Author: kiah

Awake at 6AM again. It could be jetlag, or the restless cat who sqwaks as I stumble to pee. (Toilet paper in the toilet, deliberately now. We flush toilet paper here.) Back in my mother’s bed I tuck into sheets that were pale blue last night. The dawn would probably be coloring my cozy world grey even without the pattering rain, but there is water falling from clouds out there. I wonder how long it has been just as I notice the birds singing. Morning is morning and it is come, from so many voices. The pushy cat purrs under my sleepy hand. She is content as long as my fingers are moving through her fur. Outside in the weather, the small North American leaves are as excitable now as yesterday they had been in the morning breeze. Everything outside is playing a “telephone” game of song and dance. My favorite, the chickadee, I imagine may sing more and harder than the rest. She is brave, a resilient little thing who doesn’t mind inclement weather; she is a year-round kind of bold. This pattering is gentle at best, hardly a downpour. Perhaps the birds and leaves love this weather most, like a watering can beneath which they perform while bathing. The cat rests. The sun persists. As the sheets adopt their blue again, I consider something hackneyed, something about not avoiding the storm, about dancing in the rain, a life motto. I remember a childhood of learning from excitable leaves, of listening to relentless birds. I have come round the world. Again, and my backyard still holds lessons. The rain has settled now. The leaves dance still, shining, as the birds chatter on. Everything undaunted, everything alive.

Kao Sahn Girl and Morning Glory

Small, pretends to be shy, adores attention. The market rages and whirls around her, she surrounded by family and neighbors. This is her home, where she is most comfortable playing:  flitting from stall to stall, twirling and dancing. Someone she knows is making my dinner. I could watch the morning glory wilt in the wok among the spices–I ask always for “a little” which to my delight is always nice and spicy–or I could smile at her. She might feign distraction as she makes sure I am watching. We are both grinning loudly, small children surrounded by chaos. People everywhere and noise–music, yelling, laughter–a din impressive. We giggle at each other, silently among the sounds our bellies jiggle. We are the winking eye of a storm, until my dinner is made. I briefly hesitate to leave her, but this is her home. She will not quite distinguish one smiling foreigner from another, I suppose. I take my place among the throng and smile a farewell. She is already bouncing away. My food is delicious.

stats + superlatives (this adventure only)

Disclaimer: This list is nearly exhaustive regarding one person’s experience with her partner over four months only. I’ve no aim to make sweeping statements, only to record events as they happened.

Countries & Time Spent Taiwan: 30 days, Indonesia: 20 days, Cambodia: 10 days, Vietnam: 29 days, Laos: 14 days, Thailand: 14 days

Total number of places we slept, or tried 40 (including two nights on busses, two camping, and one in an airport) plus two 16 hour flights

Motorbikes 15

Busses 14

Trains 5

Flights 14

Boats 15

New fruits durian, two kinds of passion fruit, mangosteen, jackfruit, snake fruit, rambutan, lychee, tiny fat bananas, and one that looked like quenepas but was decidedly not quenepas

Best Fruit yellow passion fruit

Most Polarizing Fruit durian

Most Difficult Fruit mangosteen, with red passion fruit coming in second

Best Animal Experiences 1. happy elephants in Thailand 2. frog invasion evening 3. the monkey that sat on Dave’s face 4. the silver kitten who loved attention 5. Reilly’s pet rat, Ratsypatatsy

All Time Good Animal Experiences busy animals doing stuff–dogs wandering neighborhoods, chickens crossing roads, buffalo in rivers, goats jumping around mountainsides

Scariest Animal Experiences 1. chased by wild dogs in Taiwan 2. elephant stampede in Thailand 3. angry monkeys 4. bedbugs 5. bazillionapede in the bedroom

Yuckiest Animal Experiences 1. bedbugs 2. cow boner 3. jungle spider on the trail 4. dog pooping in mud we were driving through 4. mosquitoes 

Most Polarizing Animal monkeys

I’m sorry for stepping on three snails. They were each a terrible accident and I tried to save them.

Lifetime Achievement Award for Worst Animal solid tie mosquitos and bedbugs

Second Funniest Animal Moment (see previous post on frogs for #1) On a fairly busy jungle trail, something large fell out of a tree and smacked the ground. Like six people witnessed it and one woman immediately took off screaming. The rest of us wondered if it was part of the tree but then the realization swept us all together: snake. It slithered right back up the tree while we weren’t reacting.

