Here is my update about my experiences in Indonesia:

Shorter Version:

Saw some orangutan in the amazing village of Bukit Lawang then headed to the volcano-lake of Toba. I met an English teacher there whose place I was honored to stay at later in the week before flying to Cambodia.

Longer Version:

I arrived in Indonesia on the 30th of March, 2009. The international airport in Medan was small even though the city is the largest on the vast island of Sumatra. Sumatra is one of the largest islands in the world and stretches over 1000 miles from tip to tip. Indonesia itself is made up of an innumerable panoply of islands, but most guesses put the total habitable land masses around 17,000. The fourth most populous country in the world (behind India, China, and the USA), 250 million people live in Indonesia. Medan is home to over two million of those, and I think that at least half of them were trying to sell me a taxi ride as I strode blinking from the airport and into the hot sun.

The first destination on my Sumatran adventure was a small jungle village called Bukit Lawang. I was trying to secure a cheap ride to the northern bus station, so after procuring about 1,000,000 Rupiah (don’t get too excited, that is only about $100) from the ATM, I set out in search of the elusive bus number 24. One of the first things that I noted about Indonesia, other than the horrendous pollution and noisiness of Medan, was that almost no one could speak English. I had a terrible time trying to find bus 24, and ended up being huddled by a kind police officer into an unmarked city bus while repeatedly saying the words “Pinang Baris” (the name of the bus station). Everybody in the small vehicle nodded enthusiastically in reply to my pronouncement, so I was hopeful about my prospects of making it to the station.

Perhaps this would be an important time to clarify why I mean by the word “bus.” The “bus,” or opulet as they are called locally, that I was being carted around in was basically just a dilapidated minivan with all of the seats torn out and two long benches running down the length of its passenger compartment. Most inter-city people-movers in Indonesia are of this flavor, and I believe most of them were also over-the-hill circa the Carter Administration. For me, the worst part of traveling by opulet, other than the fact that where you end up is really more a matter of prayer than planning, is trying to get in and out of the tiny holes that serve as doors in the side of the vehicle. Outfitted with a small daypack, large backpack, and my 230 pound frame, squeezing myself into an opulet was something reminiscent of the birthing process in reverse. And, once inside, the fun did not stop. Often one is tasked with navigating 5-8 other people’s feet, groceries, and animals while stooped over at a 90 degree angle, struggling to maintain balance while the driver (Evel Kenievel Driving School Certificate proudly hanging from the rearview mirror) gooses the smoky little opulet into the busy street.

Anyhow, as you might expect, I did not end up at the bus station. However, I did end up with the opulet driver’s buddy who (and you will not believe my luck here) charters taxis to any location you want to go! Stunned by my good fortune, I immediately turned and began to walk away from the scene of the scam, chanting my wayward traveler’s tune “Pinang Baris, Pinang Baris, no I do not want a taxi, Pinang Baris.”

The ride from Pinang Baris started off well. I made it almost five minutes before the driver stopped for a 30 minute tea break. In Indonesia (and most of Asia), the bus schedule is really defined by when the bus is packed full of people. If the bus is not bulging, it is not budging. Tea is the usual time-killer while the Tertris-esque packing process takes place. The steady influx of locals, usually farming folks returning to the countryside after market, is always followed by a barrage of salespeople. Fruits, cold drinks, and little cakes make their way down the aisle about every two minutes. I was feeling hungry so I bought a delicious (looking) cake and set about drying out my mouth with the spongy mass, post-haste. Good flour is difficult to come by in Indonesia, and obese women from Georgia who can make something spectacular from it are even rarer.

As our bus exited the noise and pollution of Medan my hopes were high. All of the wheels were still attached to our conveyance (a plus), and the emerging scenery looked lush and inviting. Like many lowlands in the topics, Sumatra is packed with rubber and palm oil plantations. One palm plantation in particular was visible from the bus window for about 15 miles. The neat rows of stumpy oil palms and broad swaths of rubber trees (which all seem to mysteriously lean in one direction) contrast sharply with the feral jungle that used to occupy the land. Like in Malaysia, it is only in the national parks that the landscape and wildlife are protected.

About two hours into the three hour bus ride a charismatic young man going by the name of “Jungle Eddy” hopped onto the bus. He claimed to be checking internet in the small city we were passing through before heading back home to Bukit Lawang. After chatting with him and a Quebecois girl named Fannie for a while, it came out that Jungle Eddy was actually a trekking guide and that he would like to provide us with his services. The internet story was becoming far less likely, but he seemed like a nice enough guy so I kept up conversation.

Bukit Lawang, and its neighboring national park Taman Nasional Genung Leuser, was made famous in backpacking circles because it is one of only two places on earth where wild orangutans can still be spotted. Bukit Lawang itself is the village most closely situated to the national park’s rehabilitation and re-release center for captive orangutans, and hence it is the most likely place to see one of the 700 wild or semi-wild orangutan left in Sumatra. Sadly, in recent years, Bukit Lawang has suffered several natural disasters. In 2003 a massive flash flood caused by the sudden breakage of a natural dam upriver killed a huge proportion of the village’s population. Almost everyone lost at least one if not most of their family. The earthquake and tsunami in 2004, while not directly impacting Bukit Lawang, only served to exacerbate to suffering and exodus in the region. Once a boom-village for independent tourism, Bukit Lawang it now a very quiet place. The village seemed to be run almost entirely by strong young men in their mid to late twenties, and I could only guess that this phenomenon was because these young men were some of the only people strong enough to swim out of the flood waters in 2003. There are almost no elderly people or children between the ages of 6 and 15 in Bukit Lawang. Jungle Eddy told us the terrible story of how he fled from his home when the waters came and had to leave behind the voices of his family as the called for help; a massive power line had dipped into the water and anyone nearby would surely be electrocuted and drowned.

Bukit Lawang’s sad history, however, is belied by the wonderful spirit and enthusiasm of its people. Jungle Eddy was only the first of dozens of incredible villagers that I would meet in Bukit Lawang.

My first night in Bukit Lawang I was able to score an incredible little room at the Jungle Inn. This room was one of the most beautiful I have stayed in during my travels. Out of one window was a beautiful “private” waterfall that spilled down the small gap between the guesthouse and the fern-covered cliff outside. Out of the other window I could see the jungle of the national park, just across the river. The jungle, thick and dense as jungle can get, would sometimes come alive with the calls and antics of macaques and white-faced Thomas monkeys. More than once these monkeys would come down out of the jungle and jump around on my tin roof in an apparent bid for me to swat at them. I was always hesitant to leave my belongings out with an open window because I had heard many stories of curious monkeys making off/love with expensive camera equipment.

I was greeted in the evening by a large group of young men playing guitar and banging away at a small drum in the Inn’s communal area. I played along for a while before Jungle Eddy showed up to discuss the specifics of a trek into the park. Fannie had joined with us and we all decided to trek for two days into the jungle and then to raft back to the village at the end of our journey. Eddy had promised to sight some orangutans, and I was just about as excited as I can get for the commencement of our journey the next day.

The word orangutan is a conjugation of two Bahasa Indonesian words: orang, meaning people, and utan, meaning jungle. The name Orang-Utan literally means “jungle people,” and once you look one of these great orange apes into the eyes, you will know why.

We left the Jungle Inn the next morning at about 8 for the highly-precarious journey across the river separating Bukit Lawang from the national park. Because a bridge would be an easy opportunity for mischievous orangutans to abscond from the park, the park rangers opted for a bizarre canoe system to cross the fast river. One man stands at the back of the canoe holding onto a rope which is swung over a steel cable. This steel cable spans the river, and the rope is able to slide along its length. Once all of the foolish tourists have boarded the canoe, which seemed to be made from cast-off pieces of rectangular lumber, the “driver” sets the canoe in motion by gently pointing its nose towards the opposing shore and using the fast current to propel the leaky vehicle to the other side. When I arrived at the canoe, the entire device was under water and park personnel were busy bailing out the little vessel. It took about 15 minutes in order for the canoe to be prepared for departure, and I was a little more than nervous about sitting in their engineering marvel. However, I made it to the other side with little more than a wet butt and strong heart palpitations, and soon Fannie, Jungle Eddy, and I were off into the jungle.

Our first stop was the rehabilitation center’s official feeding platform. There are three main classifications of orangutan in the park: recovering, semi-wild, and wild. The apes are brought in from all over the world to be reintroduced to the jungle. Some are from zoos, some circuses, or some even pets. Orangutans that are recovering or semi-wild will often come to the feeding platforms in the early morning and late afternoon to snack on bananas and vitamin cocktails that the park rangers provide. Orangutans do not find bananas particularly tasty, however, so this service is really provided to keep tummys full while the apes learn to forage the forest on their own. In order to signal to the orangutans that the park rangers have arrived with snacks, one ranger takes a large plank of wood and slaps it violently against the wooden platform five or ten times. This sends an impressive echo through the jungle, and a few minutes later the forest starts to come alive. As many as five orangutans will start to slowly creep out of the jungle, and their progress can be noted easily from hundreds of yards away by the shaking and bending of the trees from which they are swinging. Sitting near the platform waiting for the arrival of the orangutans, with camera poised the rustle of distant trees slowly approaching, I felt like I was in Jurassic Park and that any moment some mysterious creature was going to emerge from the canopy.

On this particular morning, three orangutans came for snacks. Two energetic young males, about eight years old each, and one huge female almost seven months into a nine month gestation, came swinging and climbing out of the jungle. The two young males seemed the most interested in having snacks while the large female seemed reticent to come down from a huge swing-like vine that hung from a towering mahogany tree. The human-like qualities of the apes are immediately apparent to even the most casual observer, and the similarities in facial structures, hands, expressions, and especially the emotional characteristics of the eyes are stunning. Sitting in the balmy jungle surrounded by happy snacking orangutans it became clear why the Orang-Asli (remember that word: Original/Native People) chose to call the Orang-Utan Jungle People.

Soon though, having seen this scene hundreds of times, Jungle Eddy seemed anxious to leave. We set our sights on a tiny unmarked trail and began an extremely steep ascent up from the feeding platform. Jungle Eddy was always full of funny jokes and antics. For nearly every animal in the park he had memorized the Bahasa Indonesia name, English name, Latin name, and created his own descriptive, if sometimes inappropriate, names. Soon we came upon some “Punky Monkeys” near the “Toilet Tree” (Thomas monkeys circa a strangler fig) and stopped for a photo opportunity. The monkeys seemed very calm and did not beg or grab in the way many urban monkeys do. One male in particular took a seat on a branch about one foot from my face and commenced looking at me for the better portion of five minutes. Although I could have reached out and touched him, I chose not to because of the easy transference of disease from humans to monkeys (and vice versa).

In fact, one of the major causes of orangutan death in the national forest is from being fed by careless tourists. People will acquire bananas and other fruits from unknown sources and then hand them to inquisitive recovering or semi-wild orangutans. The bacteria from our bodies will often cause enormous problems with the orangutan’s immune systems, and often this results in death. The most susceptible of the orangutans to the bacteria are the babies, and feeding of the animals is the most prevalent cause of the terrible 75% “infant” mortality rate in the park. However, many tourists and locals do not understand this, and feeding continues to be an enormous problem.

