An Unnerving Stroll Between Two Bombs

We caught word of the ceasefire while hopping around the tranquil Cyclades - an island group sprinkled in the Aegean Sea a few waves southeast of mainland Greece. Although we never intended on visiting a region so volatile that a lull in murder provided a cause for celebration, the ninety-day truce announced by the Palestinians presented an opportunity of Biblical proportion. Israeli suspicions, however, dismissed this peace initiative as nothing more than an attempt at easing Zionist pressure while the Palestinians planned future attacks. Standing on the sidelines, we watched and waited. Fortunately, we did not wait long enough.

The expiry date of our Greek visas soon tapped us on the shoulders, so we ferried to Bodrum and spent the next few weeks along the Mediterranean coast of Turkey slowly making our way toward Istanbul. After two delicately peaceful months between the Hatfieldbergs and al-McCoys, we stepped off a bus in old Constantinople, walked into a travel agency on Yeni Çeriler Caddesi, and purchased our flight to Tel Aviv. We picked up the tickets later that afternoon and headed back to our hotel. As CNN played on the 12-inch screen mounted from the ceiling of our cramped room, our eyes closed with a sigh as images from Jerusalem showed paramedics frantically carrying the injured from a bus that exploded moments ago. With a week left until our trip to Israel, we held the reins on any hasty decision, and again, we watch and waited.

Seven days later we packed our bags and, in a harrowing cab ride that pushed an Israeli bus to the number two spot on the list of most dangerous modes of transportation, walked through the doors of Attaturk International. After two hours of questioning by El Al security, and a thorough search of our bags, where each item of clothing was x-rayed individually followed by our empty backpacks, they gave us the okay to go through more security.

We touched down at Ben Gurion later that evening. I recalled a conversation Erica and I had about avoiding public transportation by either walking or taking cabs. Those words played over in my mind as I nervously looked out the window at the people boarding our bus that would take us into Tel Aviv. Backpacks littered the seats and aisles, and I longed for our stop which could not come fast enough. Finally, we arrived near the Hilton and stepped onto the sidewalk – the last ones off the bus!

We made several bus trips in the nine days following that ride on the “Anxiety Express:” Tel Aviv to Jerusalem, Jerusalem to the Dead Sea and back, and Jerusalem to Tel Aviv where we caught our flight to London. We checked into the Jubilee Court Hotel and flicked on CNN. Continued coverage from Jerusalem showed familiar images of the bloodied and injured being carried into ambulances, but this time the images came from a café that exploded two hours after our plane left the Holy Land.

Twelve Dead Jurors

We never passed on visiting the many used bookstores dotting the backpacker ghettos. One evening, while browsing through a cramped shop in the Khao San neighborhood of Bangkok, we stumbled upon a novel by John Grisham called Die Jury. The title intrigued us, so we picked it up for a quick glance at the plot printed on the back cover. We placed the book back on the shelf with a chuckle when we discovered it was his novel, The Runaway Jury, translated into German.

The Legend of Mr. Sleep

The ninety-mile journey from Poipet to Siem Reap took roughly ten hours over a cratered road victimized by third-world neglect. While the van violently rocked from side to side as it challenged each pothole, choking dust drifted through its ill-fitted windows and clouded the interior. Five hours into the demanding trip, I welcomed the stop.

We pulled off the road and into the parking lot of a sleepy restaurant. Any possibility of a peaceful reprieve from the drive vanished when several children approached and began aggressively selling fruit and drinks. One twelve-year-old girl offered me a piece of pineapple for 2000 riel. Not that I couldn’t afford the fifty cents, but the health section of our Lonely Planet warned of the dangers from diseases contained in certain types of fruit that included pineapple, so I politely declined. And I declined again, and again, and again. Once she understood my position, we engaged in small talk.

“What’s you name?” I asked.

“Niet,” she replied. “And what is your name?”

“Steve,” I said.

She laughed…and continued to laugh. Then she held her hands up to one side of her face, tilted her head on them and closed her eyes.

“Sleep,” she said through a wide grin, “Your name is Sleep.”

Before I could correct her, she rushed to her friends and my name quickly spread. They all laughed, so I said nothing and enjoyed the misunderstanding along with them.