Bathroom Wins squatty potties and bum guns forever

Bathroom Losses shoes off, toilet seats off

Still the Most Important Advice always carry toilet paper

Newest Pro-Tip every TSA will let you bring an empty water bottle and every airport has water fountains past security

Lost items t-shirt, bikini top, pair of glasses 

Broken items two pairs of sunglasses, two new but cheap coats and one pair of pants already falling apart, Dave’s adventure pants that wore too thin and were twice mended, one dinged up Kindle screen

Boxes sent home 2, from Taipei and Hanoi, respectively

Postcards sent 18 from Cambodia (there is reason to believe that most of these are lost, sadly. Please speak up if you’ve received one), 10 from Hanoi, 10 from Bangkok

Best Night Markets Overall Taiwan

Best Local Night Market 60 Road, Siem Reap 

Best Tourist Night Markets Chiang Mai 

Only country where there seemed to be no bargaining, and honest pricing Laos

Country most clearly drawing lines between local and foreign customers Vietnam

Total books I read 14

Books I learned from (in no particular order) Conquistadora, Men Explain Things to Me, I Am Not Your Negro, Sex At Dawn, Between the World and Me, Be Love Now, Living My Life 

Books I really should have put down The Inheritance Trilogy (yeah, all three), Mansfield Park

Came highly recommended but found utterly loathsome Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Book Store

Most Helpful (and probably a children’s book) From The Zulu, Mary McLeod Bethune to Timbuktu: Black History Facts From Around the Globe

Best Sandwiches Hoi An

Best Dessert mango sticky rice (duh) in Thailand

Best Breakfast Huê: baguettes with egg, mayo and spicy sauce, fresh cut pineapple, dragon fruit, watermelon and mango, and Vietnamese coffee with condensed milk

Best Dinner homestay home cooked dinner on Nusa Penida. Honorable mention: home cooked homestay dinner with many new friends on Phu Quoc 

Best Single Meal Sunday dinner at TC’s house

Favorite New Condiment Sambal  (Indonesia)

Favorite Strangers 1. every local splashing whoever was nearby in Laotian rivers  2. every tourist cheering at Laotian swimming holes 3. the phó family outside of Huê 4. the driver who made sure we got to Chicken Church 5. all the Taiwanese ladies who sassed me in Chinese

Where to get swindled by locals Huê, Vietnam

Where to get swindled by expats Siem Reap, Cambodia

Where to get swindled by cops Chiang Mai, Thailand

Worthwhile Undersold Ruins My Son, Vietnam 

Most Overrated Phu Quoc, Vietnam 

Most Underrated Cambodian islands

Most Like a Theme Park Ubud, Bali. Very close second: HoiAn, Vietnam

Best hosts (after friends) 1) Nita in Bedugul, Bali 2) Lily in Phu Quoc, Vietnam 3) Yao in Huê, Vietnam 4) Yo, Huay Xai, Laos 5) the whole team at Bhumi Hostel, Yogyakarta, Indonesia 

Haircuts by Dave 3 (Ubud, Kep, Chiang Mai)

Haircut by professional/Cat Toc 1 (Hoi An)

Most Fun on a Bus overnight from Siem Reap to Sihanoukville (10 hours)

Most Comfortable Bus Ride surprisingly, Hanoi to Vientiane (22 hours)

Strangest Border Crossing Vietnam to Laos, where we all had to walk like a half kilometer from one country to the other at 7AM 

Most Polite High Volume Rush Hour Taipei, closely followed by Chiang Mai 

Most Horns Per Minute at Any Time Vietnam

Best Sleeping friends’ homes. A most honorable mention:  having friends nearby on the adventure.

Worst Sleeping the floor of the Kuala Lumpur Airport with everybody else who had similar shitty layovers

Most Overtly Religious Bali

Most Cultural Dogma Thailand 

Most Temples Per Capita Taiwan

Most Interested in American Politics people from the UK and Taiwan 

Best Place to Get Drunk Hanoi

Cheapest Living Chiang Mai, Thailand

Most Bang for Your Buck Bali 

Not Favorite Fellow Travelers The Real Vacationers of Bali who seemed all money and misery, tied with the barefoot backpackers of Thailand who not only rode motorbikes shoeless but also brought their dirty feet into places where taking shoes off is customary

Favorite Fellow Travelers anyone who’d rather ask questions/try than remain ignorant (of anything), anyone who smiled at strangers, all the people who’d notice others taking pictures and offer to help or get out of the way, and Taylor

