My Own Private Medewi

I'm stuck at the moment.  I don't have enough money to pay my hotel bill until my ATM card is unblocked so I'm lingering in the tiny surfer town of Medewi, using my last 22 USD of cash on meal after 60-cent meal of delicious, satisfying, healthy nasi campur (Rice with "odds and ends" according to LP. Fantastic.).  My hotel has a view of the ocean, comes with coffee and breakfast, and at the current rate I can eat well, plus use the internet, for eight more days without going bust, hence I'm not all that worried about the money situation.  It'll get sorted soon enough.  In the meantime, I'm making use of the beautiful stretch of black-sand beach in front of my hotel on which I am usually the sole human presence.  I'm virtually alone here and I kind of like it that way.  Just for the moment.

Trying To Catch Me Riding Dirty

We were now rolling four deep on the Bali blacktop; Belgium, Holland, The UK and The States all represented.  We came to an intersection, engaged in some debate on the subject of which way to turn, and looked up to find a police officer standing at the opposite side of the traffic signal and waiving us forward.  He motioned us through the light and had us pull over.  He asked Belgium where we were going, leading us to believe that he wanted to help us.  Then he asked for our driver’s licenses.  Belgium and Holland produced their home licenses, UK and I told him ours were back at the hotel.  He also asked to see Belgium’s registration on the bike, and then held on to the registration while telling us we were all in trouble for not carrying an International License and also for driving through the traffic signal.   At his request we followed him across the street to a small office where another officer was waiting.  He opened a book with a list of fines.  Belgium and I looked on as he flipped through it, saw numbers from 150 USD and up, and became gradually certain that this was a hustle, just as he was getting around to telling us that our oversights were, in fact, criminal offenses.  Belgium was the first to act, reaching for his registration and pulling it gently from the officer’s hand. “Let’s just go.  Get on the bikes and ride.”   I couldn’t have agreed more.  We moved as a group, making it a difficult task to stand in our way.  With the officer barking behind us, we waived farewell and crossed the street with our hearts pounding.  Belgium and I fired up the bikes and took off, but Holland couldn’t get her bike started.  UK sat with his motor running behind her, looking anxiously across the street at the police, “You gotta be shitting me.”   Finally the bike started and they quickly joined Belgium and I a few blocks up the street.  To our relief no one followed us.      

Easy Rider

I found my way to Ubud after 3 nights on Java.  It was more expensive than it should have been to get here, largely due to a rookie mistake (failing to inquire diligently enough on the availability of cheaper train tickets) that I should have been veteran enough to avoid.  Determined not to overspend again, I hunted relentlessly for the cheapest hotel in town, then with equal determination for a month-long scooter rental.  I found both, the scooter for a bargain 50 USD for 31 days.

Since acquiring the bike I have seen more of this island than I would have thought possible.  Petrol is cheap, the roads are decent and the scenery is mind-blowing.  One can supposedly circle the entire island in one long day of driving, but so far I've been content with four to six hours per day, up and down volcanoes and around most of the eastern coast, each day returning to my pleasant home in Ubud.  After the first 3 days I picked up a companion, a young Belgian man who had never ridden a two-wheel, gas-powered vehicle before.  He took to it with all the certainty of immortality that comes with youth and by our 3rd day riding together I was having difficulty keeping up with him.  With my compass hanging from my key-chain and a torn map page from Lonely Planet to guide us, we covered 722 kilometers, stopped for 31 photo opportunities, got lost 5 times, asked directions from non-English speakers 26 times, survived 2 torrential rainstorms, 1 suicidal dog, 1 homicidal pig, and a flat tire.  After 7 days of high-speed wandering, my forearms are sunburned, my ass is sore, and I think the helmet is contributing to my thinning hair, but I'm not planning on stopping anytime soon.  

Forty-Eight Twenty-One and Eight-Six Cents

Quickly then…I got off the bus from Lily’s place, checked into my dorm-room, tried without success to reserve a hostel in Jakarta via Skype, met some travelers, secured a recommendation for a likely punk-rock venue, failed to generate interest among potential companions in the face of the eminent World Cup matches, took two subway trains and a 15 minute walk to get to the overpriced club, drank an overpriced beer, watched a Chinese version of Wilco play a pretty decent set that contained none of the insane, hard-core energy I’d hoped for, caught the subway halfway back to the guesthouse before the trains stopped running, joined a couple of possibly-intoxicated Chinese youths in a somewhat foolish scamper across 10 high-speed lanes of traffic, each of us laughing with relief when we reached safety on the other side, found a taxi, found my hostel, found late-night chicken skewers, and climbed into my bunk. 