Eventually, the break ended and we crawled into the van for the remainder of our drive to Siem Reap. I said good-bye to Niet and waved as the van pulled away. What began as typically exhaustive dialogue between a tout and a traveler ended as a pleasurable moment with the local people. Whether Niet felt the same, I will never know. We faced a drive that would continue well into the night with conditions unsuitable for getting any rest, so it fitted perfectly when she waved back and said, “Good-bye, Sleep.”

A Cut Below the Rest

After we arrived on Pinang Island, just off the west coast of the Malay Peninsula, I decided my long hair needed a snip. I hit the streets of George Town and settled on a salon that charged around three dollars. A quick fifteen minutes in the chair produced a style that looked more like she ripped my hair using her fingers. With her English worse than my Chinese, I did not bother explaining the problem. I paid for services poorly rendered and hurried back to the hotel room.

I faced the mirror and concluded that a shaved head would rescue me from this disaster. I picked up my Remington beard trimmer and began above the ears chiselling an inch-wide strip down to five o’clock shadow length. Then the batteries died. If it looked bad then, it looked really bad now. I decided that I caused enough damage for one day, and would live with my new hair “don’t” until dawn.

The following morning I humbly walked into another salon and, in my best combination of body language and facial expressions, indicated I wanted the rest of my hair matching the racing stripe I carved over my ears. She nodded while laughing then sat me down. Moments later I hit the streets of George Town again, but now with the best looking scalp in all of Pinang.

The Disorient Express

The announcement knocked the wind right out of me. Erica and I understood nothing from the voice crackling over the speakers, but the collective moans from those who spoke the language told us the train, already hours behind schedule, remained several more hours, if not days, away. With the insufferable bus ride from Bali to Yogyakarta still fresh in our minds, and now this frustrating delay to Jakarta, I concluded that constipation moved bowels more efficiently than Indonesian public transit moved people.

The train finally inched its way into the station amongst the cheers of impatience. With Business Class tickets in hand, we squeezed through the doors and grabbed a spot on the floor against the wall. Only a handful of passengers enjoyed the relative luxury of the sixteen bench seats due to the acceptable practice of overcrowding. The vast majority of us sat on the floor or stood. My sarcastic hopes for culinary delights or hot towels usually associated with Business Class quickly vanished, but at least we were inside the train unlike those in economy clinging to its exterior.

We labored for hours along the track rocking from side to side past the ubiquitous rice fields and dilapidated houses. I occupied most of my time people watching. Some passengers slept while others indulged in rice smothered with sauce and served on a banana leaf by a woman ignorant of the guidelines for safe food handling. Nearby, another lady read the newspaper. “6 MORT!” proclaimed the headline next to a photo of a derailed train. I did not know if Indonesia used the same word, but I knew that mort, translated from the French, meant dead. Within moments, we neared the town of Kebumen, and our train crawled by the wreckage. I stared out the window at the buckled rails and overturned carriages littering the rice field amazed that only six people perished.

We arrived in Jakarta well past midnight after another arduous journey through the countryside. Having battled almost every mode of transport Indonesia offered, from busses to tuk-tuks, an experience best described as a bumpy ride on the back of a motorized tricycle, choking on exhaust fumes, all the while being serenaded by a chainsaw, we stopped short of clashing swords with their airline. Instead, we toyed with the idea of taking a freighter across the Strait of Malacca until one day, while walking past a travel agent, we noticed an unassuming sign in the window advertising $79 flights to Singapore on Bahrainian-owned Gulf Air. Yes, I would love a hot towel after my steak. Thank you.

A Picture Worth Only One Word

Being approached by strangers requesting I take their picture in front of some tourist attraction happened quite frequently. If they could not ask me in English, they usually pointed to their camera and nodded with a smile. One afternoon in Bali, a Chinese couple walked toward me and gave the familiar point and grin. As I reached for their camera, the lady shook her head. Then her husband, or at least I assumed so, walked up and stood next to me with a big smile. And so, in an album of memories somewhere in the Orient sits a photo of two complete strangers, posing by the temple Pura Tanah Lot, smiling like they knew each other all of their lives. Odd.