Cheapest/Easiest Visas Taiwan and Thailand, landing visas free for 30 days

Sleepiest Town Pak Beng, Laos

Dumpiest Town Dong Gang, Taiwan

Most Reliable Towns for Good Eats Hanoi, Vietnam and Chiang Mai, Thailand

Most Lame Town for Travel Vientiane, Laos

Most Endearing City HuaLien, Taiwan 

Most Endearing Town Bedugul, Bali

Islands Visited Nine: Taiwan, Xiao Liu Qiu (Taiwan), Bali, Nusa Penida (Bali), Java (Indonesia), Koh Rong Sanloem (Cambodia), Phu Quoc (Vietnam), the tiny island where we stayed in Hoi An (Vietnam), Cat Ba (Vietnam)

Best/Worst Weather Chiang Mai in June/Taipei in March

Favorite Beach Koh Rong Sanloem, Cambodia 

Recommended for adventure-traveling 1) Laos 2) Cambodian islands and Kampot

Recommended for a gorgeous, relaxing vacation Bali

Recommended for Starting a New Life (with an international liscense) 1) Chiang Mai  2) Taipei 3) Hanoi

Favorite Motorbike Rides 1) muddy on a semi-automatic outside of Luang Prabang, Laos 2) off the beaten path all over Nusa Penida, Bali 3) Chiang Mai, Thailand mountainsides (via back roads) 4) Cat Ba, Vietnam sunset 5) through the rain in the East of Taiwan and Taroko Gorge 

Most Likely to Visit Again Laos and Taiwan

#bopo

First and foremost, I will not use this hashtag outside this post for many reasons. I refuse to encroach on the space of courgawgeous (okay, auto correct did that to “courageous”–I use “gawgeous” a lot–but I’m keeping it) people who regularly fight and are winning against institutionalized body norms. I am using the hashtag now because you should look for the real #bopo heroes and read their words, but I understand that as a white-passing, able-bodied, small, cis-gendered woman I am simply an ally. (Don’t ask me what “BoPo” means. Go find it. Maybe after you read the rest of this.)

That is not to say that I don’t fight. The first picture below–the quotation, and it’s beautiful vehicle–hit me right where it counts today. I’ve been having a lot of conversations recently regarding personal scope. Biggest, simplest example is the kind of insulated, majority culture that might lead an otherwise well-meaning–and usually white–person to say “I don’t date [a certain race of] people.” This painful illustration of ignorance is somewhat arguably innocent. So too, with the good (cis) man’s perspective on women.

When I say “somewhat arguably innocent” what I really mean is “presumed innocent by otherwise well-meaning–and usually white–people”. We often don’t take the time to dissect how actually destructive these things can be when we are safe from that destruction, even if we otherwise ally or belong to marginalized groups. Part of my mission in my 31st year is to focus on my ignorance, blinders, and yes, even complicity in the destructive forces of the white, able-bodied, heteronormative, cis-normative patriarchy. Admit the issue, dissect it, destroy it, and replace it with stronger humanity. I’m more aware now than ever that this will take a lifetime, mostly because my societally acceptable physical parts have shielded me so well. Excepting, perhaps, the whole “female” thing.

Among my most ignorant ideas, nestled behind the deepest, coziest of blinders is the insane compliance involved in prescribing to society’s definitions of womanhood and beauty. Holy shit.

Women (all y’all) friends, I do not need to espouse on any of the:

  • critical nitpicking
  • painstaking assessing
  • mirror-loathing
  • analyzing
  • questioning
  • doing, redoing
  • shaming
  • comparing
  • obsessing
  • researching
  • fearing
  • and all other attempts at control

of our precious bodies. And that’s just an abbreviated list of what we do to ourselves.

Men friends: I think you need to hear this. By no fault of your own–we do all we can to keep these things secret–you do not know how real (and truncated) this list is. How many lies your women friends have swallowed. How much fucking WORK we do. How much unlearning we’ve yet to do.

The second photo had me seething, then rueful. I know a good man who’s raising girls and posted that kind of quotation on his instagram. I didn’t know how to talk to him about it, so I pissed him off. We’re chill now but I would love to revisit this. I think I stand to learn a lot about representing my cause; it’s important that his girls know exactly how beautiful they are (the most, obviously) regardless of hair choices. I attached this photo not to put him on blast but to ask: is this a thing you do, too? Do you know why it’s no good? I am not asking to be patronizing. I believe there’s genuine discord here and I want to dissect it. I still shave some parts, so I understand preferences… about my own body. I think lots of people cis/trans/hetero/queer have preferences about the way a partner looks. It just seems painfully, cruelly similar to the above example of well-meaning racsim. Where’s the line here?