We hiked on for about another three hours before becoming lost where a game trail disappeared into a thick brier of prickly vines, and hence needed to backtrack for a good amount of time before continuing on to our evening’s camp. Jungle Eddy continued to provide anecdotes throughout the trip, but several times I had to ask him to please turn off his Jungle Cellphone because his Jungle Text-Messaging was detracting from my Jungle Trekking experience. Even in the farthest reaches of the planet cell phones and cell signals prevail.

About five hours into our trek we came to the top of a mountain where Jungle Eddy and our Porter, PI, slowed down and began to make hooting ape calls. Soon a large female orangutan, her fiery orange hair mottled and alight with bright beams of sun, came climbing down from a nearby tree. When she was within about 10 yards of our position, I could see that she had a little baby orangutan in tow. The mother’s name was Mina, and she had been a “sure-thing” to find in the park for almost ten years. Hardly ever leaving the sanctuary of the mountain top, Mina presumable lives off of fruits and snacks provided by passing tourists and irresponsible trekking guides. This poor practice was evidenced by the decay of many banana and pineapple rinds around the base of her tree. The baby, only about five or six months old, was ridiculously cute and spent most of his time swinging from his mother’s hairy stomach or dangling from branches just within her reach. I took as many pictures as my own self-consciousness would allow before Mina came out of the tree and started to become very aggressive. I had heard many horror stories about Mina taking large chunks of flesh out of unsuspecting tourists, and my feet moved quickly in order to get our of her path of chaos. Whether she was angry about our proximity to her baby or just irritated by not receiving her requisite snacks, I did not know. However, Mina was clearly not pleased and began to move towards Jungle Eddy. PI, holding up the rear, began to kick the log on which she was sitting and yelling quite loud in order to distract her from Eddy’s tasty haunches. I am not entirely sure how it all went down, mostly because I was cowering behind a tree, but I do know that we succeeded in escaping Mina’s clutch and continued on to our evening camp.

Our camp was a lovely little spot just near a large stream and waterfall. Another group had arrived before us and their guide and porters had set to making some delicious-smelling food and hot Kopi (Sumatran coffee). After greeting Marty and Michelle (some newlyweds from Australia), I took leave in a cool pool beneath a 10-15 foot waterfall. The water felt amazing and was needed respite from the relentless heat and humidity of the Sumatran Jungle. In hot season >100F and 100% humidity is not rare, and trekking through that kind of stagnant soup can really put the hurting on even the most fit westerner. I was having a grand time in the waist deep pool and was considering an au naturale jaunt in the waterfall (let’s be honest, boxers will not stay put under a waterfall for long anyways), when I heard some other people call out from the camp. They had spotted orangutans attempting to cross the treeless gap over the waterfall. As I stepped back into the pool I was greeted with a wonderful sight that I am certain very few have (or may ever again see). Two beautiful orangutans had come out of the dark jungle and were swinging on some vines just above the waterfall. As I looked up the water encompassed the lower third of the field of view, the dark void under the canopy the middle, orangutans swinging through it, and the green leaves crowning the ancient hardwoods at the top.

The two had apparently taken offense at our camp’s location because, after a brief honeymoon of “ooos” and “ahhhs” from fascinated tourists, the orangutans took to breaking off large limbs from high in the trees and trusting them down upon our camp. I took the brunt of their attacks, falling victim to two painful shots to the head and a near-miss from some high-speed urine. Orangutans are territorial and our smoky, loud, dirty campsite was impinging on their turf. The humor of the contrast between the moments just before and after the attack only really hits me now.

There were several other critters to be found in the jungle, including the aforementioned Thomas and gibbon monkeys, as well as macaques, and huge monitor lizards. I had the poor fortune of encountering one of these giant lizards just after the orang-attack as I waded through the stream back to the campsite. Apparently the lizards are attracted by the smell of cooking meat because about 30 yards from camp I was startled by the sudden splash and rustle of a 3-4 foot monitor lizard running out of the steam and into the jungle. I won’t say I was terrified, because that would be undignified, but I will say that I no longer needed an orangutan to anoint me with urine.

After a delicious meal at our campsite the Indonesian men set to impressing Michelle, Marty’s stunningly beautiful wife, with various card tricks, jokes, and riddles. I bet she was impressed. We all played some card games and told ghost stories before falling asleep under our little plastic roof. My rest was fitful as my malaria-prevention drugs have a way of inspiring intensely vivid nightmares. This night’s terror buffet included a lovely little number wherein I was dragged helplessly from under our shelter by a large and hungry tiger.

The next day we only had to make a short hike from our base camp to the location where we would be rafting home. I was feeling a bit groggy, but a lovely breakfast of a quadruple-stacked sandwich of alternating egg and tomato layers as well as three stiff cups of thick Sumatran coffee had something to say about that. I had developed a rather nasty response to a mysterious bug bite/nettle sting from the previous day wherein the site of the sting had become red and raised and the surrounding tissue was turning a lovely shade of purple. It looked a bit like I had been shot by a BB gun, but there was not a whole lot I could do about it at the time, so I set about trying to erase fears of little families of spiders suddenly erupting from my forearm.

Our “river raft” was truly a sight to behold. Without the budget or means to transport a real raft up the river and into the park, our guides had provided what was basically five large truck inner tubes lashed together with rope. I thought that surely this raft of tubes would only support the four tourists plus Jungle Eddy, maximum. However, after jumping from a large rock into the river and splashing around for a bit, I was witness to all three porters, Jungle Eddy, and the other three tourists mounting up on the four-tube “raft.” However, my fears were somewhat alleviated when I found out that our mighty floating steed would be steered by only the most technologically advanced and river-proved Sumatran steering system: two long bamboo sticks which could be used to keep our vessel from running into cliff faces.

So, with Fannie in my lap and Jungle Eddy at my back, all eight of us set out on the white water towards home. The journey down to Bukit Lawang was one of the most entertaining and ridiculous experiences of my life. Our little raft, in no way equipped to handle the rapids we were taking on, would dive deep into the white water and then miraculously pop back out. It was clear that Fannie was no fan of the roller coaster of tubes and froth, but I could not stop laughing and laughing the whole way down. Our Indonesian guides seemed to enjoy they whole experience thoroughly as well, as their laughs nearly drowned out mine as they screamed and tried to avoid approaching rocks and then poked fun at each others’ ineptitude with our bamboo oars. In one moment, as we were floating down a calm and flat portion of the river, I was struck by the strange contrast between our elated guides and the river which had claimed most of their homes, possessions, and families. The sight of those men bouncing joyously down the treacherous rapids filled me with a rare kind of peace. Those men, on that river, on that terribly inadequate raft, were a picture of perseverance and the power of the human will to overcome.

After about 30 minutes of rafting we backtracked two days of trekking and pulled our rig from the water on the banks of Bukit Lawang.

I moved from Jungle Inn to Indra Inn, where I tried to improve business for a man named Ewan. No one had stayed in his beautiful guesthouse for three months, and his newborn baby and wife were in need of support. He had built the guesthouse after the 2003 flood and soon after married his wife. In 2003 his entire family, whom he swam with for several minutes in the flood waters, had died. He was the only one in his group of eight to emerge from the water that night. Ewan had plans to move to America with a girl he had met guiding, but his life had fallen apart and he took to building it back together one log at a time. Indra Inn was built entirely of wood washed down during the flood, and like most Indonesian structures, its lumber was not cut in a mill, but rather by hand with a chainsaw. Everything in his two-room guesthouse, save toilets and shower heads, was built by Ewan in the years following the flood.

I spent another three days in Bukit Lawang, but what I did I can not say for certain. My memory of those happy days is simply a blur of late night conversations, jam sessions, chess games, thick cups of coffee, and lots of laughing with some of the most beautiful and resilient men I have ever met. After that peaceful time I headed back down the potholed, muddy, long road to Medan, changed buses, and began the long-haul to the distant volcanic crater lake of Danau Toba.

The public buses in Indonesia were easily the worst I have seen. Most are excessively cramped, lack air conditioning, and barely hold together over some of the deeper potholes. Add to that the constant sound of Indonesian karaoke music videos playing over the bus’s television and you have a recipe for character-building travel. The driver who was operating this particular bus was a master of overtaking multiple semi trailers at once, and he had a certain penchant for the horn that is rarely heard, even in Asia. His nearly constant horn blaring, engine revving, and overtaking of other vehicles surely got us to our destination faster, but it was at the expense of a considerable amount of anxiety and irritation. At one point a local guitar-playing entrepreneur had boarded the bus and made a direct line to me, the only white person. He stood playing song after song into my ear to the percussive accompaniment of the potholes and the stylized (if somewhat overdone) horn solos of the driver. I could not imagine a more relaxing lullaby.

After almost ten hours of travel, I finally arrived at Lake Toba. Lake Toba is a volcanic caldera that, over the years, has filled with water. Its crystal clear depths and abundant goldfish are famous all over Indonesia. Tuk Tuk, a touristy town on the large island in the center of the crater lake, is home to a circular street, perhaps two miles long, lined with guest houses and restaurants.

There is not really much to do in Lake Toba other than relax, read, eat, look at the water, swim, and spend time with the great Batak people who inhabit the island. The Batak people were once a fierce cannibalistic tribe whose territory stretched over a large area of northern Sumatra. However, as I understand the story, one European missionary single-handedly converted nearly the entire tribe to Christianity. Hence, throughout the highlands of Sumatra surrounding Lake Toba, there are bizarre enclaves practicing mixed Christian and tribal religions. Add to the weirdness the fact that Indonesia is a predominantly Muslim nation, and you start to understand the quirky eccentricities of the Batak way of life.

Most Batak people make a living either farming or catering to the few tourists who still visit the region. After the mass exodus of tourists in the mid-90s (which most Indonesians blame on the then burgeoning popularity of Thailand), the Lake Toba region was left oddly empty tourist destination. Without a flood like in Bukit Lawang to destroy some of the extra guesthouses, many tourist establishments in Toba remain open, but empty, or simply abandoned. My best guess is that of the 25 guesthouses and hotels in Tuk Tuk about 10 were abandoned, 5 were empty, and 10 had about 2-5 tourists in them. This situation has left the town with the bizarre feeling of being abandoned. Like something out of the Twilight Zone, eager storekeepers, restaurateurs, and hotel managers sweep their doorsteps, light their signs, play their music, and wait, hoping, at the entrance to their businesses. Most nights no one comes.

Despite this sobering picture, Tuk Tuk seems to be a place filled with happy and content people. The Batak are some of the friendliest and most outgoing people I have met in Asia, and their fondness for music, dance, cannabis, magical mushrooms, and moonshine only serves to exaggerate their already jocular demeanor.

On my first day in Toba, I went out on a hunt for a nice guesthouse. I expected that it would take me about two hours to circle the little peninsular town and that I would have a nice place secured by about 1pm. At 7pm I had still not found a place, however, because the entire day I spent talking with hordes of English students from miles around Toba. Because there are so few places in Sumatra for youngsters to find westerners to practice English with, many flock to Lake Toba on the weekends, sometimes traveling three hours or more, to have a few words with native English speakers. Over the course of the day I probably answered the following questions about 200 times:

1) What is your name?
2) What are your hobbies?
3) Are you married?
4) Do you have a girlfriend?
5) What is your job?
6) May I have a picture with you?

