Moving Market

After spending a week in Yogyakarta, Java's cultural soul, I was surprisingly looking forward to the crazy zoo that is the subcontinent. Indonesia was shockingly mad, Yogya however, is laid back as far as city go. I spent my days riding around on AC public buses, making day trips to the sights in and around the city, and watching movies at a nearby restaurant. But after the shadow puppets and overpriced Borobudur Temple, I was on a 6 hour train to Jakarta. Once inside business class, I was glad to get my own comfortable enough seat. This class, however, was not equip to pamper businessmen with lap top computers, as the name suggests, but to provide them with a venue for making money. As we passed distant hills, flooded rice paddies and dry cornfields on the outside, vendors of all types of products cornered the passangers on the inside. Drunk from the midday heat, I purchased my lunch from the head of a fullfigured woman selling rice and chicken wrapped in banana leaf out of a wicker basket. After lunch, you could also purchase all kinds of snacks, sweets, fruits, popsicles, hot and cold beverages. Once stuffed, I had the option of purchasing widgets for entertainment: books (comic and religious), newspapers, wooden trains, natural healing oils, fake Dolce and Gabbana bags, shoes, cigarates...For those unable to amuse themselves, a variety of wierdos could do it for you by banging on anything wooden or metal that would make a noise, including the ever popular street instrument of a stick with flattened bottle caps nailed to one of the ends. Making noise is the key phrase here for anyone attempting to sing would skreech like a dying animal, coaxing you to pay money in order to shut them up. Badly made-up transvestites, children, and beggars would stand next to your seat, motionless, until you took out some rupiahs. People selling various items would throw their products on your lap and disappear before you could protest hoping that a few minutes of fondling would induce you to buy it. The train had become not only a moving supermarket but also a moving clinic as some guy attempted to measure my blood pressure. Those baking in their own sweat, for the open window and the ceiling fan provided no relief, could purchase paper fans or freshening towels stolen from Garuda airlines. As we neared Jakarta, the largest city in Indonesia, the poor, maimed and destitute started to make an appearance. Gangs of dirty children would sweep the floor on hands and knees with newspapers and men would spray air freshener, afterward demanding money. There were more helpless than the money in my wallet and it was impossible to ignore thier cries. Unable to sleep from the racket of talentless musians and the vendors' monotone shouting "Nasi!Nasi! Nasi Ayam!," "Minum!" I mainly stared, either at the circus inside the train or out the window, at the men in tow of heavy buffoloes skidding through muddy patches, at cows, goats, people washing, standing, working, children playing. India will be similar, with its sticky stiffling heat, with its dirty public toilets (i.e. the streets) desipating the smell of shit and urine everywhere, a moving blur of noise, smells and sounds confusing the senses.

Mo' Bromo

Taking a night bus dropped me off in Probolingo in the middle of the night. Urged by the lonely planet, I insisted that the driver take me to the bus terminal in order to avoid being ripped off at one of the travel agencies. The bus terminal however, was deserted and after asking minibus drivers about the service to Cemero Lawang, the town overlooking Bromo volcano, I was told that the public bus service would not begin until 7 am, which would leave me waiting for another four hours. Knowing that this might be a possibility, I was ready to wait it out and sleep on the street or inside one of the minibuses until finally, someone who spoke English well offered a solution. Within minutes, I was perched on a motorbike, on the way to one of the travel agencies. There, an agent would call me a "private" minibus that would drive me the hour to my destination. After waiting an hour, I was grateful to nap on the dusty minibus. To my surprise, I was awoken again and again not by the rising sun, but by the multiple stops made to pick up families, workers, and old women carrying vegetable baskets. This "private" minibus I paid four times the regular fare for, was over crowded with people sitting on benches in the isle and surprise surprise, a scam. But my patience impressed me as I calmly moved and reshuffled let people in and out. I arrived exhausted and was mildly impressed by fuming Bromo and in the background, the imposing Semeru volcano, the largest Indonesia looming at 3676 meters. After a quick glance, I buried myself under multiple blankets and took a short but refreshing nap.


The town of Cemero Lawang was deserted, like a wild wild west ghost town. I was surprised to later see the masses of tourist being herded like sheep for sunrise at the volcano viewing point. With ample time on my hands, I decided to walk to the volcano in the afternoon. It only took me one hour to descend and traverse the sandy volcanic valley leading up to moon crater Bromo. Once at the top, one must be as nimble as a goat to walk around the circumference of the volcano without falling into the steaming pit. Perhaps fortunately, I was discouraged from walking around the crater by the appearance of dark clouds. I was unable to escape in time and was drenched and muddy upon return. The next day I would be in one of the many jeeps filing up to the breathtaking but overcrowded panoramic view of three volcanoes being set afire by the rising sun.