I can only speak for my own experiences, but I know for sure that when it comes to expectations of people who call themselves women, body stuff is just the tip of the iceberg.

If any of this writing or either of these photos leaves you with questions, I am available. I’m not a spokesperson by any means, but I am a woman on a mission. Let’s talk about ridding ourselves of the ignorance that has fostered a society whose politicians discuss wombs as if they were natural resources, how to be better gangs of girls aggressively supporting other girls, and how feminism is, literally, for everybody.

.

Shoutout @lorelei.tyce whose instafeed has 12 more of these, all of which are hard-hitting.

on the potential of bug barricades

Exotic living is exotic–birds, fruit, plants, insects, all of it. Ants have been part of daily life since embarking on this adventure. (I’m so petty I won’t even bother with a blood-sucker nod here.) In Ubud (Bali) ants ruled the bathroom: they’d come out to play at night and be all over everything in the morning. Some little flying shits were attracted to the bedroom light in Bedugul (also Bali), so my sarong (Thanks, Bridget!) was shoved into the crack in the middle of the door. This was the first of the “bug barricades”. The second followed a morning in Kep when upon waking we met a “bazillionapede” with a coat of armor that might have protected it from a squish by scooter were one to try (this has since been a subject of much debate). Neither of these bug barricaded rooms hosted mosquito nets. Our room on Phu Quoc not only had this extra layer of protection, but also luxurious air conditioning! Despite this, I really wanted the windows open when the temperature went down the first night. I learned my lesson quickly when that turned out to be an invitation for everybody to hang out in our room. This also marks the creation of the “bug catchin’ cups”, because no one wants to murder unnecessarily. (Except mosquitoes, who can get it any time. I’m counting bodies.) So, the windows were closed, aircon turned on, and our third bug barricade erected.

Rainy season is fast approaching in Vietnam. This was evidenced in powerful storms that would literally ebb and flow throughout nighttimes. One storm began during dinner. There were frog-filled lotus ponds in the yard that had overflowed, and our normally shy amphibian neighbors were now inhabiting the walkway home. Of course I stopped to say hello to every one of them, happily ignorant of their having received the secret invite to our room that evening. Perhaps I was handing it out, come to think of it.

Bug barricade up and mosquito net down, we readied for bed while the rain pounded and pulsed against our home. I heard a scratching at the barricade and delightedly announced to Dave that it was effective! So of course he peeked to see who was trying to get in. A wee frog, attracted to the cool tile in our air conditioned room, was surely seeking respite from the muggy wet outside. The barricade withstood its advances, maybe at first. Maybe this was already the second frog. Because as soon as our lights were off we heard the hopping around. Not just hopping, either–lightly jumping headfirst into stuff by diminutive bodies! These bitty thumps encouraged a discussion about what to do. They couldn’t really bother us, though they might leap into the mosquito net a few times. What if they got into our luggage and peed or something? Frogs always pee, I remember fondly from my country upbringing. In the end, naked and giggling, we chased down–holy hell could they leap!–and caught two little frogs in our bug catchin cups. We then rummaged through everything they’d had access to, satisfying ourselves that we wouldn’t be transporting live animals through Vietnam.

Then came the question of how to relocate these two tiny party crashers. As they sat under their traps, still against the cool tile they’d so bravely reached, it occurred to us that more may be waiting beyond the bug-cum-frog-barricade. The rain had waxedand waned in this time, but hadn’t ever fully abated. When we finally broke down the wall and opened the door, me tittering in anticipation, there were no frogs impatiently awaiting entry. I wouldn’t call it disappointment but I’d absolutely had a more impressive sight in mind. And so, without ceremony, our slightly unwelcome houseguests were gently returned to their home, and the bug barricade re-erected.

two headstones and a hammock 

Hammocks are ubiquitous on Phu Quoc. The definition of ubiquitous. A corner store that offers a three-item menu could have up to ten hammocks ready for clientele and employee use. Our homestay had five rooms and six hammocks. The gas station attendants have hammocks, never mind the beach.

It stands to reason that hammock at a gravesite in a place full of hammocks may not mean much, culturally. (Also, it could have been taboo for me to take this photo–I don’t know.) To me though, upon seeing it, I felt all the goodness of grief, a beloved emotion among the many I so often feel. I will often tout the benefits of grief (akin to the feels in my last post, I see grief as a necessary aspect of a happy existence) and I do love dead things. I think everything dead still tells a story, if you let it, and often better than the living.