In addition to the hundreds of photos I took with squealing 14 year old Indonesian girls, I also handed out a few hundred autographs and email addresses. Many of the younger kids were shy, though, as I was perhaps the first white person they had ever seen. I met one young girl, who name I have regretfully forgotten, who was particularly adept at speaking English and demanded that I come to meet her principle (so that she might receive extra credit). I made my way through the hoards of young girls, who had thankfully been distracted by a handsome blond man from Chicago, and met Nirma, the principle. Nirma was not actually the principle of a school, but rather the director of a local English program in a small town called Pamatang Raya about three hours away. She was very kind and invited me to stay with her family after I left Toba. Not sure of my future plans, I left her my email and she left me her phone number, and I headed off in search of a guesthouse.

I did eventually find a lovely place with a nice balcony overlooking the lake.

I spent the next day reading at Poppy’s Fish Farm and Restaurant because a big storm had come in and the rain was coming down in sheets. I had a great day reading and finished The God of Small Things, which was a lovely book, and started Treasure Island. Poppy scooped a large goldfish out of the little fish corral he had built in the lake and fried up a tasty goldfish curry for me. While I was eating the rain intensified to the point where I could no longer see across the lake to the mainland. The area where the water met the air was filled with tiny droplets being splashed up from the lake and the low clouds helped to create the illusion that the water blended perfectly into the sky. I spent about ten hours just reading at Poppy’s and ran up a bill for breakfast, lunch, drinks, and snacks.

That evening I headed over to the only internet cafe on the island to check on the status of my Fulbright application. Last September I had applied to teach the 2009-2010 school year in Thailand through the extremely competitive US Fulbright Program. I had written a proposal to teach English and robotics to Thai high school students, and by the time I left for this trip I had passed through the first two filters for Fulbright applicants. I have rarely been so excited about an opportunity, and I was elated that I had made it past the first big cuts. As of leaving for Asia I knew I had a statistical ½ change of being accepted for the program, but I also knew that what I had proposed as well as my background as an engineer was very unorthodox for the program. I had been thinking a lot about the grant, and had finally sent my mom an email to ask her to check the mail and see if I had received notice.

What my mother wrote back to me made my heart sink. The Thai government, who makes the final choice for teachers, had not chosen me as one of their award recipients. At first I accepted this loss with a kind of juvenile “Hey, it’s ok, you will get them next time, champ,” but as the days went on I became more upset. On the way to Toba from Bukit Lawang I had the fortune of sitting with an English guy named Simon who had been a teacher in Thailand for four years. He had told me many ridiculous stories about the corruption and complacency in the Thai education system, and before I had received the bad news about the Fulbright I had begun to doubt the viability of my application. Simon had told one story in particular in which he was asked by the Thai Ministry of Education to write about how he felt about the King of Thailand. Rather than Simon risking losing his job and visa for even the slightest offense of the king, instead he wrote a glowing review about how the kindness and generosity of the king’s policies had changed his life. While the American Fulbright commission that provided the first two screenings surely found value in my appraisal of the current status of the Thai education system and the need for additional training in the areas of math, science, and critical thinking, I began to doubt that the Thai government would take kindly to my desire to initiate some sort of grassroots reform of the foundering system. I wondered irreverently what would have happen if, instead of spending weeks researching and evaluating the most valuable ways I could impact the Thai educational system, I had just written a high school style “hamburger essay” about how incredible Thailand and Her king was.

The days following the news were filled with moods of irreverence for the whole process, frustration, and finally a strange kind of relief that I would not be put in a situation where I did not belong. However, in thinking about the entire process now, I think a large part of my irritation was due to the unfamiliar challenge of processing a feeling of inadequacy. I realize now that I had never before fallen short of achieving something I wanted so much, and I think that a lot of my animosity towards Thailand and the Fulbright process was a necessary part of coping with that loss. Today, almost a month later, I feel much better about the entire situation. Having talked with a few more teachers in Thailand and evaluating what I want for myself, what the Thai education system wants for its students, and the current Thai political climate, I feel content with the fact that I did not receive the Fulbright. When I come home there will still be many incredible opportunities for me including working as an engineer, a high school teacher, a teacher at an international school (a few years in Italy, anyone?), or graduate school. I think that the entire process of applying for, anticipating, and then being declined receiving Fulbright has humbled me. Here in Asia I am reminded how amazingly fortunate I am to have what I do, and the contrast reeling over the loss of Fulbright while walking through streets of orphans, beggars, trash, and endless poverty cemented that understanding.

I decided to get up early the next morning and try to and beat the afternoon rains. I rented a little motor bike and headed north along the east coast of the island in search of some hot springs about 30 miles away. While I had heard the hot springs were less than enchanting what I really wanted was just to feel the wind and see some of the local farms and people. As I mentioned before, the Batak religious beliefs are a strange mix of tribal and Christian traditions. All over the island are these strange temples (which looked oddly Shinto) adorned with crucifixes and ornate geometric Batak painting. I was about 30 minutes into my ride when I thought I recognized some western people on the side of the road. I had happened upon Mike and Lauren, the couple I had gone trekking with in Taman Negara, Malaysia. They were pulled over taking a photograph, and when they caught sight of me they were very excited. We had not seen each other in about two weeks, and now we were on the same country road in Indonesia. We caught up about our travels and decided to continue towards the hot springs together.

The springs were less than amazing, but that was expected. The most interesting part was being able to climb up the mountain, past the skuzzy public baths, to see the source of the suphurous water. As I climbed farther up the riverbed became a lighter and lighter shade until the whole stream seemed to glow from a thick coating of yellowish sulpher. The whole area reeked, and it was bizarre to see rock again; the intense heat a sulpher in the air had killed the thick vegetation that covers all undeveloped land in southeast Asia. Mike, Lauren, and I had quick lunch together at the springs and then set plans to meet at Poppy’s for dinner. I had told them about my curry experience and they were excited to share in the fun.

After dinner I decided that I had had enough relaxing. My feet were itchy to get on the road again. I left for Pamatang Raya, Nirma’s hometown, on the 8th of April. Once again crammed onto the awful buses that crisscross Sumatra, I gained an appreciation for just how much the students I had met two days earlier wanted to learn English. Not only would they have to brave the vomit-inducing twists and waist-deep potholes to arrive in Toba, but they would also loose their entire Sunday and about $3 in bus and boat tickets. When some villagers live on less than $1 per day, $3 to get a few words in with a westerner is an enormous investment.

Three hours in the bus and a few dozen confused looks later (why on Earth would this dumb American want to go to Pamatang Raya?), I was ushered out of the bus. I sought shelter from the impending rain in a family’s little roadside snack shop, and tried to explain to them that I was not lost. I brought out my notebook and showed them Nirma’s name and phone number, and they seemed to catch on. One of the young girls called Nirma for me, and within a few minutes she was bumping down the road in the sidecar of a little motorcycle taxi (bechak). I hopped in with her and the bossy student from Toba and we made our way to her home.

Nirma lives with her entire family, 3 sisters, 2 brothers, mother, father, and two pigs on a side street of the of the town’s market square. Most streets in Indonesia are filthy with litter, but Nirma’s had become especially pungent because of its proximity to the market. Castoff bits of produce, meet, thousands of plastic bags, and bottles filled the street where her family lived, but no one really seemed to mind. Having grown up in this kind of environment, children play just as they would in an American park, couples go on walks, grandpas smoke on porches, and neighbors shout little bits of gossip across the street. On this particular day there was a lot of gossip happening because my arrival had caused quite a stir. Children came from all around to see me or to giggle and hide behind walls in embarrassment, and at one point I would guess I had attracted a crowd of around 20 fans. One group of about ten elementary-aged students would creep up behind me and stare, but as soon as I would turn around they would scream and run into the alley. I had saved a big bag of cookies from my road trip, so I used those as a way to settle the fidgety kids down, and they seemed to take quite a bit of enjoyment out of gobbling up the sugary treats.

Nirma’s home consisted of one large family room (where most of the family and I would sleep on the floor at night), one bedroom, a general washing room for dishes, bodies, and clothes, and an outdoor kitchen. In order to conserve rain water and save well water when it is abundant, most homes have a large concrete cistern that holds the family’s water until it is needed for use. Nirma’s cistern was probably about 300 gallons, and that water was scooped out for use in everything from showers to tea. My favorite part of the water system was their mosquito-larva prevention system. The family had employed the services of a rather large carp to live in their cistern and gobble up any mosquitoes that might otherwise fill their home. Every time I took a swig of tea I was reminded of his presence.

Nirma’s star student, the bossy one, who I will say again I am ashamed to not remember the name of, took my on a tour of two of Nirma’s English program classrooms. Just off of the trash-filled street in a little concrete room was the “advanced” class composed exclusively of high school aged girls. However, from their stunned expressions at my arrival and ensuing silence you would have guessed they were all mute. Finally, one piped up with the usual round of questions that I experienced in Toba, and the room became livelier when it was found out that I did not have a wife. Another picked up on the fact that I liked to play guitar as a hobby and asked me to sing a song. Wanting to bring some Americana to the scene I started with “Country Roads” by John Denver and then, for some unknown reason, I felt compelled to sing the national anthem. Now, I am no sap for patriotism, but singing that song in the echo of that tiny concrete room filled me with a kind of hopefulness and adoration for my country that I have rarely felt before. I think the contrast of where that song symbolized I had come from, baseball parks, inaugurations, fireworks, fairs, hope, and wealth with the poverty of the community I was singing it in struck me.

The second classroom I visited, although markedly smaller and made up of elementary aged students, was much livelier. This school was about three miles by opulet out of town, and held in what appeared to be an abandoned school. The classroom had only the most basic wooden chairs and desks as well as one chalk board. The students, many of them very dirty from working in the fields, were excited to see me and asked me questions about America, especially the seasons. There is really no such thing as spring, summer, fall, and winter on Sumatra, so they found that rather fascinating. Trying to explain the concept of sledding to 15 little Indonesian kids who have never seen a day below 70F in their lives was rather difficult. After I finished my little lesson on the seasons, the kids broke out into a rousing rendition of “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion. How or why they came to learn this song is beyond me, but they sang it pretty well. I decided to teach them “Row Row Row Your Boat” as an easy vocabulary lesson and fun song to sing in a round. It was difficult getting them to all sing on cue, but eventually they picked up on the concept of a round, but I am fairly certain “Row Row Row Your Boat” will now enter the northern Sumatran musical lexicon. Our lesson ended about thirty minutes after I arrived and everyone wanted to take a picture against the large back wall of their classroom upon which had been written the word “Obama.”

As I waited for the opulet to pick me up and take me back to town, many of the students lingered. Usually they would be walking home at this time, but some informed me that they were just curious about me and wanted to see me some more. Rather than just standing awkwardly and while the kids looked on, I decided to try to get a game of soccer going. They had a small red plastic ball, like a larger version of those found in a McDonald’s PlayPlace, and we got to kicking.

