir Island), I struck up a conversation with a local man. I mentioned offhand I’d hoped to sell the Phantom before I left Medan. I quoted a price. He disappeared ninja-style. Much to my astonishment, he returned shortly after with the rough equivalent of a thousand dollars (US). He smelled a deal. He smelled right. I suspect he was as excited as I was when I first bought it. He had that “kid in the candy store…

And yet, I was drawn to his mysterious nature and reciprocal curiosity. Wanna see a tiger, you say? Well, he knew a guy. Of course he did. Not just any guy, but a tiger whisperer, if you will… or would. For the right price and a fair amount of patience, we might succeed in “summoning” a striped crusader. This tiger “shaman” (my word, not his) lived just outside the town’s center. According to Pria, Mr. Whisperer, with the aid of a spirit man, had the power to compel tiger attendance. Difference between his guy and a spirit man? Dunno. Shit got confusing and stayed there well before the actual meeting. If the spirit guide was the one doing the calling, then what was the purpose of the man we were going to meet?

I took my time. I lingered. No rush. No agenda. A photo here. A vacant look across the lake there. Got lost in my head. (It’s a jungle up there.) Such a worthy pursuit, no? An anomaly garnered my attention, one I had to verify with close inspection. I passed a man on a motorbike with two large baskets filled with coconuts attached saddlebag-style. And on the back seat betwixt the baskets was his partner: a monkey. It wasn’t just the fact he appeared to be delivering coconuts with a primate shackled to his motorbike. It was the juxtaposition of their task and the stoic, borderline angry expressions held by each. Not sure if man mimicked the monkey or vice versa. These two were dead fucking serious.

This was too much. I needed a snapshot for posterity. Who knew when or where …

En had a knack for the lyrical. After leaving the second “crime” scene, we encountered flower blossoms “snowing” in the jungle. White flower petals fell to the ground in sputtering gasps, taking on the aura of large snowflakes. En pointed to this and said he’d only seen it once before under similar circumstances (i.e. in the presence of slain tiger prey). He compared the blossoms to jungle tears, a land mourning the loss of life. Simple. Evocative. Profound. Well done, En. Well done.

Less poetic were the leeches relentlessly assaulting our ankles, an assault that would continue for the duration. Anticoagulant-secreting bastards with an insatiable appetite for blood. Not a fan. Tear ‘em off and bleed. And bleed some more. And then keep bleeding. Delicious…

Turns out, I have some semblance of a conscience. Who knew? I let guilt be my diving rod. En spent three days surveying a route in the shit (i.e. the intended inclusion area). He’d spent his own time and money at my behest. I couldn’t leave him hanging. This wasn’t just business. I genuinely like En and considered him a friend. Sure, a shitload of things could go wrong, but I had to take the chance. The payoff was potentially huge. Lions, and tigers, and bears, oh my! (Minus the lions and the bears). Elephants? Tapirs? Rhinoceroses? Who knows? Only one way to find out, right?

Time was of the essence. He was only free for a week which included the three days for the trip.

Before dinner En, in his Ugarte fashion, inquired, “Ummm, sorry, Richard, do you want to play with fire?” Who wouldn’t? Let’s burn shit, I say. Smokey the Bear can suck it. “Play with fire” was his English device for “start a fire.” He was merely asking if it would be okay for him to kindle a flame for dinner. Not sure if this was a regulatory issue or a courtesy in case I had a phobia. It was difficult to know as En asked permission before doing anything. My effusion of laughter required clarification so as not to offend. An English lesson on the connotation of “play with fire” ensued.

Early to bed. Early to rise. We rose at 2:15 am and began the climb around three. Our camp was just below the tree line where vegetation falls away, replaced by exposed rocks and scree…

Sahar managed an actual conversation on the way back. He was, in truth, an interesting guy with lots to offer. Just not then. And not to me. Still, I liked him. Really, I did. The only thing standing in the way was his work ethic. I wanted to do shit. He didn’t. Nothing exotic there for him. That was his life. For me? It was like driving to Wally World so I could tailgate in the parking lot. 