I love the idea of comfortably lounging with a loved one departed. Who wants to stand in the elements six feet above a coffin and talk to their lost beloved? I can’t believe any of our deceased would like us to uncomfortably lean from foot to foot for an entirely too brief conversation. They never wanted that in life, anyway. Why not stay a while?

I also love the idea of grieving while physically comfortable. So often when loved ones die we find ourselves crying publicly, awkwardly, on hard surfaces or while standing; definitely with too many eyes around and not enough genuine empathy. Hammocks offer comfort, almost as though being held, and even a bit of privacy if you let yourself sink in.

I can’t stop thinking about this place, and the love I imagine resting calmly there.

adventure, not vacation 

There are a lot of sayings about how in order to have the highs you need the lows, the yin and yang of life, complements. One of my personal favorites I think is Gibran, “Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter’s oven?”

The thing about a trip like this is just that: some days are rough. Foreign places: money and transit systems, foods, people… it will all wear you out. Dealing with social expectations, being othered by smiles and stares and shade alike, the treatment of my–or any–female body, ordering food, random touching, garbage and waste on the streets, animals in pain… the list goes on.

The kind of day when you’re totally alone and misunderstood and pretty much done leaving the house? My friend Charity once called it a “Taiwan day”. We had something to attach it to, being expats, but I have those days in the States a lot, too. Taiwan days can happen anywhere, for lots of reasons. Carving space for your own adventure in an unfamiliar setting is, in a word, strenuous.

That is why we call this an adventure. It’s not a vacation. Vacations are for relaxing, as they should be! There have been beautiful days–weeks even!–of peace on this trip, but there have been a fair amount of Taiwan days, too. Once in a while, on the very worst of these days, I’ll find myself sulking quietly, thinking faith in people is something I’ll have more of tomorrow, maybe. It is from one such place that I write now, avoiding the news cuz gods know that wouldn’t help, beer in hand, aircon and TV on, pants off, pout on full.

As much as I’ll appreciate licking my wounds tonight, even as they are fresh I am certain that the highs match the lows. I am certain that I can handle, and enjoy, the whole adventure. And I am desirous of nothing less.

wan bao dan*

I try to take a picture of every spot where I write postcards, just in case my missives arrive intact and the recipients are curious. This tree house in the jungle comes complete with a gangly pup in his afternoon loll.

I have always thought of being a turtle when it comes to postcards. I’m a slow-moving person overall and have always been. (Notable exceptions: catching busses, falling in love, and, occasionally, work stuff.) I even include this information in my OKCupid profile: “I move slowly and I like myself that way, so you should too,” cuz this is not something I will suffer any shit for. I would rather not eat than shovel food down, and if you need to go I can eat alone. I am simply not to be rushed.

Postcards are small pieces of my silliest heart sent through unknown channels for pennies in the hopes that they’ll arrive at the door of a loved one, someday. (I’ve had about an 80% success rate at this, though if I include unwritten blanks it’s probably more like 40%.) In this way I am a mother turtle, settling gently into the sand to leave a small gift, then packing it up and leaving it be, and trusting the world to deliver it in due time. These little messes of crappy handwriting and half-thunk thoughts work just as slowly as anything I’ve done. Sometimes they take months; almost always they arrive well after I’ve returned from adventure. They are my turtle babies, developing and traveling on their own after I’ve left them. They arrive to the ocean fully alive from their journey, unrecognizable from when I left them; I even sometimes imagine them earnest to be held after everything they’ve endured. The recipients of these small gifts will usually let me know of their successful delivery, and I almost appreciate that more than whether anybody cares what I wrote on them.

There’s that fucking trite phrase about “it’s not the destination, but the journey”, you know? It’s mostly annoying cuz shut up and let me enjoy whatever I choose to. In this case especially, the destination is it. And these aren’t actually sentient little turtle pups so there’s really no reason to care about their journey unless you’re a stamp collector or other type of postal service nerd. These hatchlings are all about destination.

* One of the choicest naughty words I know in Mandarin is the one for “bastard”: wan bao dan. It literally means “turtle egg” because the little things are alone in the world from the moment they’re born. 

What better way to hope for the successful arrival of little pictures and truncated sentiments from faraway places?