In "d'oh" nesia

“What sort of deal are we talking about?” Erica responded in a confrontational tone loud enough so neighboring immigration officials could hear. Mindful of an Indonesian law that prohibited entry into the country without proof of departure, and being caught empty-handed, we knew the question required no explanation. In a somewhat ironic twist, we waited while the officer weighed his options. Within moments we were escorted by security to Garuda Indonesia where we purchased our one-way tickets to Singapore.

We arrived in Bali forty-nine days after the October bombings. The Pelasa Hotel, just off Legian Street, where we stayed, had few visitors. The deserted streets meant more touts per tourist, and we struggled with the constant harassment. From traveller surveys that resulted in telephone calls pitching timeshares to massage offers while relaxing on the beach, someone made sure we rarely enjoyed a moment to ourselves. Frustrated with the locals, and tired of being polite about it, we set our sites on the less touristy island of Java.

We walked into a travel agency on Legian Street looking for bus tickets to Yogyakarta. Worn furniture and faded posters decorated the dingy office cluttered with papers. The lone employee did little more than warm a chair.

“Excuse me!” I said after clearing my throat. When he remained slumped over his desk, I repeated myself a little louder. Still nothing, not even a grunt. Is he asleep? Maybe he’s dead? No sense waiting around and explaining to corrupt authorities in Koran country how an infidel stumbled upon this scene, so we hit the road and headed for another travel agent.

No one sold tickets to Yogyakarta. So, without the required driving permit, we rented a motor scooter and navigated the chaotic streets on our way to Denpasar contented with paying the bribe, if caught. We arrived at the bus station and became unwitting victims of a platform fee – an Indonesian cover charge for entrance into Club Greyhound. While the platform attendant directed us to the ticket office located within the station, the actual ticket windows faced the parking lot outside of the station. We found that out after paying the fee and wandering hopelessly around the platform before asking someone else who sent us in the right direction. Once at the windows, I fought my way through the riotous touting and settled on a company whose colored brochure boasted the most comfortable and modern bus.

Comfortable and modern thirty years ago when the photo was first taken, I thought as I lay there staring at the roof of the bus after the back of my seat collapsed. A fellow traveler we met observed during a South American trip that used American buses get passed on to Mexico, and after Mexico ran them into the ground, they got sold to South America. I wondered how much of my ticket paid for the shipping costs from Peru. Well, at least the air conditioning worked. With our bags tucked out of sight behind the seats at the rear of the bus, we introduced ourselves to the only other Caucasian, a fellow from Germany, and the three of us passed the time away talking about our travel experiences while waiting to leave.

We arrived in Surabaya late that evening where we changed buses. The air conditioning on our previous bus, which worked so well in the parking lot, surrendered to the stifling heat that invaded the relic through unseen cracks and loose rivets once we began moving. Erica and I welcomed the change, but that lasted until they escorted us to a school bus. A fan circulating hot air replaced the air conditioning, and adding insult to injury, every bump in the road lifted me off the seat and my testicles took a beating when I landed. Ernie and Burt spent the rest of the journey cupped protectively in my hand.

Around 5:00 AM, we pulled into Yogyakarta fatigued and grimy, but fertile. The three of us haggled with several cab drivers, but all justified their $2-per-head fare insisting the hotel district was a galaxy away. Making the mistake of showing up without a good map, we sucked it up and paid $6 for, what turned out to be, a 500-yard drive down the road. Utterly spent, Erica and I settled on a room in some cheap hotel while Gerhard stayed at a worse place across the street. Erica began unpacking and noticed that her toiletries vanished. Not long afterwards, I discovered a nasty slash inside a pocket of my backpack where a broken video camera and a few pencils made their escape. The next morning, our German friend mentioned that his hiking boots walked away. Robbed on the bus while we slept!

The eighteen-hour bus ride from Denpasar to Yogyakarta exhausted us beyond imagination. In addition, we developed an even greater distrust for the locals, which is rarely a bad thing. But with that challenge behind us, we vowed never again. Fortunately, only one major journey lay ahead of us: getting from Yogyakarta to Jakarta. And that, we agreed, would happen over the rails.