After our non-adventure, he invited me into his home and showed me pictures and videos of all the shit I yearned to see. (Ironic, much?) Pictures from his Orang Pendek explorations. Videos of Mt. Kerinci’s spectacular eruptions. I considered asking him where I could find that Sahar…

I also visited the national park office for information on Mt. Kerinci, receiving another wet blanket in return. The mountain was closed due to frequent eruptions. This confirmed what Yan had told me, but I needed to hear it from the horse’s mouth. The horse beat me down like a panda in a Chinese zoo. I remember thinking, How do you close down an entire volcano?

I was mildly optimistic about park exploration, and far too excited to take the rational step of waiting another day for lickin’ chicken to work its way through my system. The morning of my departure north was something of a poopfest…

I’m not famous and likely will never be so. I’m okay with that. Besides, I’ve had enough of a taste to get the flavor of fame and stardom. In Sungai Penuh, I entered a restaurant for lunch and thought I heard a record scratch. Not five minutes after sitting down, three Indonesian teenage males surrounded me. One politely asked (in English) if he and his friends could join me. I hardly got to the “y” in “yes” before they sat.

A teenage female sitting nearby saw this as the green light, pulling up a chair next to me. She was very sweet with kind eyes and a soft smile… and hellbent on a photo. She handed her cell phone to one gent, and the session began. One photo was taken with her standing and me sitting but this didn’t cut it…

In town, I entered a restaurant for information and lunch. On the topic of park exploration, I received the Indonesian equivalent of No way, Jose. The owner said it wasn’t possible. If I wanted in, I’d have to enter from Kota Agung. Fooey. I asked around. Same answer… repeatedly. Not possible. I sulked over a bowl of chicken and rice, and then I asked again. (As in, “Are ya sure, sure?”) Still no. Fiddlesticks.

I straddled the Phantom and began my dejection tour back to Krui. I mentally flagellated myself for the defeat but wasn’t so self-absorbed in pity that I missed the park entrance I’d failed notice on the way in. So much for situational awareness, eh gov’nah? Across the road was a ranger station…

Case in point. Petrol stations were now few and far between, so mom-and-pop kiosk operations filled the void. I patronized a small roadside stand in my quest for fuel. Given the abnormality that was me, I was invited for coffee, free of charge. I sat and at once became the center of attention to four young males. A few months earlier, the scrutiny might’ve been unbearable, but I’d come along way since then. I even started to enjoy it. (This assumes the absence of perceived danger, of course.) I sipped. They stared. I smiled. They stared. I tried not to burst with awkward laughter. They stared. If all that wasn’t strange enough, there was monkey tied to a nearby tree for no obvious reason. PETA wouldn’t approve (nor did I), but it probably wasn’t the best time for a “Free Willy!” confrontation…

Seeing Baby Krak requires a boat. My hostel arranged one. Low season. Solo tourist. It’s never cheap to do things alone, so the “tour” set me back sixty dollars. Normally, you’d frolic with a group. Normally, I’d be thrilled to have my own private vessel, guide included. Normally, I’m down with “normally.” Buuuut one client equals small boat. You don't want the small boat. Really, you don’t. (Boat? More like watercraft as in “arts” and “crafts.”)

Come the morning, I drove to the home of el capitan and waited patiently as preparations for our voyage ensued. I sat outside a small shop sipping coffee with my guide and three unknown Sumatrans listening to what I can only describe as Indonesian prom music from a high school “Enchantment Under the Volcano” dance…

There’s something to be said about just being. No camera. No packs strapped to the bike. No real destination. No need for an enhanced state of hypervigilance. Just ride. And smile. Feel the breeze on my knees. Take a breath before death. Chill without a pill before you’re over the hill.

The coastal road led me through a series of small villages, one picture postcard after another. Quaint and tidy with a touch of drowsy. Perfect place to dodder as the day winds down. The sun retreated, casting its orange glimmer across the rocky beaches, old stone houses, and rickety wooden harbors in one final act of rebellion. Beautiful. But, of course, I didn’t have my camera, did I? I wonder…

You’d think the strategy would be rock solid, but it was impossible to determine which folks were following the rules and which couldn’t give a rat’s ass. On this occasion, I apparently followed someone of the “rat’s ass” variety. (Assuming they were native to the area, of course.) He curved right, I followed. We ended up facing the opposite direction (mid-circle) stopped at a red light. This just happened to be in front of a traffic police post. I realized this when I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, two members of Jakarta’s finest strolling in my direction. I assumed fault in my neighbor, the motorist’s who’s lead I followed. Leave Johnny Tourist alone, right? Just to be safe, I went with Jedi protocols. Can’t see you if you don’t look. Can’t see you if you don’t look.