But anyway…

We came closer than I’d like to staying in a place called The Mad Monkey, a known Western party spot with a bar and pool on the edge of the Cambodian town of Kampot. Thankfully we ended up at a super calm Khmer-run hotel at which I’m comfortable and happy. Tonight we opted for a sunset boat ride that was also pretty chill until a separate boatload of drunk westerners told us we were losing some competition and shouted obscenities as they tore past our boat down the river. They were a hot mess; we all had a polite giggle when not a one of our passengers engaged with them. But the river is just a river and we had no choice but to see them again–The (now eye-roll-inducing) Mad Monkey Boat. Again, none of our boat bothered to respond to their weird, unsolicited taunting. Nobody likes a bully, especially not in paradise. The last we saw of them The Mad Monkey Boat was cruising into the sunset with an acoustic guitar, everyone engaged in a rousing rendition of “Wonderwall.” I wish I was kidding. Dave stood watching them go stoically: “I would jump off that boat with my phone in my pocket.”

NOT invitations: an elementary list

  • short skirt
  • unfamiliar skin tone
  • beard,
  • locks, tresses,
  • or really, hair of any kind
  • tattoos
  • any other body mods, chosen and not
  • an idea of beauty or lack thereof
  • belly with baby (or not)
  • actual baby, child, or other kept animal
  • being alone

    Culture may allow for conversation, however annoying, with strangers about some of these things. It should be universally understood though, that touching without prior permission is never, not ever, okay. In both cases, we need more empowerment of children, POC, and women to say “no”. Let’s train our bitches to bite.

    could use some cuticle oil though

    I think it’s cool that I’ve had to cut my nails in several countries. That means that multiple times I’ve been gone long enough to require a basic tune up. Something couldn’t “wait til I get home”. Maybe you’d think the same for haircuts, but those can go more easily ignored for longer. I love to eschew basic “maintenance”–see: my armpits and legs–but nails get grody and fast. Anyway I think it’s neat that I’ve seen to that chore in a bunch of places.

    Some may wonder if I’m writing this while procrastinating before a nail cut. That may be assumed correct.

    Dusk in the dust, dawn in the sand, and the tiny hand

    It was illustrated in our boogers and the number of times we had to use eyedrops. There were my feet: they could have been sporting a warm, ruddy tan, until I rubbed them, and once I even made little mud cakes mixing my sweat for a perfect consistency of “lol yuck”. It was the fact that we’d both finally opted for face masks whilst traveling by tuk-tuk. It is dry season in Siem Reap.  These were decidedly the dustiest three days either Dave or I had ever experienced. Sweating at 9pm, we boarded an overnight bus out of Siem Reap to Sinhoukville, where at 7AM our dizzy heads collaborated to transfer to a ferry to Koh Rong Sanloem, where I now write from a white sand beach complete with… waves. There isn’t even shitty pop music coming from anywhere. And the thunder in the distance is as welcome as any sound could be.

    The overnight bus was pretty rad, if difficult to sleep on. Here’s a pic of Dave hanging out with a baby hand that kept crashing our party.

    At one point I gave the tiny hand a brownie wrapper that the little fingers seemed glad to grab on to. Then I realized it had been a “happy” brownie and quickly snatched it back from the tiny hand, which seemed neither disappointed nor daunted by this exchange; it continued to make guest appearances for a while before its owner probably fell asleep.

    “Sleep” would be a generous word to describe what happened for me on this bus. Fitful napping may be more accurate. Truly though, if not for our proximity to a loud driving team and the bucket-plumbing onboard toilet, a happy sleep may have actually occurred. The adventure was there, and I could see the stars. (Dave didn’t quite fit in the cabin so his is probably a different story, which necessarily would involve aggressively snugzing me into a corner to better serve his diagonal lie.)

    The rain has arrived on our peaceful beach and nobody is disappointed. 

    hot bananas

    If I ever come back to Indonesia the first phrase I’ll practice saying is: “Don’t put cheese on my banana.”

    Fried banana dessert featuring chocolate and shredded cheese. Banana pancakes, famous on Bali in particular, are also dressed this way.

    “people of color” used to be a derogatory term

    Have you ever heard of a successful slave revolt? Did you know that white men and the American Civil War were not the only occasions of emancipation for slaves in North America? Did any of your expensive, limited, America-centric curriculums ever allow you to believe for a second that there were stolen Africans, native people, and mulatto-born who fought and reclaimed their birthright to freedom?