The next morning I woke up, took two subway trains to the airport, checked in without incident, took off and transferred in Guangzhou without incident, landed in Jakarta at 10pm, spent a few nerve wracking moments realizing I was two dollars short of the visa fee and that they don’t take credit cards and my ATM card could very well be blocked, before (CHING!) the machine made me a Rupiah millionaire, ignored the taxi touts, found the right bus was still running, met a friendly Indonesian girl who got off at the same stop and asked me to join her for a short taxi ride to the main guesthouse street, thought I might be getting hustled until we exchanged emails and she insisted on paying for the taxi, found the first 10 hostels full and the first 3 hotels far too expensive, checked in at 1am, sweating and jittery, to an 8 USD per night, mosquito-swarmed shithole called Rick’s, dropped my pack off, found a convenience store, grabbed a beer and a bottle of water, and headed back to the room to sit in front of the fan and read Narcissus and Goldmund and swat mosquitoes and wait for a fitful sleep to find me.   

"If You Ever Get Close To A Human...."

...you'd better be ready to get confused."

I spent four nights in Lily’s guestroom, sleeping in moderate comfort on a plywood mattress, my back aching to a lesser degree after I accepted my weakness and secretly requisitioned a few cushions from a nearby chair.   Each day I rode the bus and the subway into and around central Beijing, saw the required sights, and each evening returned to revise Lily’s English essays and watch the World Cup matches.

As a free-lance interior designer and graphic artist, Lily was seldom required to leave home for any reason other than purchasing groceries.    Her flat was almost undecorated and the few concessions to individuality were hung asymmetrically on her white walls: two small, plastic-framed photos (both of Lily, alone) and one wood-framed, cartoon drawing of a corny off-color joke (Sigmund Freud: What’s On a Man’s Mind).   She was a self-taught English speaker and what she lacked in pronunciation, grammar, and listening skills, she made up for in vocabulary, regularly pulling out words like “detest” or “conducive”, but often unable to understand my carefully enunciated responses.   She dressed in a shapeless thigh-length brown dress at all times, except when she went out for groceries, at which time she would change into a fashionable jeans and T-shirt combo, which would be promptly abandoned in favor of the brown dress when she returned.  She told me she detested parties because of the superficial conversation, detested bars because drinking was a tacit admission of life’s emptiness, and detested being set up on dates because she felt love should be organic.  When I asked if she had a boyfriend she told me it was complicated, then spilled out the saga of a bizarre, on and off relationship with a German businessman; a relationship that spanned 10 years of infrequent meetings; a relationship she began doubting when several previous Chinese lovers were discovered (apparently because they wrote about the gentleman in question on their blogs), which she finally ended with an SMS exchange that took place over a year ago.  Two beer bottles displayed on a shelf in the kitchen stood as a monument to his last visit.   

I had planned on staying three nights then heading to a guesthouse and finding a social scene for my final two nights in China, but Lily asked me to stay one more so she could prepare us Peking duck for lunch the following day.   I agreed, we enjoyed an excellent lunch, I did the dishes, and then we sat down with coffee to practice for her exam.  When the time came, I advised her of my intention to leave, not right at that moment, but pretty soon, and she slowly began to cry.   She said she didn’t know why she was crying.  She said she would “close” her couchsurfing profile.  Finally she laughed a little and said, “I’m sorry.  I’m a little crazy.”  I tried to keep a cheerful tone, making small talk, telling her everyone’s a little crazy.  The tears subsided, threatened to break free again, then finally stopped.  Not knowing what else to do, I shouldered my pack, thanked her, and walked to the bus stop.

Mistakes Were Made

Pingyao was an impulse; a choice based more on wanting to visit one more town before I left China than on any desire to see anything that the town contained.  I was in Xi’an and was flying out of Beijing and Pingyao was on the way, about halfway between, so it seemed to make sense to stop there.  It was billed as a nice quiet town, a little touristy but at least small and quaint.  The problem was that I planned nothing.  I found out there were buses approximately hourly, but I didn’t check the prices on tickets, just packed my bags, checked out of my hotel and hopped on a local bus down to the station.  I was a little horrified when they quoted me a price of 22 USD for the 7 hour ride, knowing a train to Beijing was only about 30 USD, but I was already “pot committed” so I bought the ticket and took the ride, the only Westerner on the bus. 