Things got queer (as in “odd” or “strange”) fast. Indira took a liking to me. Was it my convivial magnetism or the liquor? I’ll go with a little of both, emphasis on the latter. Either way, a slew of personal details followed, details I might not share ten minutes into a new friendship. But, then again, who the hell am I? He had two wives—one Indonesian, the other Russian. Um, ‘kay. (Polygamy is legal in Indonesia.) He just married his Russian bride two months earlier and had apparently been paying the price both literally and figuratively ever since. I asked if they lived in the same house and was given the “No fucking way!” expression posthaste.

Apparently, there was animosity between brides. (Can't imagine why.) Team Russia was a money pit and loved to quarrel…

First, you have to find the road to Jakarta. Shouldn’t be that hard, right? It is the largest city in Indonesia. Where can ten million people hide? Duh, just follow the signs… or not. Thing is, toll roads are off limits for two-wheeled traffic. No motorbikes allowed. (I found my Indonesian unicorn: A genuine road regulation.) All signs point to toll roads. I circled Bogor twice in search of the poor man’s trail to Jakarta. Along the way, I paused to ask directions and would inevitably be directed to the toll road, hence the circles. Oddly, screaming “Mother Fucker!” into my helmet as I swirled the drain of sanity did little to assist my plight. 

Finally, I worked out a brilliant two-word index finger pantomime sure to convey my message…

What the hell is it? Temple? Stupa? Shrine? Mountain? It don’t know what the hell it is. Mostly Buddhist. Distinctly Indonesian. Hindu flaring in between. What does the name “Borobudur” signify? Who the hell knows? When was it built? Who the hell knows? Best guess? Around 800 C.E… probably. Why was it built? Who the hell knows? Why was it abandoned from 1000 C.E onwards only to be rediscovered in 1814? Who the hell knows? I like mystery in my meat.

Ideally, I would engage a flux capacitor (it’s what makes time travel possible) and travel back thirty or forty years , before Borobudur’s fame, and wander the site for days with an expert guide or enough knowledge to soak the majesty and grandeur out of it. I had to settle for a morning trot through the…

I can’t say I disliked the man, but I immediately questioned his hiking forte. No rain jacket. No flashlight. Dress shoes. Jeans. Jean jacket. Um, Fabio, WTF? An extra in a Broadway production of Grease? Sure. A member of the Merapi summit party? Negative. Fabio didn’t share my reservations. He was ready to crush that shit. He as much told me so in broken English on the ride to Selo. Though the language barrier was substantial, I heard a story about hiking the jungles of Sumatra and how this prepared him for Merapi. Easy. That’s what he said. Easy. Faaaaaabio…

In Selo, the rain fell and fell hard. Dogs and cats. Goats and chickens. Lions and tigers. Have I mentioned Fabio’s lack of rain gear? His killer jean jacket?

We had a delightful discussion on the proper context and usage of “Kiss my ass!” I felt a special responsibility not to corrupt Indonesia’s youth, but they were already throwing it around with reckless abandon. Guidance was my only gift and came in the form of explicit instructions for use among trusted cohorts. I tried to impart the prudence of not getting carried away. My benevolence knows no boundaries.

One boy, Bryan, asked if sex is free in America. That threw me for a loop until I realized he wanted to know if sex before marriage was customary in the good ole US of A. I told him we fuck like rabbits. No, I didn’t, but I validated the whore-like status of Americans. Pre-martial sex? Definitely a thing. Where did I stand on the issue?

I ARRIVED IN Yogyakarta AND TOOK A LOVER. Well, no, but that makes for a better intro, does it not? Alas, such is not the case. No lovers taken. Yogya is a mere hour and forty-five minutes from Solo (Surakarta), so the trip was brief… a refreshing change. The road inevitably wears you down. Important to break things up and avoid frying your circuit board. My candle burns at both ends… and all that shit.

My Yogya memories are spotty at best. Looking back, I should’ve taken more interest, but I guess I wasn’t feeling the vibe. The city is ruled by a monarchy, an anomaly in Indonesia. For its contribution during the revolution against the Dutch colonials, it remained under royal rule as a “thank you” by the newly formed republic.