One of my favorite people I have ever met was Nirma’s 15 year old sister, Jamie. Many people in Pamatang Raya suffer from birth defects as a result of a dwindling gene pool, and Jamie was no exception. Although at her age she would be receiving her driver’s permit, she could never have touched the pedals. Jamie was only about four feet tall, which made me wonder how her little frame contained such a big heart. She constantly called me Mr. Daniel, and would perform little songs for me to demonstrate her aptitude at one day becoming an Indonesian pop star. On my second day in Raya she walked me to her family’s farm where I had my pick of any fresh guava, oranges, lemongrass, or odd little red peaches that I wanted. Surprisingly I did not have to ever slow on the one mile walk to the farm with her. She had a determined way of keeping up with long strides and the occasional skip-along burst of speed.

I spent the evening eating and talking with Nirma’s family, and in the morning I said my goodbyes and bused my weary body to the city of Berastagi.

I had traveled to Berastagi with the hope of climbing at least one of the two volcanoes that surround it, but dreary weather and a body weary of travel prevented me from accomplishing this goal. Instead I spent most of my time battling a burgeoning case of diarrhea (maybe from my mosquito fish friend?) and typing up my last email that I sent about Malaysia.

Soon thereafter I headed back to the bus station and found my way back to the international airport in Medan. With some incredible memories in tow I said some my goodbyes to Indonesia and jetted off to Cambodia.

Today I am writing you from a small internet café in Vientiane, the capitol of Laos. I am still having an incredible time, and I hope that soon I will have the time and internet access to write you about my experiences in Cambodia and Laos. Know that I am very happy, safe, and feeling healthy. I apologize if this email sputtered out at the end, but hey, my fingers have limited stamina and I am running low on my allotted time on this computer.

The next time you should surely hear something from me (picture or otherwise) will be in just over a week when I travel back to Bangkok to catch a flight to Myanmar (Burma).

Best wishes from Laos,
Danny

It seems like it has been so long since I last emailed. I have spent the interim period between these messages traveling throughout Malaysia from Kuala Lumpur to the north and back again, then on to Indonesia. So, anyhow, here is the update:

Short Version:

I flew into Kuala Lumpur (KL) around the 16th of March. My good friend from Prague, Dimple, is working as a consultant out here and so I had the amazing fortune of spending the first few days with her at the 5-star Mandarin Oriental Hotel just across from the Petronas Towers. After some living the high life in KL I boarded a bus to the Cameron Highlands which is a great place to get out of the heat and enjoy cool rain forest walks and beautiful tea plantations. Reluctantly I left the Highlands and traveled to Taman Negara National Park, the oldest rain forest on earth where I trekked through the jungle for three days and listened to the beautiful symphony of sounds in the night. Returning hungry and sweaty from trekking I decided it was time for some beach relaxation so I headed to Pulau Perhentian for three amazing days and some of the friendliest locals I have ever met. Also, my toe nail eventually came off, but no infection yet. I am in Indonesia now.

Long Version:

Kuala Lumpur and Bangkok, although they are capitals of neighboring countries, feel worlds apart. Bangkok’s noise and congestion are contrasted by KL’s relative order and calm. Where scantily clad prostitutes of every size, shape, and conceivable orientation dominate Bangkok’s night scene, the night air in KL is dominated by huge floodlights on shopping malls, banks, and skyscrapers. Southern Thailand marks the area where Southeast Asia transitions from predominantly Buddhist to Muslim cultures. By the time one reaches KL, almost all of the women are wearing brightly colored head scarves or full-on black burqas. Thailand’s ornate red and gold temples are replaced by monolithic mosques, but unfortunately the religious buildings in Malaysia lack the spirit and majesty of those in Turkey and the middle east.

Similarly to Tokyo, after disembarking my airplane and taking short bus ride to the main transit station, I was surprised by how quiet everything seemed. I am sure this particular station is not so different in volume from any in Europe or the United States, but the distinct lack of young men yelling “Hello! Sir! My friend! Where you go? Taxi!” was palpable. For just a second, I almost felt like I fit in; for the first time in a month no one was staring or shouting at me.

I needed to take the subway line to KLCC, the heart of Kuala Lumpur’s shopping district, in order to meet my friend Dimple. Dimple, who you may remember from my Europe emails, graduated a few years back and now she is a hot-shot consultant for company out of DC. They must really want her to be here because they have had her shacked up for seven months all-expenses-paid in the 5-star Mandarin Oriental Hotel. Needless to say, when I first entered the hotel, smelling of hostels, airplanes, long walks through the 95 degree/100% humidity heat, and sporting my stylish grease-stained pack, I felt a bit out of place. As I walked past rows of banquet tables ornamented with silverware (I mean the real stuff), several polite workers offered me confused glances. I suppose my entrance through the rear of the hotel and lack of a rental-Ferrari tipped them off to the fact that I had no intentions of actually paying for a room. After a bit of an ordeal trying to find Dimple’s room (as a result of my inability to correctly spell her last name) we were reunited. It was so fantastic to see her again, and we laughed and laughed for hours about old friends and stories from Prague.

In the daytime, while Dimple pounded away at her laptop, I would explore the city. KL’s Petronas Towers, which were the first structures to surpass the Sears Tower in height, take center stage in KL’s shopping district. Their sheer size is remarkable, and because of the way they taper to points near the top, it is impossible to see the entire structure unless you are at least a few hundred yards away. One popular activity in KL is to take the elevator to the 60th floor observation deck of the Petronas towers (that little bridge you see in pictures connecting the two). However, for a few reasons, I can not really understand this: firstly, really the only thing to see (skyline-wise) in KL is the Petronas towers, so why take the elevator to the 60th floor of the thing you want to see? Secondly, you can go just across the way to the KL radio tower and be greeted by a much more impressive view (and from nearly 900 feet up!). In my last email I sent a picture of the towers at night. That photograph was taken from the radio tower. Other than the view, the radio tower had very little to offer other than the world’s creepiest “Winter Park” fake snowscape-themed souvenir purchasing area. I can not find the correct words to describe the other-worldly bizarreness of walking through a “winter wonderland” in the muggy heat of a Muslim country, but suffice it to say that I got out of there as soon as possible.

Malaysia’s infamous judicial system, second only perhaps to Singapore, and censorship of racy media are very interesting. Perhaps it is just the transition from Thailand, or perhaps it is a result of the strict laws and restrictions in Malaysia, but Kuala Lumpur struck me as very PG, like being in Disneyland, but with none of the charm. One night Dimple and I decided to go see a movie in order to get out of the heat and munch on some much-needed popcorn. It turned out that the only movies we could see were either kids’ movies or censored PG-13 films. We ended up seeing a watered-down version of Watchmen, and the popcorn had become soggy from the humidity, but the J-Co donuts that we bought afterward made the whole experience worth while (Thanks, J-Co, without you no one would have ever experienced the delicious marriage of chicken and tomato paste in a donut pastry product).

Malaysia, as a country, lacks a strong personal identity. Not only does the government and religion seem to snuff out any radical individualism, but the ethnic makeup of Malaysia is so diverse that it seems every city is segmented into disparate enclaves. The most predominant foreign ethnic groups are Chinese and Indian peoples, who make up almost 50% of the nation’s population. Chinatown and Little India are large districts in Kuala Lumpur, and one can buy everything from saris to dried squid and fake Rolex watches in a three mile odor-intensive corridor. Other than my fantastic experience with Dimple and some amazing Indian food, I was starting to feel just a bit down on Malaysia, so on the morning of the 19th I said my goodbyes to Dimple and hopped on board a bus to the Cameron Highlands.

Bus rides, no matter which country I am in, always seem to have an adrenaline-inducing effect on me. Perhaps it was the torrential downpour, or the river of water which snaked across the windy mountain road, maybe it was the threat of giant dump trucks hurtling towards us with their horns blaring, or it is possible that I was just overreacting, but after a few breathless hours on the bus I was very happy to disembark in Tanah Rata, Cameron Highlands.

From the immediate friendliness of the people, to the lines of food stalls selling Indian food, and helpful minibus driver that picked me up to take me through the rain to my hostel (only a five minute walk away), I knew right away that Tanah Rata was going to be a fantastic stay. Tanah Rata is the largest city in the Cameron Highlands which is an area of extremely fertile farmland and cool cloudy rain forest above the sweltering Malaysian coast. My hostel, Father’s Guesthouse, was a unique little complex on top of a hill overlooking the town. Apparently it is an institution because I have talked to several travelers since who stayed there as long as 15 years ago (which was the dark ages in terms of Southeast Asian travel). The guesthouse/hostel facility sits on a Catholic parish, and I would assume the “Father” part of “Father’s Guesthouse” does not refer to someone’s dad. All of this is of note because, my understanding is, the parish plans to remove several of the buildings that make up the “hostel” part of the guesthouse in order to put in a small church. I have not seen any churches so far in Malaysia, so I am sure this has been quite the undertaking for the parish.

The buildings that made up the hostel were utilitarian at best. Constructed from huge corrugated tin tubes, I was told the structures served as makeshift British hospitals during wartime. However, they kept the rain out and the snores in, so I suppose they did their job. There were loads of interesting people at Father’s including one 59 year old hippie from Canada, who I will call T for reasons to be revealed later. T, who has traveled for six months of every year since he was in his thirties, is a self-described hippie and hashish trafficker. When he is not gallivanting around the world or sneaking kilos of hash across secured boarders, he says he likes to work on organic farms and “eat asparagus right out of the ground while walking around on all fours.” Needless to say, T was quite the character. He had even smuggled hashish into Malaysia, which I found astounding considering that drug trafficking is punishable by death. He had been at Father’s for almost five weeks already, and had built up a little shrine of god’s eyes and knickknacks on the only window sill in the dormitory. I enjoyed talking with him about his life and lifestyle. Living off of only about $7000 per year, working on farms, and only paying rent at rock-bottom dives, T has stayed happy and healthy and is living his dream. Because there are so many interesting people I meet all of the time, I rarely go into detail about individuals. However, traveling, especially in less frequented areas, always reveals fascinating characters.

Other than a fantastic guesthouse, cool mountain air, and interesting neighbors, the Cameron Highlands were great for other reasons. There is a stark contrast between Thailand and Malaysian tourism: Thailand is an extremely touristy place, and this leads to jaded locals (along the tourist track), an endless string of touts, package tourists coming for 1-week binge vacations, young trust funders with beer and coitus as primary goals, and a general feeling of removal from the “real” country. Malaysia, outside of Kuala Lumpur, feels more foreign, more adventurous, more intoxicating, and mostly more real. The travelers here are usually people in their late 20s or early 30s traveling alone or with a partner, and rarely will one find the kind of insensitive nonsense that goes on in Thailand.

One night in Tanah Rata I joined a group of about seven backpackers, all traveling alone, and all from different countries for an Indian dinner. We all ate and laughed and griped about traveler’s tummy while we ate vindaloo, korma, ticca masala, rice, and naan with our hands. The community of people traveling feels much closer here as well as being a bit more “hardcore.” Travelers in Malaysia are used to cold showers, squat toilets, diarrhea, pot holes, sunburns, late trains, pollution, motor bikes, and banging their heads against low door frames.