They dropped me off at a crossroads about 4 kilometers from Pingyao.  The driver’s English-speaking assistant gave me a slightly staccato, speech, “ThankyoufortravelingwithYangBusLines.   Wehopeyouenjoyedyourtrip.  Wewishyougoodluckonyourjourney.”  Then she paused and added, “GET OUT!”   After haggling a decent price from a taxi, I managed to find an acceptably priced dorm room and book a two night stay.   From there I found that cheap food (i.e. something that is not geared towards tourists) required a 30 minute walk,  the only train option to Beijing was “Overnight, Standing” class (which is exactly what it sounds like), and the buses were absurdly expensive.   It’s safe to say I regretted my trip to the admittedly quaint city of Pingyao even before I became the victim of theft for the first time  in my 6 ½ months of travel (not counting crimes that take place in my imagination).  Yes, that’s right…wait for it…someone stole my towel.  

Complicating matters was the fact that I had arranged to couchsurf in Beijing with a friendly Chinese woman named Lily and I was determined not to delay.  For those unfamiliar with the bizarre, egalitarian social experiment that is Couchsurfing.org, it’s basically a network of people who don’t mind if travelers crash at their place.  There is no money involved.  You set up a profile and send out requests to hosts who have a “couch”.  The host replies, saying yes or no, and eventually you end up staying with a stranger in a strange land for free.   This was going to be my first “couch” and I wanted it to go well.  Lily had sent me an endearing message, asking if perhaps I would be her “lucky star” and help her prepare for an upcoming English test.  She also added the vaguely disconcerting signoff, “Oh, and of course you will pay attention to hygiene?”  So it was clear she was a nice woman.   If she hadn’t been so nice I probably would have found a cheaper option than the bus and high-speed train combination that cost me 28 USD but was the only way to get to Beijing by date that I had promised Lily. 

The Beautiful People

I stayed my first night in Xi’an in a beautiful, air-conditioned dorm room for 6 USD per night.   It was my second choice due to the price and after a few hours looking around I marked it down as further evidence in favor of my continuing theory: The number of Friendly Travelers in a guesthouse is inversely proportional to the price.  The guests were mainly couples and I found little in the way of conversation so in the morning I moved on, lugging my pack 5 blocks to the low-budget option up the street: Shuyuan Youth Hostel; 4.50 USD for bed, a marginally functional A/C unit, and a free beer with each night’s stay.  I stayed at SYH for five days.  Everyone was going in the opposite direction as me, coming from where I’m headed and going to where I’ve been, and few stayed longer than 2 nights.  For some reason, this situation created a smooth, steady flow of interesting company.  

Meeting people is beginning to be one of the primary joys of travel for me.  I’m not naturally outgoing and I have often found it awkward to get beyond the superficial with someone I’ve just met, but when everyone has travel in common it suddenly seems so simple.  “Where are you from and where are you going?” often seems to be all it takes to start to acquire a new friend.   In my experience this has been strikingly true in China, perhaps because everyone feels a little lost occasionally, more so than anywhere else I’ve been so far.  There is a prevailing sense that we must stick together, that no one should be alone.  At SYH this inclusiveness was taken to another level.  Without warning strangers became close friends, confidants, mentors.   Over five days I rotated through dozens of relationships, some shallow, some embarrassingly deep; groups of companions overlapping and recombining as new arrivals joined the madness and another forty-eight hour friend said goodbye.     

Bouncing along in these swirling connections, I paused one day and found myself hopelessly spellbound by a pair of confident, enthusiastic, achingly beautiful, ultimately untouchable French-Canadians.  I said hello to them, and then let myself float in the wake of a collection of strangers - some hopeful suitors, most just friendly - that the girls pulled gently behind them; a group that contained men and women from a handful of nations and grew from four to six to ten, none of us particularly sober by the time the sun set.  The group solidified and each of us in turn performed the familiar rites of introduction, then drank beer and rice liquor, and finally set out to roam the early morning streets.  We were denied entrance at a posh nightclub for our inappropriate attire and moped momentarily on the sidewalk before finding a perfectly raucous working class establishment where the crowd danced in a weird, tentative, Chinese-style frenzy and our flip-flops were not an issue.  The lovely Quebecois drifted in and out of our midst while we reveled in our cheaply-bought celebrity status and tried without success to hold conversations, or failing that, a couple of dance steps with the few locals bold and curious enough to approach us.  As the standard dictates in Chinese clubs, by virtue of our Westernness, an unseen benefactor purchased all of our drinks.  By the time we tumbled out of the club with the sky beginning to show signs of the approaching morning, I felt a love for my new friends that is perhaps only possible when one knows that they’ll be gone tomorrow.   And perhaps it helps when one has been drinking a little. 

I’m in Pingyao now; a town of 40,000 souls.  It’s quiet and crumbling and beautiful and expensive and I’m the only Westerner in my guesthouse.