    Look up Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Martinique. Marvel that while these successful slave-led revolts coincided with Harriet Tubman’s epic heroics, we were not taught of them. Wonder if it’s because Tubman needed the help of the white man. Wonder now, how racism thrives.

    sympathy for the devil

    You can find lots of animals doing their animal business all the time in the countrysides of Asia. My personal least favorite might be dogs barking incessantly to themselves. One such pup was really pitching a fit the other day, the little yappy jerk. It was late afternoon and I wondered what the fuss was about. When I spied the little doggo, he was bathed in the glow before sunset, anxiously bounding about the base of a shrine facing east. He was very much alone, and insistent. For the first time in my life I felt sympathy for a tiny dog’s incessant noise-making. Who doesn’t want to yell at the gods sometimes?

    pineapples dressed for success 

    As we scooted along the narrow, meandering roads from Gaosiung to Fo Guang Shan Monastery in the south of Taiwan, we passed fields and fields of pineapples. If you’ve not seen them before, these sweets grow one at a time and slowly, right in the middle of what looks to be a palm tree top set neatly on the ground. At first I thought the extensive fields were strewn with paper trash, as so many fields in Asia sadly can be, but these were beautifully tended otherwise. Taiwan is all about pineapple cakes–singly wrapped, bite-sized delights that are slightly dense, pineappley sweet and not too sugary. The paper mess was a mystery! We stopped once or twice near these fields because they were also devoid of street markers. While Taylor and Dave examined the map, I realized that the young spiked tops of these growing piñas were deliberately punched through newspaper as their fruits grew below, “These pineapples are wearing clothes!” The guys didn’t care as much as I did, since directions weren’t exactly easy, but later Taylor did some research. It turns out that the southern Taiwan sun doesn’t only burn fair-skinned humans, but sweet fruits as well. The pineapples are dressed in paper to shade from sunburn as they grow.

    au revoir

    I heard a guy leaving our hostel say, “Maybe I forgot something. I will have to return for it sometime.” Our host replied, “I will keep it safe for you.”

    This exchange occurred so naturally that it seemed perhaps a local colloquiallism, and indeed a fond gesture of hope for an unlikely reunion. I thought this may be the most beautiful farewell I’ve ever heard.

    unplugged and bored

    And then the day comes when you’re finally disconnected; finally free of Facebook and social media. There’s so much reading and writing to be done! Crossword puzzles need solving and the world is calling. Our map is by memory, or advice from our hosts: “on the right at the strawberry monument”, “in the middle of the traditional market”, and “after the big corn”. The birds seem louder here without a phone in my hands. They are too sticky from peeling fruit, anyway.

    These days are easier. I left DC dreaming that on this trip I might experience some level of boredom. To me, yawning and whining about there being nothing exciting sounds like such a magnificent privilege. Since trip plans began I wondered how I would sneak in some restless days of unreasonable complaints. It has been six weeks non-stop, or stopping only for a day at a time. Now, accidentally and abruptly unplugged in Bedugul, the Bali capital of fruit–and, apparently, broken WiFi promises–I have sat still. I have woken up to bird calls, few of which are roosters, and written my own songs to go along. Maybe I watch the sky for hours, just listening. Maybe Dave drives us nowhere on the scooter for a while. We eat the same homemade homestay breakfast every day, and visit the tiny market on the corner for dinner each night. Bedtime is nightfall, our alarm is daybreak, and every boring moment is a bit brighter without a screen near my face.

    After listening to a bit of our “where we’ve been and where we’re going”, as you do in hostel life, one of our particularly fantastic  Jogja roommates asked in some kind of wonderment, “Do you two have scheduled days off?” We just kind of looked at each other before Dave shrugged, “Well, they happen.”

    Yes, yes they do.

    what day is it, chicken little? And other tiring glories

    I know you know the answer to this question of time about as well as I do, but for very different reasons. Time zones and probably some ignorance of where I am are your genuine excuse. Mine is more in the realm of “caught a sunrise, slept an hour here and two there, there was a boat and a delayed flight, then we checked into a new city and made friends and drank beer, maybe there was another nap and somebody in the dorm grinding their teeth, and we got a 3:30AM (By somebody’s watch? Mine has been packed at the bottom of somewhere for weeks.) van to a temple and there was another sunrise and I’m grateful we had food” but I still have no idea what day or time it is.

    Okay yeah, my excuse may be better than yours. We ditched Nusa Penida, which we loved and I will write about eventually, yesterday, perhaps Wednesday, around 7:30AM via a crowded ferry–giant speedboat, more like–on which a quiet baby tugged at Dave’s sleeves incessantly. The Bali Sea was calm and the breeze enjoyable throughout the trip, just shy of an hour. We whiled away some time at a cafe on the beach in Sanur before heading to the airport just in time to have our flight delayed a couple of hours. This has happened on all of our domestic flights in Indonesia. (I love airports so I don’t usually mind, but Surabaya was a real test when we first arrived.) Happily, gentrified tourism does have some serious benefits, not the least of which is that the Bali airport is cozy as fuck and they give you gross sugary cakes to apologize for the wait.