My favorite memory of the Cameron Highlands was an all-day tour with Francis, a remarkably capable guide who used to work in Taman Negara (national park), but had moved to Tanah Rata to guide tours to see the rare Rafflesia flower. Rafflesia, best known for its extremely pungent odor and gigantic red pedals, is the largest flower on earth and grows in the mountains surrounding the Cameron Highlands. Francis picked me, an English guy named Luke, an Austrian lady, and some Dutch ladies up from Father’s Guesthouse at about 8am. When I saw that he was driving a Land Rover (and I mean the real kind that they used to make in the 70s), I knew we were in for an adventure. We drove for about an hour on some very windy mountain roads past acres of strawberry, lettuce, and corn fields, but the experience was less than majestic because I had drawn the short straw and was trying my best to keep my wobbly, rusty, sideways bench seat from throwing me onto my face. When we made a short stop at an Orang Asli (literally Native/Original People) village to pick up a supplementary local guide, I traded the front seat with Luke and I am exceptionally glad that I did.

The ride from the Orang Asli village to our trail head was hilarious. The road, if you could rightly call it that, was essentially two washed-out ruts, and the trip up to the trail head was more like a roller coaster than a drive. I mean roller coaster in a more literal sense perhaps than you might expect: because of the deep ruts, steering on the road was essentially useless. So, the alternative was basically to throw it into four wheel drive, goose the Rover’s powerful engine, and, guided by the ruts, careen violently up and down the muddy hills. I could not stop laughing, but I do not know whether my apparent amusement was caused by the humor of our hapless caravan jerking violently through the mud or to cover up my fear that one of the rut-induced heaves would suddenly spit the Rover off of the road and rolling through the jungle.

However, after about 30 minutes of excitement, we arrived muddy and safe at the trail head. Although we had the Orang Asli guide, Francis lead the way over bamboo foot bridges, past giant spiders and flowering wild ginger, across treacherous stone-to-stone river crossings, and all the while giving us interesting information about the names and uses of the plants in the surrounding area. Francis had been trained by the national park rangers in Taman Negara and said that he has seen (at least once) every notable wild creature in Malaysia: wild tigers, elephants, small jungle cats, black panthers, and more birds than I could count. It was great to have such a competent and knowledgeable guide at our service. Many times in Southeast Asia guides are essentially self-taught; a khaki vest and decent English are the only requirements for some young men to claim there viability as trekking guides.

After about two hours of trekking we finally arrived at the site of the rare rafflesia flower. While not bearing the trademark reek of its cousin in Indonesia, the flower was nonetheless bizarre. Spreading almost two feet from pedal to pedal, the massive flower squats on the ground and looks entirely out of place. One’s first reaction is to look into the trees to try and find its source, but rafflesia does not come from above; it is a parasite that grows and feeds on the roots of neighboring trees. Inside the hollow stigma of the flower a kind of white fungus attracts passing insects, but for what purpose I could not quite ascertain. I believe these insects serve either as food for the flower (there are many carnivorous plants in Malaysia) or as a vector for spreading seeds.

It is extremely difficult to find clusters of the flowers as there is only one active site per 500 acres of rain forest. Even if you find the flowers, there is not guarantee that you will see one blooming. It takes roughly six years for rafflesia to go through its cycle of blooming, laying seeds, dying, sprouting, growing, and blooming again. Orang Asli villagers search through the rain forest in order to find a small cluster of the flowers (all at different stages of development) and I assume their commission a supplementary guides is payment for their hard work. Villagers keep close tabs on the development of the flowers; there were several incomprehensible markers with dates and numbers near immature flower pods, and I assume they alert local guides when flowering begins. The rafflesia generally flowers for about six days, transitioning from orange to bright red and eventually turning brown and dying. Our group was exceptionally lucky for several reasons: we were able to find and see a blooming rafflesia flower and we were fortunate enough to see it on its second day of blooming when all the pedals are open and the colors are the most magnificent.

After spending a little time with the flower we were off back down the train. We stopped for lunch at a lovely waterfall and swimming hole, but I opted not to swim because my injured toe still threatened infection, and I had heard stories of nasty swimmies and worms that love to make their home (and babies) right under your skin. After eating far too much ultra-dense fruit cake (I couldn’t have crumbs from an open cake all over my pack could I?) we were on our way to the BOH tea plantation.

For someone that loves photography, BOH was simultaneously amazing and irritating. The whole estate covers hundreds of acres of rolling green hills, and beautiful emerald tea “trees” (really bushes) blanket the hills as far as you can see. The only interruption to this beautiful landscape was the occasional worker chopping away at the most tender newly-sprouted leaves. That was the amazing part. The irritating part was that, no matter how hard I tried, I could not seem to capture the beauty of the BOH tea plantation with my camera.

It happened to be a cloudy day, and the plantation was awash with low clouds and mist. The scene seemed altogether magical, and provided an excellent backdrop for an afternoon cup of tea upon the visitor center’s balcony. I traded banter and travel tips with the other people on the tour, and found that, yet again, I was the youngest of the bunch. Except for the occasional 18 or 19 year old party-seeker in Thailand, most people traveling through Asia are about 5-10 years older than I am.

After expending exploring the plantation’s grounds, snapping hundreds of photos, about consuming roughly 1 gigabyte of memory on my camera’s card, our crew headed back into the Land Rover and drove even higher into the misty Mossy Forest. The Mossy Forest was altogether different from the sweaty rain forest earlier in the day. Similar to the Muir Woods in California, although without the spectacle of towering redwoods, the Mossy Forest was entirely coated in a thick drooping layer of green. While pushing hanging vines aside, crouching under low-slung branches draped in moss, and squeezing between pitcher plants and clusters of spindly bamboo, I thought I might run into a crew filming a new Lord of the Rings movie. The rain had started its afternoon deluge, and as we slogged through the mud Francis continued to point out interesting carnivorous, medicinal, and poisonous plants. About twenty minutes later, totally drenches but happy as could be, we emerged from the forest and headed back home to Tanah Rata.

The rest of my time in the Cameron Highlands consisted of eating fruit salad and riding a motor bike through miles of lush forests and farmland.

The next stop in my travels was a Taman Negara, the oldest forest on earth. Taman Negara’s unique climate, height, and relative proximity to the equator have allowed it to escape roughly 130 million years of floods, rising seas, ice ages, and other natural disasters. A home to Asia’s most iconic wildlife including tigers, panthers, and elephants, Taman Negara’s national park status has made it one of the few places in Malaysia to escape the devastating effects of logging. The ten hour drive from Tanah Rata to Taman Negara revealed the depth of the destruction: for hundreds of miles the rain forest had been replaced by sprawling palm oil plantations, farms, and the scars of no holds barred logging. We passed about one truck carrying huge loads of teak, mahogany, and many other difficult-to-pronounce hardwoods every five minutes. The devastation in most areas was astounding and complete.

The lack of oversight, foresight, control, and a respect for the future are some of the most frustrating parts of visiting Southeast Asia. The logging industry is a prime example. While some may argue that the blame falls on western hands for their insatiable hunger for Asian hardwoods, it would be irresponsible to remove Asian governments from any blame. There seems to be little if any oversight and regulation for the logging industries, and even if there is, I would assume that a few fast dollars would persuade most government officials to look away while acres of ancient forest were decimated. Sometimes the whole environmental scene here is just too depressing to think much about.

Regardless, the haven that is Taman Negara, although ringed by plantations and farms, has gone untouched since the time of the dinosaurs. It shows. Massive trees, wide rivers, thick undergrowth, and the constant ringing of thousands of love-thirsty insects provide the illusion that a stegosaurus could be lurking over the next hill.

Luke (from Tanah Rata), a South African/English joint romantic venture (Mike and Lauren), and I had all taken the bus from Tanah Rata together, and we were convinced that we would find a good guide and do some trekking through the park. After we sniffing out a nice clean room stuffed with bunk beds at the Durian Chalet, we set off to find a guide for the next day’s adventure. Little did we know what a frustrating experience finding a guide would turn out to be.

Well, actually, finding a guide was not the problem. Kuala Tahan, the tiny floating-on-a-river village that boarders Taman Negara is crawling with guides. The real problem was finding a good guide. Most of the young men in the village considered themselves to be guides, but their English was relatively poor, and their white sleeveless T-shirts and young age did little to evoke confidence in our party. Additionally, trekking with a guide was turning out to be relatively expensive, and after about five hours of trying to find a guide, crossing the wide river to the clueless and uninformative park headquarters (perhaps there was a reason for me to learn to word “sinecure” for the GRE), and haggling with stubborn travel agencies over the price of trekking, we decided to go it alone.

Our adventurous, if a bit ignorant, solo trip into the oldest jungle on earth began the next day with a trip to the local market. After asking several people where I could buy food in Kuala Tahan, all pointed to one dingy little shop about 100 meters from the river. I had doubts, to be confirmed later, that this was the only market in town, but with no other choice our party trotted up the hill and picked up our rations. Other than the aforementioned lack of oversight and foresight, an inability to find accurate information is the most frustrating part about Southeast Asia. There seems to be little taboo about lying, and blatant lies are presented as factual information more times than not. For example, in the market situation, one family owns a small market, and although that market could not provide all of the provisions necessary for our trip, friends and family around the small market lied and told us that there was no other place in town to buy food. Because Kuala Tahan has only about 1000 resident, most of whom have lived their entire lives there, I can not reasonably chalk my later discovery of a better-stocked market up to ignorance. My frustrations with lies in Southeast Asia have continued to grow, and I am no longer sure how to handle obvious claims such as “No, there is no public bus to that place” or “That monument is closed for the day so you must come back to your hotel in my taxi.” The constant struggle to find real and reliable information is extremely frustrating, and I am not the only traveler that has these sentiments. I think, for me, the real irritation is not just the instances where I know (or later find out) that I am being screwed, but rather sadness about the general feeling of mistrust and caution I have about Southeast Asian people. I do not want to feel like most people who tap my shoulder, offer me help on a bus, or point me to a hotel are really just in it for themselves, but my experience has shown me otherwise.

Regardless, with our backpacks each weighted down with about five pounds of tuna, creamed corn, beans, cookies, crackers and another twenty pounds of water, we made our way to the river where we would cross into the expanse of Taman Negara. Our long, slender, wooden motor boat carried us about thirty minutes up stream and through some pretty intense rapids before we were dropped off at the trailhead. Our plan was to hike two days into the jungle, staying in a structure near a salt lick called a “hide” to try and spot some wildlife one night and a large cave frequented by elephants the next. On the third day we would trek back to the drop off point and catch the boat, set to arrive at 3pm, back to Kuala Tahan. Mostly, we were unsuccessful.

Without a guide and with enough food and water for about one week in the jungle, we set out on our three day/two night trek. Soon after leaving the moving cool air next to the river, the sweltering heat began to take its toll. I can honestly say I have never sweated so much in my life, and I am a pretty sweaty individual. The total stagnation of the humid air below the jungle canopy coupled with the total inability of any sweat to evaporate rendered my socks, pants, shirt, camera, and pack drenched within about thirty minutes. I remember removing the bandana I had wrapped around my head about every fifteen minutes and wringing out a surprising quantity of milky sweat. The water was going fast, and I was worried already about the possibility of making it the full five hours to the cave. However, future problems would make answering that question impossible.