Road Kill

I thought I would leave bad luck behind in Gili Menu but it stubbornly followed me to Bali. Still with some minor pain from my fall, I incurred more pain while traveling by ferry to Padangbai. Determined to enjoy my holiday at any cost, I made my way to the popular Kuta Beach area. There I spent a couple of fun days enjoying the familiar ocean city life with its myriad of restaurants, trendy shops, vibrant night life, and shirtless hotties. In search of culture and art, I made my way north to Ubud where my nagging wound continued to bleed. Determined to see some sights, I rented a motor bike to visit some temples and drive around the capital of Denpasar looking for the Citibank. Early on in the day trip, while lost and confused, I dropped the motorbike on my leg as I was turning, coincidently the already wounded leg. I must have been a pitiful sight as I laid on the street, tourist road kill. A group of men came over to lift the bike off me and I sat on the sidewalk, incredulous and embarrassed. After a few minutes of nodding off the concerned locals, I continued on to the next temples for my leg was only bleeding and hurting a little more than usual. After lunch I returned to my room to changed the dressing and continued on to Denpasar and Tanah Lot. On the way to the splashing but difficult to find sea Temple, I fortunately met and followed two band boys from Jakarta who were as lost as I but could at least understand the directions provided by the locals. We reached the overcrowded but must see tourist attraction in time for sunset and I was amused by the Indonesian tourists who were playfully running away from the ten foot waves as they crashed into the carved rock. Tired and with a sore leg, I rushed home to shower and rest.
The next morning I awoke with throbbing pain and unable to walk. I would spend the next few days mostly laying in bed with my leg up, laboriously getting up to go to the bathroom. The helpful man that worked at the Guest House willingly fetched me something to eat as I displayed my bleeding and now swollen wound. My neighbors provided some light conversation and consoling words. Once I was well enough to stand, I looked forward to going to the post office and out to eat. I attended some very expressive Balinese dance performances and fell in love with the entrancing chanting of the Kecak performers. Despite my bad luck, I loved the gallery filled streets of Ubud and its ubiquitous shops and restaurants, some even selling organic products and wheat grass juice. Even the Balinese macaques that attacked and scratched me during my visit to the monkey forest put by a slight damper to my visit to the Indiana Jones like temple. But wishing to start anew and forget about my haunting accidents, I traveled from Ubud to the quiet tourist town of Lovina where I spent most of my time by the beach at the Warung Rasta chatting with other backpackers and drinking by the bond fire. On a morning trip to see the towns premiere tourist attraction, I was disturbed by the noisy boats filled with tourists that relentlessly chased the numerous dolphins who make Lovina beach their home. Unable to swim or dive due to my healing gash, I became bored quite easily of the quite beach town and boarded an overnight bus in search of the raved about Bromo volcano.

Trouble in Paradise

While exploring one of the many abandoned resorts of the Gili, the furniture and menus lingering like earthbound spirits, I absent-mindedly jumped on a wooden step only to have it give way beneath me. Hitting my shin on a concrete wall, I nicked off a seizable piece of meat and panicked as I saw fat and tissue barely hanging on to my shin bone. The blood came rushing out and I instinctively applied pressure soiling red the white cloth I always carry to use as a head scarf while visiting mosques. Crying from the pain shooting up my leg, I hobbled to the neighboring hotel, where the nervous receptionist called a mule carriage, the only mode of transportation on Gili Menu. After what seemed like an eternity, I was rocked uncomfortably to the island clinic behind a moody mule. Although sparkling new, the clinic seemed to be not in use as dusk collected on the examination table. Generally weary of doctors and believing in the healing powers of traditional medicine, Indonesians, specially those outside the cities, tend not to frequent hospitals. I'm not even sure that the woman who came to clean my wound from a nearby home is a registered nurse. To the amusement of a crowd of curious kids that had gathered around me, I squirmed and screamed as the "nurse" poured antiseptics onto the gash on my leg. Only one child, with his emotive expressions of sympathy, aided in calming me by repeating "slowly, slowly" and making noises through clenched teeth. I spent that evening and the following day sulking and wandering not too far from my loft. I was only made a little cheerful by an invitation to break fast with the Muslim family who owned the Balenta restaurant and bar and my imminent departure from accursed Island.