Tragedylus Ironicus

The coastal town of Broome sits somewhat isolated on the northern slope of Western Australia. We settled there, several days ago, after an eleven hundred mile drive from Darwin, where the stifling humidity made it impossible to spend but one sleepless night. While the car stereo sang in the background, the two of us lazed about our campsite enjoying the comfortable breeze that blew off the Indian Ocean. When the music faded and the news began, its lead story highlighted a tragedy in Kakadu National Park. The headline told of a tourist snatched by a crocodile, and it alone sent a shiver up my spine. But as the reporter continued, the details absolutely chilled my blood.

Kakadu National Park covers three million acres in an area 150 miles east of Darwin. This UNESCO World Heritage Site ecosystem hosts over a thousand species of plant life, and in them, countless insects and animals play the cruel game of survival. However, one efficient killing machine inhabits this landscape with a notorious reputation rightfully earned. In the creeks and murky waters of the billabongs that dot Kakadu lurks the merciless and unforgiving Crocodylus porosus, or saltwater crocodile.

German tourists, Isabel von Jordan, and her sister narrowly escaped the Bali bombing when they left the Sari Club just moments before the blast. Having survived that nightmare, both flew to Darwin and the safety of Australia. They took a tour of Kakadu National Park with seven others and, in a moment of unspeakably poor judgment, decided on a late evening swim in Nourlangie Creek despite the posted signs warning of crocodiles. With safety assured by their negligent guide, seven of the nine jumped in the creek. Only six survived. Park Rangers found the mauled body of Isabel just after dawn the following morning.

Unfortunately, a second tragedy would play out before this story ended. As we discussed the facts that surrounded her death with an Australian couple camped next to us, we all agreed that “Saltie,” an affectionate nickname given by those not in the deadly grip of its jaws, would also become a victim of this senseless event. Ultimately destroyed by park officials as they recovered her body, the fifteen-foot reptile became another fatality in Kakadu's ruthless battle of life or death.

Bamboozled, Fijian-Style!

Lonely Planet became our preferred choice when purchasing a travel guide. It offered a brief history of the country, it never shied away from criticizing hotels for substandard quality, and, my personal favorite, it warned of the scams targeted at unsuspecting visitors. However, we did not buy one for Fiji because, in our mind, a one-week stay did not justify the expense. That decision would cost us.

Without it, we entered Fiji as those very same unsuspecting visitors. Setting the stage was the seemingly genuine friendliness of Fijians who usually greeted us with “bula! bula!” whenever we passed each other on the street. So, there was no reason for concern when a heavy set man in a Hawaiian shirt the size of a bed sheet, who could easily play the role of "Big Daddy" in a New Orleans-based cop show, struck up a conversation while I browsed through a fruit market in Lautoka.

“Bula! bula! Is this your first time in Fiji?” he began.

“Yes, it is.”

“Where are you from?” he continued.

“America,” I replied.

“I have a cousin living in America. California.”

He continued on about his cousin and how much he liked living in the States. As our conversation came to a close, he reached into a plastic bag and pull out three decorative pieces of wood.

“A gift for you and your wife,” he said.

After he carved in our names, he handed them to me without any request for money. Just another example of the warmth Fijians showed toward their visitors, I thought, and decided that such a selfless gesture warranted an act on my part. I asked about giving a small token of gratitude, and he requested US$20. That sounded a little steep for three sticks, and I became uncomfortably aware that he snared me in a well-rehearsed scam.

Uncertain of the consequences if I walked away leaving him with three personalized sticks of wood worthless for his next target, I reluctantly agreed on $8, and we parted ways. I took our “gift” back the room where it landed in the garbage. Such an experience reaffirmed why my wife and I usually growled at strangers who struck up conversations for no reason. Thankfully, I learned a cheap lesson that paid enormous dividends as I confidently dealt with more con artists along the journey.

Curiosity would get the better of us once we arrived in New Zealand. We pulled a Lonely Planet from a bookstore shelf and opened to the scam section where it detailed the “relative in America” conversation. Had we purchased the book prior to our Fijian sojourn, we would have saved $8. Yet, a glance at the price printed on the back cover, and I was contented having saved the other $12…plus tax.