It was only supposed to take 45 minutes to reach the hide, but after almost double that amount of time we finally slogged up its mossy concrete stairs and, dumbfounded and quiet, we disrobed. Exhausted and uncomfortable, we hung our clothes to dry on the only furniture in the hide: teak bed frames. There were about ten spartan bunks in the hide, which was essentially just a concrete platform with walls on stilts. However, to our amazement, the park service had fabricated a nifty system to catch rain water, and a cold and skuzzy shower was rigged up just outside the door. We were not necessarily disheartened, but I believe Mike, Lauren, Luke, and I were all surprised by the way the jungle seemed to suck the energy right out of us. Also, the leaches that had found their way onto Mike and I did little to make us feel at home. As we sat there panting in as little clothing as our Western civilities would allow, I felt really and truly adventurous. Alone in the oldest rain forest on earth, with the sound of the cicadas crying outside, I saddled up on a the long wooden bench next to a narrow window slit in the hide’s wall, and imagined what it would be like to see a tiger come sneaking out of the jungle.

As the sun began to set, the jungle’s symphony became louder. The constant drone of cicadas was now partnered with all kinds of bizarre, beautiful, and oft frightening sounds. Frogs, monkeys, insects, and birds all sounded their chorus, and at about 7pm the fireflies added pyrotechnics to the show. The strangest of the sounds, whose creator I am unaware of, was a distant screeching cry. The cry started off very soft and after a long crescendo ended with a sudden burst of short chirps. The only way to describe the sound is like that of a distant train, slowly approaching, and screeching angrily on its tracks. While many of the sounds, especially of the cicadas and frogs, were familiar from movies and experience, most of the jungle symphony was alien to me. With my eyes closed and my hands cupped around my ears, I fell into peaceful meditation.

An hour or so into the night the rain began to fall, the wind to blow, and the lighting to flash. Far in the distance huge mahogany trees could be heard as they crushed smaller banana trees, figs, and ferns on their way to the ground. This swansong of the mahogany echoed the thunder from the clouds, and as I reached my hands out of the narrow window in the hide, trying to touch the rain, I caught a short glimpse of them in a lightning flash. There was something different about my hands. Seeing them illuminated before me, reaching into the rain, only visible for a fraction of second, made them seem more real. For the first time in my life I pondered how odd it was that those hands were mine, that those hands did my work, that those hands reaching out to touch the rain held more power and promise than the sum of their bones, muscles, and tendons. I was reminded of a photograph by Steve Bloom where an old chimpanzee is reaching his hand into the rain and seems astounded to find that the hand off of which the rain is bouncing is his.

Other than the occasion awakening by rats scurrying along my bunk or taking liberties with our ramen noodles, I slept well on my wooden bunk and awoke ready to hike to the cave.

In the morning, my shirt, which had been hanging on the post of my bunk for about 16 hours, had produced the most intriguing puddle of sweat on the hide’s concrete floor. With no ability to evaporate, and nowhere to go but down, it looked like someone had poured a glass of water on the ground directly below my shirt. However, thanks to the miracle of synthetics, my shirt was essentially dry. Luke, Mike, Lauren, and I slowly packed up our things and began our quest to find the elephant cave.

Simply put, things did not go well. After mistakenly backtracking and loosing the path once, we thought we had found the correct path. Our compasses showed the correct heading, north northeast along the river, so we trekked through the ferns, leaches, barbed vines, highways of hurrying termites, and through many creaks and streams on our way to the cave. About two hours into our walk, losing time and confused about the sudden disappearance of the path into a grove of tall grass and giant spiders, we checked the compasses. Incomprehensible, unbelievably, we were walking south. The jungle, with its slow twists, extremely limited visibility, and obscuration of the sun had turned our hapless party in a circle. I could not believe the situation. I have gotten off track before in Colorado, but I have never walked in a circle. There are many paths through Taman Negara, but only one for tourists. The rest are made by Orang Asli people who are looking for food or materials deep in the jungle. We had seen a group of these tribal people the previous day, trotting along the path in the opposite direction to us, with not much but shorts and blowguns to keep them company, and I had felt very out of place. I felt as if I were intruding on some place sacred, some place that I did not understand and that I was not welcome. I wondered if our mistaken journey onto one of these twisting Orang Asli paths was my punishment for trespassing. The cave was still nearly four hours off, and the next day we would have to accurately retrace our steps to the drop off point by 3pm. After a long talk, and seeing the only reasonable way to move forward would be to ford a wide river, our crew decided to call it quits and return to the hide. Luckily, I had made notes at every junction in the jungle. Any time the path branched I recorded our decision and our time away from the hide. In this way we were able to quickly and safely return to our place of origin. At about two in the afternoon we returned to the hide and set to making a fire in order to dry our bodies and cook our noodles.

Unlike the first night, when the hide belonged entirely to the four of us, this second night found the hide packed with trekkers. A group from the Czech Republic literally collapsed inside the door at about 4pm, their leader suffering from the unstoppable bleeding of 18 leech bites. I could hear them grumbling in Czech about their journey all the way from Kuala Tahan and their desire for beer. A few minutes later some Germans arrived (with a guide) from the elephant cave, and guffawed at our solo-attempt to reach it. Finally, a few stragglers day tripping from Kuala Tahan came in soaking from the now-pouring rain, and all ten bunks were full or trekkers happy to be off of the ground.

Frequent inspections with my powerful flashlight throughout the night did not reveal any wildlife, and the torrential rain that picked up in the afternoon muted the usual chorus of jungle insects. All in all, the second night was relatively uneventful, and the next afternoon we made out return journey to the boat.

I was happy to see the boat, nervous to travel back through the rapids, and elated order a plate of spicy fried rice once we arrived back in town. Although the stench from a rotting wild boar floating in the river had previously caused me to lose my appetite, the sight of good food (and plenty of it) would have been enough to make me hungry even if I had to take my meal while bobbing downstream aboard the rancid pork.

That evening I packed my bag, discarded some unpleasant cans of tuna, and rode with Luke to the train station about two hours away in Jerantut. There were many friendly people on the bus, including about thirty young men who had traveled into town to buy groceries before returning to work on a palm oil plantation. One of the men, who could barely speak English, tried to make conversation, but his attempts were cut short by the constant heckling of his friends. When the young men disembarked, every one of them shook my hand and smiled.

The bus was now almost empty, except for one teenage Malaysian boy who had been slowly changing seats to move closer and closer to me. Clearly he wanted to talk, but fearing yet another scam, I did my best to avoid eye contact. However, eventually he made his way next to me, and I could no longer ignore his presence. I was greeted by the usual round of questions: How old are you? Are you married? What is your religion? The young man seemed genuinely interested, and I supposed he was just practicing his English. However, he wanted to know a lot of specifics about my journey away from Jerantut. What train was I taking? Had I bought my ticket? Would I be in a regular seat or sleeper car? As he asked questions and continually texted on his cell phone, I became more nervous that there was some sort of ill will involved. I imagined him sending text messages to a gang of young men who would then find me on the 2am northbound train in the sleeper car. When we finally arrived in Jerantut, I just wanted to avoid him, but Luke, who had not been privy to the whole exchange, accepted his offer to walk us to the train station. As we walked through the dilapidated town my fear began to grow, and as the young man cheerfully walked us onto a dark street lined with tall grass and trees, I had entirely convinced myself that a posse of young men was about to jump out and take all of our valuables. However, twenty steps farther I spotted the train station and became ashamed of my supposition. My shame was further exacerbated by the young man’s cheerful smile and help at the ticket window. The first person on my trip to show real generosity without an ulterior motive, I shook the young man’s hand and began the long wait for the train.

The 2am northbound from Jerantut would drop me off around 6am in a quiet nameless town where I would then have to take three busses and a boat to finally arrive in Pulau Perhentian. Pulau Perhentian is part of a Malay national marine park, and is home to giant monitor lizards, monkeys, loads of tourists, and a sea filled with psychedelic fish and black-tipped reef sharks. The most popular spot on Perhentian is the powdery “Long Beach” on the smaller of the two islands, but after catching glimpse of a gorgeous stretch of white sand on the way to Long Beach, I hired a taxi boat and was promptly plopped down in Flora Bay. The water around Flora Bay was still and crystal clear. Parrot fish, urchins, coral, and sorts of little swimmies could easily be seen from the boat making the concept of snorkeling seem somewhat ridiculous. After arriving on shore I scoured the beach for the most affordable guesthouse and ended up at the dilapidated Everfresh Inn. Staying at Everfresh was the best choice I made all week.

After being shut down for over a year, a 28 year old man named Jamie, along with his family and a group of about five other young men, had purchased Everfresh and were trying to make it viable again. I arrived in mid-march, roughly two months after they had purchased the Inn. When I climbed the stairs to the reception and registered for my room, I noticed that I was the first person to ever stay at this new incarnation of Everfresh. Jamie, though naturally a very quiet and reserved man, seemed very happy to have me. I headed to my new digs, a quiet bungalow about thirty yards from the beach with a fan, shower head, and my own toilet for about $7 per night.

Most of my days in Perhentian were spent lazily on the beach, walking the stretch of Flora Bay, reading, sleeping, or snorkeling with schools of incredible fish, loads of anemones with their clown fish partners, and black tipped reef sharks. I was even known to make the fifteen minute swim to a tiny white sand beach adjacent to Flora Bay and bare it all for the enjoyment of the tiny translucent crabs and occasional monkey swinging through the jungle. Perhentian was amazing. I imagine Flora Bay being like Thailand was fifteen years ago before word got out and European backpackers and money hungry Thais decimated its beautiful beaches.

In the evenings Jamie, his friends, and I would sit in Everfresh’s half-finished beachfront bar and sip on beers and what appeared to be moonshine whiskey. Because Jamie was Muslim and therefore forbidden to drink alcohol, he would only consume his libations in a corner of the bar where he was confident his mother would not catch sight of his defiance. Around 11pm we would all wind down and head off to bed before reconvening the next day. It was strange to be so close to those young men. I felt as though I had been let into their family. I would help them (a little) with their construction projects, share food with them, and buy things from their little shop to try to bolster their new business.

One evening, while trying to decide between swimming and swinging in a hammock, I noticed that some of the guys were excited and standing at the edge of the beach. I asked what was going on, and they said that they were going fishing with their friend. Not knowing what to expect I asked if I could join, and they happily agreed. Their friend, who seemed to be a local fisherman, arrived a few minutes later in a tiny boat. On his shoulder sat a baby monkey, perhaps less than a year old, and in the boat were simple spools of fishing line with no poles. I hopped in with one of the guys from Everfresh, and we headed into the rolling sea to catch some dinner. The monkey, although clearly used to the sea, would curl up in his owner’s shirt whenever we hit rough seas sometimes letting our a pitiful yelp. After rounding the point that created the eastern most boundary of Flora Bay, we laid anchor and let out our squid-baited lines. Not much happened for several minutes, save the monkey jumping into the water and his owner trying to catch hold of his leash before he swam all the way to shore. But about 20 minutes into fishing we started to hook some, and pulled up three very odd-looking ocean fish, none similar. Our forth fish proved the most difficult to land. A school of barracuda had come around the boat, and almost every line we let dip into the water was cut by their sharp teeth. However, eventually we landed one barracuda, and having fished for almost an hour, we decided to head back into shore for a fish barbeque.