    We arrived in Yogyakarta/Jogjakarta/Yogya/Jogja (Yep, just pick one and you’re good. I’ve no explanation for this. I’m gonna run with Jogja for now.) just in time to share dinner and ample laughs with some great folk who left today, and to get no sleep before sunrise at Borobudor.

    Borobudur is very easy to google but here’s the essentials: it was first built in the 9th century and went through some iterations before being abandoned, raided by thieves of Buddha heads (who does that?), carpeted more than once in volcanic ash, and attacked with bombs also at least once. Only about 40 years ago (!) UNESCO rescued and began restoring Borobudur after rediscovering it, aka the largest Buddhist monument in the world. Today it reigns as Indonesia’s most visited attraction (The streets of Ubud, Bali do seem terribly crowded given this fact, but they were already terribly crowded so…).

    Honestly Borobudur is pretty neat but I would’ve been disappointed had the sunrise not been involved. Nature and its related heavenly forces are the real artists, always and forever. The whole panorama was mist and cloud-filled, also dark enough that some casual travelers needed torches/flashlights when we arrived around 5AM. Flashlights pocketed, we hustled up the many steps to grab a little ledge space and settled in for a real aural and visual feast. Borobudur sits in a jungle landscape and overlooks some pretty hills, but the real surprise for me (I did almost zero research but I swear it could still be surprising) were the giant volcanoes that appeared in the distance as the clouds lightened and the roosters sang.

    Side note about roosters: I fucking love chickens. I don’t know who said roosters were only supposed to crow at dawn but I’m sure glad that’s not the case. I love that one rooster crowing will encourage neighboring cocks to doodle-doo. Or rickie-ri, si’l te plais. Like dogs in a city, they encourage each other’s idiocy. I love all the ways there are to make fun of chickens and that they have no idea. I am delighted the most by chickens who look busy: maybe they are crossing just as you’re scooting through, or running in a field when nothing is chasing them. I love a chicken on a mission, partly because it’s usually pointless; they are just chickening.

    As the sun rose behind Mount Merapi, queen stunner of the volcanoes in sight from our perch, the bats were headed to bed. Pink hues graced the sky and the peepers sounded some dawn alarm I haven’t heard in a while. The jungle was alive all around us as the fog slowly lifted from the green expanse that surrounds Borobudur. The morning birds were snatching breakfast bugs and the roosters, as always, were relentless. It was a quiet delight, a hushed appreciation, shared by all in attendance. Likely in no small part because we were all dead tired.

    No matter our fatigue, Dave and I were more determined to see the next sight at any cost. And cost us it did. The Chicken Church was up a steep hill. Keep in mind that we’d slept little and already trekked to the top of the largest Buddhist monument on Earth. Our poor legs haven’t taken a beating like that in a while, never before 8AM, and bonus!–we had to rush or we’d miss our transport home. Thanks to the kindness of our driver and the size of the attraction itself, this wasn’t as dire as say, our Kelingking Beach fiasco could have been. That said, I did a lot more huffing and puffing at Chicken Church than clucking and cheeping. It was a weird little place and I’m still not sure what to make of it, but the Wikipedia link I posted is the most succinctly detailed account.

    Safely now we have returned to our hostel and I’ve written this ramble. I still can’t be sure of the date or time, but I am happy.

    by popular demand

    Dave did some math just now. On day three of week six I gave in and began this blog. Some few of you may recognize the title. For those who don’t, it’s an ode to my favorite quotation, thanks to Kurt Vonnegut: 

    I don’t know about you, but I practice a disorganized religion. I belong to an unholy disorder. We call ourselves Our Lady of the Perpetual Astonishment.

    This has and ever will be, thanks to some time under the tattoo gun, my sole religious devotion. Herein I suppose I’ll write the details, both delightful and not, of my personal astonishment.

    I have no expectations for this blog but that it brings a smile to a loved one’s face, and allows me to travel just a bit lighter. I am optimistic that some loved ones may comment, and that my writing might improve.

    Lastly, while my latinx, queerness, anarchism, non-monogamy, and pot-smoking will absolutely show themselves and often, I’ve no criticism to make of other peaceful cultures, choices, and lifestyles. (Unless you refer to Cheeto Voldemort as an American President, in which case I would like you to fuck off, genuinely and forever.) I tend to speak and write strongly on these subjects because I feel things pretty damn hard, but not because I wouldn’t welcome a different perspective (as long as it appears with kindness).

    Thank you for asking this of me; I needed the push. Thanks for being here; I love sharing with you already.