...and more ships

While violently wrapping my way around volcanic mountains, I discovered how similar the landscape of Flores, with its Banana and Cacao fields, is to my native land. Savoring passion, cashew, papaya, and guanabana fruit and seeing naked kids swimming in rivers brought back memories of a carefree childhood in the Dominican Republic. It is hard to believe, taking in the familiar sights, smells and flavors, that I am in a new faraway land. Along with the flora, the natural wonders of rushing waterfalls, steaming hot rivers, and the breathtaking beauty of the tricolor lakes of Kelimutu made for an exciting trip to the interior of Flores. Regrettably, one must be weary of alcoholics and the Moni Mafia in the small town at the base of the volcano cradling the three crater lakes. My trip was cut short by unpleasant mafiosos trying to scam me into expensive incomplete day trips and the town's drunk continued stalking and harassing of other backpackers. The aforementioned annoyances and rumors of theft ruined the otherwise relaxed and quite charm of tiny Moni.
Once back in Labuan Bajo, I expectantly boarded a sailboat with eight strangers, all European, in order to spend three nights and four days westwardly crossing the Flores sea to Lombok. Despite mild sea sickness, the trip was surprisingly entertaining. On the itinerary: a visit to Komodo National Park, multiple island stopovers for snorkeling and trekking to a waterfall (our only fresh water shower of the trip, spoiled only by the swim back to the boat). Otherwise the daytime hours were spent reading, sunbathing, chatting, relaxing and at night, we were entertained by gazing at the stars, the screeching of island bats, and the green plankton that made a light show of the ocean. Despite limited resources, the food was filling and deliciously prepared by the friendly Indonesian men who tended to our every need. Upon arriving in the port of Labuan Lombok, I said goodbye to my shipmates and made my way to the Gili Islands on the west side of Lombok. In Gili Menu I would spend an undisturbed three days laying on beach bungalows watching the setting sun, reading and eating. Some light walking and snorkeling, as well as one dive in which I saw huge green turtles helped to pass the sunny days. I slept safely in an open air loft and enjoyed the pleasant company of the youths who ran the Balenta, our home, restaurant and bar. On the fourth day, however, my island paradise would become a nightmare as I came crashing down, literally.

Ships, ships...

Once at the Pelni Port, I was unprepared for the madness that was awaiting me. People were congregated everywhere, perhaps waiting for or seeing off loved ones and in order to get to the ship, I had to elbow and kick my way through the crowd. Once in view of the spectacular ship, I was paralyzed by the sheer size and beauty of the vessel. I was pleasantly surprise to see that it was a legit ship that could easily stay afloat for the near 20 hour journey but as I scanned the facade, old fears returned. The ship was dreadfully overcrowded and almost as prominent as the white paint, was the tanned skin of Indonesian seafarers. The number of people wanting passage seemed endless as a huge herd was fighting its way up the narrow ramp, not even allowing passengers off. Scared to tackle the ramp myself, I waited for direction from my equally stunned friend Jorge. Luckily for us, he had an expired police card from his old days as a volunteer so he flashed it at an officer and we climbed up a less crowded ramp. Once on, we stepped over people lining the floors of the hallways and sitting even on the steps. We climbed up, literally for there were no steps and I had to be hoisted up with the help of onlookers, to the top deck and sat waiting in awe. Slowly the touris banded together and six of us sat together, sharing travel stories, listening to Peter play the saxophone. We slept badly, huddled on the floor with the ship's engine buzzing through our bodies and were awakened by the ships loud horn which signaled our arrival in Labuan Bajo. Although on my feet, It felt as if I were in a dream, entering an archipelago of lush green islands being set ablaze by the rising sun. It was like a scene from Jurassic Park and later, once meeting the Komodo dragons of the island, one would see that the movie may not be too far from reality. The ancient monitor lizard can reach up to 3 meters, their saliva containing so much bacteria that it can kill an animal as large as a buffalo. Why the massive beasts with ferocious teeth and fiery tongues exist only in Rinca and Komodo island is a mystery but after seeing Flores' main attraction, I along with my newly made friends, headed for the island paradise of Seraya.


Once in Seraya Island, we spent our days laying on the white sandy beaches, snorkeling in the pristine blue waters, eating coconuts, and climbing the two large hills to get a panoramic view of Seraya and the surrounding islands. With only 15 bungalows, it was not hard to feel as if I was in a deserted island waiting to be rescued. After dinner with my island family, for there were only about 10 of us who ate dinner on one large table, I watched the infinite sky and saw many shooting stars and even a comet being disintegrated by the earth's atmosphere, its fiery tail fizzling out against a dark screen. The sea was also set ablaze with many green plankton swimming up to shore at night and during the day, by the diversity of the marine life and the colorful corals. Leaving Seraya was one of the hardest thing I've had to do this trip and I have still not found a place that can matched its untouched beauty.