Our meal was incredible, and so was the company. The guys mostly liked to talk about girls, white girls. They asked me all kinds of funny questions about how to land white women, as if the technique were something similar to the fishing we had just finished. I informed them that the best thing to do was be confident and honest, and then just to hope. This answer was greeted with many sighs and a replies of “They are the same everywhere.”

Our fish, paired with rice and coated with yellow curry, was fresh and delicious. The barracuda was my favorite.

Having spent three or four days in paradise, I reluctantly packed my bags to travel back to Kuala Lumpur. I had a flight to catch to Indonesia the next morning, and I needed to allow myself plenty of time in case my bus, or boat, or taxi, or train broke down. I was lucky to arrive in KL swiftly, and without incident save one encounter with The World’s Most Unimaginably Disgusting Toilet at a rest stop about two hours outside of KL. After trying, and failing, to make contact with Dimple, I ended up spending the night in a train station McDonald’s, asleep on a table, surrounded by loads of Malaysians doing the same. My flight was at 7am, and I did not find it necessary to sniff out a decent hostel, pay my fee, and leave only a few hours later.

The next morning, the 30th of March, I boarded my plane to Indonesia.

Malaysia, the third country on my travels through Asia, was beautiful, friendly, easy to travel in, and fun. Although lacking some of “spice” of Japan or Thailand, Malaysia more than made up for it with stunning scenery, affordable activities, and friendly locals.

Despite the fun on my Malaysian adventures, the best was still yet to come. I am writing this message from Berastagi, Indonesia. Indonesia has been incredible, and I am excited to tell you all about my adventures here as well. However, time, fatigue, and patience will no longer permit me to write.

Know that I am safe, happy, and healthy. Look for another long email from me in the next three weeks or so.

Congratulations on making it through this email,
Best wishes from Indonesia,
Danny

I am safe and sound in Phuket Town, Thailand.  I have had a
paradoxically adventurous and relaxing week, and I plan to fly
tomorrow (March 16th) to Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

Shorter Version:

I left Koh Tao for the west coast on a bizarre “sleeping boat,” but
did not sleep very well because I was up with a couple from England
who had the worst seasickness I have ever seen.  On the west coast Koh
Lanta was a bit of a flop, but I left quickly and had a much better
time on Koh Jum (other than a little incident where I think I broke my
left “index” toe).  I made a short stop to Koh Phi Phi, and now I am
in Phuket hanging out and nursing my toe until my flight to Malaysia.

Longer Version:

I bought a ticket on a “sleeping boat” from Koh Tao to the mainland
foolishly believing the touts assertion that “oh, yes yes, very nice
boat.”  However, with a price tag about about $10 for my bed and
transportation, I should have known better.  At 9pm, when I first
entered the boat from Koh Tao’s tiny pier, I mostly thought that the
whole scene was hilarious.  Reminiscent of my earlier encounter with
downtrodden travelers on the roadside, the covered second level of the
boat was packed, bow to stern, starboard to port, with dingy sleeping
pads and miffed travelers.  The air, hot and thick with the stench of
malcontent, was being circulated by a series of creaky oscillating
fans, and the lights flickered to the cadence of the ship’s
alternator.  My fan, whose pull sting hung limply above the painted
#58 denoting my partition of field of mattresses, would not turn on.
In an area about 18 feet wide and 40 feet long, there were probably 60
people trying to make the best of the situation.  Travelers read their
books, expats tipped their fedoras, and Thai mothers fed their
children as we pulled lazily out of the harbor and into the moonlit
Gulf of Thailand.

The night of my travels also happened to be the full moon, and I could
see the moonlight shining through the pane-less wooden window above my
bed.  About twenty minutes into the ride, as snores a mother’s mewing
replaced flickering headlamps and a baby’s cries, I carefully sat up
and turned to look outside.  There have been only a few experiences in
my life when I felt really truly alive; it is an acute kind of
awareness, as if God were breathing into you, that far surpasses
everyday experience.  The few minutes that followed was one of those
times.  The waves rolled me toward and away from the wooden window as
I watched the black silhouette of the Koh Tao disappear and the bright
beams of the moon reflecting off of the ocean’s surface.  My heart
pounded as I came to understand the reality of the situation:
thousands of miles from home I was aboard a rickety boat, gurgling,
grinding, and bouncing to a strange land.  I imagined what lay beneath
the surface.  Whale sharks and the less innocuous variety both abound
in this part of the world, and I imagined out goofy vessel bobbing
unknowingly above giant oceanic creatures.  I felt a bit afraid and a
decidedly adventurous, but more than anything I felt free.  With my
heart pumping and my veins filled with the endorphins that accompany a
new lover, I turned back into the cabin and found my place between the
middle aged French woman and young German man in #57 and #59.

At about 12:30am my euphoria was broken by a sudden shake from the
German man next to me.  Earlier in the evening I had offered him some
medication for seasickness, and he had remembered my offer when he
spotted a very sick English couple on the bow of the boat.  I met the
husband below the sleeping deck, where our packs were stored, and he
immediately vomited on the floor next to my bag.  Although I am
certain he usually spoke perfect English, his state was such that his
sentences were just reorganizations of the words Please, Ug, Oh,
Sorry, and No.  I urged him to meet me outside, and that I would bring
him and his wife, who I could hear retching through the door, some
medicine.  I dosed out plenty of Dramamine and some wicked anti-nausea
pill that I scored a while back when I had a bout of E-Coli.  The
couple, whose seasickness seemed to me the worst kind of nautical
hell, gratefully accepted the pills then dropped them immediately onto
the vomit covered deck.  Unaware of the condition of the deck below my
feet, and feeling as though I were the only person qualified to have
my head below my waist, I reached down into the the chunky wasteland
to retrieve the lost pills.  Needless to say, my hand instantly jerked
back, and my actions was greeted by many “oh no, sorry, oh no”s from
the couple (conveniently, the appropriate response to this situation
fell within their available vocabulary).  Anyhow, I spent the next
hour or so back and forth between my sleeping stone and the nauseated
couple before the sea finally calmed down and the drugs took their
effect.

Our arrival to the port of Surat Thani, like most in Thailand, was
hectic and filled with dozens of taxi drivers, touts, and confused
groggy tourists.  I hopped on a little Soengethaw (basically a pickup
truck with benches in the back) to a little travel agency’s place to
wait an hour for the 6:30am bus.  The bus started off empty, but
eventually filled to capacity with dozens of Thai people on their way
to work.  As per usual, the money being traded between Thai hands was
far less than the amount asked of the Farong (Western) tourists.  It
seems that many of public transport systems are funded largely by
tourists so that Thai people can afford to ride.  In some other
countries this would be irritating, but when some locals struggle to
make $5 per day it is difficult to get miffed about paying a few extra
bucks for a bus.  The bus drove me all the way to Krabi (the
Huge-Breasted, Saggy-Skinned, Pussy-Eyed, Uterus-Almost-Falling-Out,
Mangey Dog Capital of Thailand) where I transferred onto one of the
many air conditioned minibuses that scoot tourists all around
Thailand.  The bus was filled with Europeans, mostly Finnish people,
and soon we were of to Koh Lanta.

There are very few Americans in Thailand.  Other than the community of
expats that I met in Bangkok, I have only encountered one other
American among the hundred of people I have met here.  Thailand,
apparently unbeknownst to American tourists, is an extremely easy
country to travel in, and the tourist trail is better beaten than many
in “comfortable” countries in Europe.  There are buses, boats, and $40
airplanes everywhere down here, and it only takes a few minutes to
find someone who speaks English well enough to guide you to your next
bus (or tailoring shop tour if you appear green).

By the time I arrived in Koh Lanta I was feeling surprisingly down.
There was something unsettling about the contrast between the euphoria
and nausea the night before, as well as the lack of sleep, and
mounting anxiety about possibly working in Thailand as a Fulbright
instructor.  The beach bungalows which I chose to stay at, per the
advice of the Finnish people in the minibus, were clean, but most of
the quasi Rastafarian community there chose to partake in afternoon
activities that did not suit my tastes.  Instead I took a cold shower
to wash the reek of travel, and rented a scooter (best Time-To-Kill
activity in Southeast Asia).  After taking my scooter about 30 miles
around the island, I resolved that Koh Lanta was not the place to
spend the next few days.  Although laid-back and devoid of the
encroachment of Super Resorts, Koh Lanta just seemed to lack lack
panache; too developed to be considered remote, and not beautiful
enough to evoke beach-bumming desires.

The next morning I jetted off of Koh Lanta to the tiny island of Koh
Jum.  For those of you who keep up with my SPOT travel map or my map
on NomadicPhotographic.com, you probably noted that one of my way
points is in the middle of Andaman Sea.  If you switch the GoogleMap
from “Terrain” or “Map” to “Satellite” you will actually be able to
see the island of Koh Jum.  The long beach on which I stayed houses
probably 200 bungalows and as many tourists and monkeys along a two
mile stretch of beach.  Although the surf brings in lots of litter and
other man-made flotsam (likely originating in Koh Phi Phi about 15
miles away), the beach was still lovely and it is unlikely to see more
than two or three other people (plus a few dogs) on the whole stretch
of sand.

Many of the bungalows on Koh Jum are very new because the 2004 tsunami
wiped out essentially the entire island.  However, new does not
necessarily mean luxurious.  The hasty construction of new lodgings
left many literal cracks and holes in walls, through which rats tend
to travel.  While I was scouting the beach for my preferred bungalow I
encountered more than one with copious amounts of rat droppings and/or
coaster-sized spiders.  While proudly showing one of his bungalows to
me, a resort worker was surprised to see a spider with a legspan of
about 4 inches drop from the wall and scurry around my feet.  The man
quickly took a broom and shooed the spider out of one of the large
cracks in the wall and then looked at with me with a “So, want to stay
here?” look.  I did not.

For two reasons, most of my time in Koh Jum was spent lying on my back
and reading on the beach.  Firstly, and most obviously, that was
really the only thing there was to do; the path from the beach to my
bungalow was about all I came to know of Kon Jum.  The other reason
for my apparent laziness was that on my first day, while searching for
a place to stay, I stubbed my left index toe so hard that it forced my
toenail backwards and out of my skin.  After the requisite cursing and
suchforth, my toe continued to throb and began to turn a lovely shade
of dark purple.  ”Midnight Lilacs” I call it.  I think I must have
broken my toe because it just does not feel very good and is swollen
with dark blood.  I am fairly confident that I will lose my toenail,
and that is actually a much bigger deal than one might think.
Infection is a constant threat in Southeast Asia, and the footwear of
choice in sandals.  I have been sticking to my boots when I can, and I
always apply a thick coat of alcohol then iodine to the area where my
toenail reversed through my skin.  So far there is no hint of
infection, but it looks pretty hideous from all of the iodine stains
and constant bleeding (it is so lovely to have wounds right where the
skin likes to bend).  I will continue to keep a close eye on the toe,
and if the situation worsens (or does not improve) I will seek a
doctor in Kuala Lumpur where the medical facilities are top-notch.