He knew the deal. White asshole wants an exotic snack? C’mon down. I didn’t have to ask. He knew I was there to eat serpent. (Also, it’s the only menu item.) On the ground near the grill sat a bag full of cobras. How many? In my estimation, somewhere between a few and a shitload. Hard to tell considering how long and tangly they are. Seeing them all coiled in a bag ball wasn’t unsettling. Not at all. I’ve read he’s upgraded to a glass tank for storage. More dramatic that way, I assume. Who can resist cobra bingo?

The chef nonchalantly put on fingerless gloves and dove in for that night’s lucky winner. Nag was not amused. In fact, he was a cantankerous fucker. Who could blame him? The chef did nothing to assuage his anger. Quite the contrary.

The streets were infused with a post-apocalyptic grimness underscored by a power outage. Packs of stray dogs helped cement the visual. They had a sinister air about them, eyeing me like an oversized chew toy. If that wasn’t unsettling enough, a young Indonesian male emerged from a dark inlet and offered to do “whatever I want” if I stayed with him. I declined. If you’re looking for the Bali from the brochure, ya sure as shit ain’t gonna see it in Kuta at 5:30 am. Weird. 

The theme continued. While taking photos on the beach, a well-fed transvestite—wait…Transvestite? Cross-dresser? Transgender? Transsexual? (Please insert least offensive, most politically correct designation for a man dressed as a woman here.)

And then I had one of those days, one of those days that starts in one place and ends somewhere else entirely. Go with the flow. Cloud of obliviousness. That was me in “Ubud” mode. Relax and take it easy. Questions required effort. I knew I was meeting Agus. I knew I was going to his home in Bedulu. And I knew there was a ceremony he wanted me to see. As I mentioned before, Bali’s 210-day Saka calendar is jam-packed with ritual celebration. I didn’t realize I’d be witnessing the day of Galungan ceremonies commemorating the triumph of Dharma over Adharma (good versus evil) when the spirits come home on a ten-day furlough and descendants are required to lay out

The view from the caldera’s edge was spectacular. Sulfur vents billowing fumes beside a turquoise lake as wind wisped smoke above the water, skimming the surface. It was not time to linger. Not then. Not there. Miners were busy carrying sulfur from the hill bottom near the water and tourists were trickling up. I hastened toward the crater’s western border and left everyone behind. I reckoned the farther I went along the rim, the less likely anyone would follow. I was right.

There was a chill from the wind lapping at my face, but this only invigorated me and was little match for the warming sun rays bombarding the scene.

I have many ideas, some of which are actually good. This day was a “good” one. I hailed a becak (pronounced beh-CHALK), a three-wheeled cycle rickshaw, and somehow conveyed my wish to cruise aimlessly around Bondowoso’s center. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. That was the idea. It worked out spectacularly well. Bondo holds little tourist interest on its own. It’s more of a means to an Ijen end, a stopover on the way to somewhere else. As such, most of the population…

You know the rules by now. The sunrise is a fucking must. Is it worth seeing? Sure, but you won’t be alone on Mt. Penanjakan (sunrise viewpoint). The early morning light gives the photos a prehistoric feel, but it’s a teensy bit different in person. If not for hundreds of tourists and twenty-four radio antennas (I counted), you could pretend you’ve traveled back a couple million years. Good luck trying. After sunrise, it’s giddy up. The hordes remount their four-wheel-drive chariots and dash across the massive ancient crater to Mt. Bromo itself for a rim job. Dismount and it’s a short climb to the volcano’s edge.

I hate malls. I hate shopping. But this was like wandering the halls of Future World. I spent over three hours exploring tomorrow, awestruck by the contrast. Just outside the mall were humble rural reminders, three-wheeled bicycle taxis engulfed by modern chaos. Part of me considered getting back on the ferry to Maumere and returning to the past. II think. Or not? Is. Isn’t. Dunno. Ever been to Chicken, Alaska? Me neither. Imagine a direct flight from there to MOA (Mall of America) in Minnesota. ’ve mentioned the “In Between” in earlier posts and will probably continue to do so ad nauseam. Lots and lots of thinky time on a three-day ferry…from Maumere. Point “A” to Point “B”.