Anyhow, I left Koh Jum on a chartered “long tail” boat to Koh Phi Phi
($16 – gotta love it), and made a quick stop there before heading to
Phuket.  Many people’s expectations of Koh Phi Phi are astronomical
(seeing as it is where The Beach was filmed and it often pops up on
“10 Most Beautiful” style lists), but whether it was the crowds, or
the tsunami, or the hurried construction following the 2004 disaster,
Koh Phi Phi just did not do it for me.  Yes, the shear limestone
cliffs plunging into turquoise water are stunning, but when the
soundtrack of paradise is 10 touts shouting “Taxi Boat!” “You Want
Massage?!” and “Where You Go My Friend?!” it is hard to fall into that
lovely tropical relaxation state.

Today I am writing you this email from Phuket (pronounced Poo-khet [I
promise]).  I am staying at a fantastic little hostel with the nicest
staff I have met yet.  After a short trip to a beach just to the
northwest, I limped my way back to the hostel and spent almost the
entire afternoon talking and practicing my Thai with the women who
work here.  They even shared their chicken liver, ant larvae, and
flying wasp-like bug lunch with me.  Tomorrow, at about 5am, I need to
take the bus to the airport where I will leave on a flight bound for
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.  Again, I would like to apologize to those of
you who are looking out for my SPOT updates, it is just that sometimes
it tells me that it has sent a message when it really has not (insert
another obligatory “spotty” joke here).

I am looking forward to KL, seeing as my good friend Dimple (whose
unique name some of you might remember from my Europe emails) is
living there now.  Wish me (and my purple toe) health and luck!

Best wishes from the Andaman Sea,
Danny

Short Version:

I have spent the last four days on a beautiful island called Koh Tao just to the east of mainland Thailand. In addition to normal beach activities and eating (still more) copious amounts of punishingly hot food, I also took a scuba diving class. I am now a PADI certified Open Water Diver.

Longer Version:

My trip from Hua Hin to Koh Tao was a memorable one. All in all, I believe I had to take six different modes of transportation between 10pm and 9am when I finally arrived to Koh Tao. The night started off just fine: a nice man from the “travel agency” I booked my bus and boat through picked me up from the Pattana Guest House and drove me to a bank (which oddly was also the bus stop). When the bus arrived I saw rows of well-spaced and comfy looking seats all along the second floor, and I was excited for the trip.

However, when I entered the bus I was ushered into the downstairs “VIP” room, which was essentially a few chairs and a couch. The room was full of 20-something guys from Canada who had plenty of beer and pain killers, but not very much tact. I had a restless few hours trying to catch sleep between their stories of masculine prowess, and was surprised to find that the bus pulled over and stopped around 1am (almost 2 hours before we were supposed to arrive at our destination). It turned out that we were at a rest stop, which basically looked like an American rest stop had no walls, stray dogs, sweaty and sunburned 20-somthings, giant woks full of noodles, and plastic tables.

Two hours later, at about 3:30 in the morning, we were dropped off in the dirt on the side of the road with no instructions. After rubbing my eyes awake I was greeted with one of the most hilarious travel scenes I have ever encountered: there must have been about 40 confused, tired, and irritated backpackers hanging their heads between their legs and staring at their backpacks (which make convenient chairs when one is dropped off in the dirt next to the highway). We must have sat there for about 20 minutes before a man picked us up in a van. The van was white which was how I knew it was official and not some sort of kidnapping terror ring, so I was comforted by that. Anyhow, by this time one of the Canadian’s potent cocktails of pain killers and beer had taken full effect, and leaning over from the passenger seat of the van and honking the moving van’s horn incessantly. I am certain our Thai driver found it as hilarious as the Canadian did. He finally stopped when the whole van broke out into a rousing 4am rendition of “Sweet Caroline.” Anyhow, after being dropped off in some strange room with straw mats to “sleep” for about an hour, and taking several more buses, boats, and taxis, we arrived to Koh Tao.

I have had a fantastic five days on this island. Koh Tao (Turtle Island) is about four miles long and two miles wide and contains about 1000 locals. There are no buildings higher than two stories, and the whole place is just a backpacker heaven. I was first attracted to Koh Tao because of the very affordable PADI Open Water Diver scuba certification classes they offer. I spent the majority of the last five days either in the classroom, pool, or ocean learning how to scuba dive. I had a fantastic time, but my instructor, a 50 year old former taxi driver from Berlin, was rather brusk. There are many great diving spots around Koh Tao (and if you are lucky you may even spot a whale shark), and I was happy to explore as many as I could. The little dive school I went to is on the northern most end of the beach which was nice because the central section of the beach gets pretty loud at night. The dive school/resort was almost like a tiny university with beachside “dorms” that you get to live in while you are taking classes.

The people in Koh Tao have been wonderful as well. My next door neighbors in the “dorms” were two Norwegian guys named Percy and Kris, and we spend most of our time hanging out together. I think Percy, Chris, and I weigh about as much as ten Thai people. One night we all went to dinner at this little spot in town, and I was so tickled because the table was just covered with food and neither Kris or Percy were saying anything, just eating.

Today the three of us went motor scootering around the island, and pulled of some pretty extreme dirt hills on these goofy little scooters. The vast majority of resorts are on the west side of the island (where we stayed), but there are a few little coves on the east side with beach bungalows and the occasional dive shop. We would just ride our scooters from beach to beach and take a ten minute swim in each of them. We had a great day.

Anyhow, I leave Koh Tao tonight on an overnight ferry to the south, and then in the morning I will take a bus across the peninsula to the Krabi, Koh Lanta, and Ko Phi Phi area (Koh Phi Phi is where the movie The Beach with Leonardo DiCaprio was filmed). I hope tonight’s traveling is a little easier than last week’s.

I apologize for the lack of photos (which many of you have been asking for). The problem is that many of the computers here are very slow, and it is difficult both to get the photos on the computer and to upload them into an email. I will see what I can do in the next week or so.

Lots of love from Lat:10.1 Long:99.8,
Danny

I have left Bangkok and an hugging the east coast of Thailand’s southern peninsula. I only have a few updates, but I will give you the usual format:

Short Version:

I lived the high life in Bangkok complete with extravagant tea parties, rooftop tumblers of scotch whiskey, and the greatest “hostel” room on earth. I am now in Hua Hin about 1/4 of the way down Thailand’s southern peninsula soaking up the sun. Also, my GPS tracker is not working very well.

Longer Version:

When I last emailed you I had just come back from the first performance of the Vagina Monologues in Thailand. This performance, which many of your are familiar with, deals with issues surrounding women’s sexuality and self image. The performance, entirely coordinated and put on by a young woman named Alana from Princeton University, was a fund raiser for battered women’s shelters in Bangkok. The performance was a huge success, and I believe it sold out all three nights it was on.

Most of the young people I met in Bangkok seem to be amazing individuals. I think it takes a lot of guts and personal-purpose to pick up your life and move to Thailand, and hence the individuals here all seem to be exceptional. I think I mentioned that several of my acquaintances here work of the United Nations, some work for major national newspapers, and the rest are mostly teachers and entrepreneurs. Anyhow, I was in good company in Bangkok, and that really made the experience for me.

In the evenings my friends or my host (Helen) would take me out on the town. I always felt very silly because I only have my zip-off travel pants and quick-dry shirts, but I would be out at some of the city’s top establishments. I had the distinct pleasure of a glass of Scotch whiskey on the 60th floor roof of the Banyan Tree Hotel. Additonally, sweaty and sandal-clad as I was, I partook of “high tea” at the ultra-ritzy Oriental Hotel (The sun-room where we had our tea and cakes was painted white with orchids). Anyhow, the high life was lived, but I was still able to maintain my $30 per day budget (no wonder there are so many expats in Thailand).

My favorite day in Bangkok, however, was my last. Kate, a 23 year old English teacher from England who was also staying with Helen, and I took a “long-tail boat” through the canals of Bangkok. “Long-tail” refers to the 10-15 foot tubular extension from the boat’s motor to is propeller. The only way that I could explain this strange configuration to myself was that it allowed the captain to outfit his boat with a regular car engine instead of a more expensive marine engine (seeing as the engine can be mounted far out of the water and away from any spray). The canals used to serve as the main mode of transportation through Bangkok, but are nothing like those found in Venice. Instead of Gothic and Baroque architecture, these canals are lines with hovels and hammocks. It is always difficult to see this kind of abject poverty (which I would argue does not exist in the United States outside of a few Reservations). People’s mattresses, soaked and molded from sweat, rain, and waves, sagged out of hovels and towards the river. It seemed that most people who lived on the canals made their comes from corrugated tin roofing and discarded signs. Most were not home, and I wondered which of the rickshaw drivers, food vendors, or cold drink salespeople I encountered called the stilted shanties home.

The canal trip was not all dreary though. We happened upon a small floating market where people in little paddle-driven boats scoot out from under cypreses trees and boat docks to sell you drinks and knickknacks. It was fun to see all the eyes peaking out from the shadows, waiting to for your patronage. A few minutes after the floating market we came upon a “Snake and Alligator Farm.” This place was completely ridiculous. They had a very impressive array of animals (including the cutest baby gibbon monkey you have ever seen), and a whole array of tropical snakes. When I get the chance, I need to email you the picture of me holding a 10 foot Burmese Python. The zoo-keepers did a crazy little snake show complete with the most terrifying kinds of snake stunts you can imagine. One man even picked up this wicked looking black and yellow viper with his mouth. The only casualty was a nasty bite that one man took to the leg from a nonpoisonous python (maybe the same one I was holding earlier).

Anyhow, Bangkok was a lot of fun, and after the whole week I started to feel a bit more accustomed to Thailand. Enter my $1.50 train ride from Bangkok to Hua Hin. I must say that I got what I paid for on this particular train. There were probably 100 people in my car alone (some sitting, some standing), and of course there was no AC. We bumped along for about five hours before we finally reached the coastal resort town of Hua Hin. My travel friend, Kate, was pretty flustered by the end of the ride (seeing as she realized she needed to pee about 15 minutes in), and we decided to take a break from each other.

I have spent the last two days (March 3 and 4) pretty much bumming on the beach in Hua Hin. While it is now the most impressive beach ever, I am not to worried because I spend most of my time reading. I rented a little reclining chair on the beach today for $3, and I read and read until my arms started to become sunburned (which I do not quite comprehend seeing as I was under an umbrella and only my arms burned). I have been able to pick up a few English books here and there, and I plan to trade them in hostels as I go along for new material. While retreating from the sun, I decided to take a peek inside the luxurious air conditioned Hilton Resort. Around here just having white skin seems to be a VIP pass into almost any establishment (regardless of the state of your clothes). After reading for a few more hours by their indoor fountain, I headed out for another intensely spicy curry dinner, and now I am here writing you this email.

Apologies to all of you who are trying to track me with SPOT (check out my website at www.NomadicPhotographic.com if you don’t know what I am talking about). It does not work as well as advertised (surprise), and is having a bit of trouble establishing a satellite uplink in this part of the world.

Best wishes from paradise,
Danny