Surviving Sri Lanka just fine, thanks!

Cows, dogs, monkeys, goats, ravens, and the odd cat and deer.  There is wildlife on all city streets in Sri Lanka. 

A bit of a slow start to the grand adventure of Sri Lanka but that’s to be expected as I readjust to life on the road.  I’ve quite confidently determined that I am far too old to be lugging a 20kg backpack around but am still at a loss as to how to diminish the already meager belongings I’m carrying along the way.  This isn’t including the extra kilos of computer & camera & random crap that sit snugly on my lap for most journeys.  I don’t have a lot, I really don’t.  When I unpack it all and lay it out on the bed, it’s actually quite sad to see that this is everything in the world that I own (I truly did have a few moments of choked up self-pity when I looked at my life laid out on a small twin-sized bed) but somehow it’s still impossibly heavy to carry around.  Maybe I’ll get stronger, maybe I’ll continue to shed bits and pieces along the way, maybe I’ll meet a talking donkey who will be willing to share the load with me.  Maybe, maybe, maybe.  Ah, the joys of life as a wandering fool. 

The one thing I’ve been blissfully thankful for as I’ve restarted my life of lost this week is how shockingly unfazed I am by shocking situations.  The places I’ve eaten in, the transportation I’ve taken, the silliness of it all should have sent me shivering and sobbing back to the safety of whichever sketchy room I had holed up in for the night but meh!  I seem to be fairly unfazed by most of it.  Kinda has me a bit concerned.  I mean, I should still be sicked out by some of these things, shouldn’t I?!  You’re going to give me a plate of rice that was 3 seconds ago barely visible as it was covered in flies?  Okay.  I’m going to squeeze my ass into a rusty, rocking, rolling, barely there bus hurtling down the road mach 5, horn blaring, wheels squealing, people spilling out on all sides because this is the way to go?  Alright then.  The only challenge I foresee will be making it out without succumbing to dengue or malaria (ever present fear after my ass-kicking in Mozambique).  Mosquitoes weren’t too much of an issue in Indo but here they’re aggressive, ever-present warriors.  All told, being my first weeks in, it has been fairly easy going.  KNOCK. ON. WOOD.

People – lovely.  Really lovely.   Hardly any staring other than when I’m marching down the street fully loaded and come on, let’s be honest, I’d stare at a pack mule like me as well.  Lots of passing hellos and big smiles and willingness to help when I ask questions here and there.  Everyone seems to speak a bit of English and as is always the case, sign language and charades is universal.  “Hello!  Where you going?” appears to be the standard greeting.  I had to shake my head as two men yelled this to me from the street while I drove away, seated inside a bus leaving a bus station.  Really?  Don’t be ridiculous.  The other, even more common question is:  “Where you come from?” or some variation of determining my country of origin.  I’ve gotten a little bored with the whole thing so I’ve become quite exotic.  I’ve been from Venezuela, Switzerland, Egypt, Jamaica, Mozambique, Argentina, and keep changing as the people pass.  *sigh*  the same question 7,000 times a day – ya gotta mix it up a bit.

I’m slowly figuring out prices and have been RIPPED on a few things but again, that improves with time.  Have found that the owners of the little “hotels” (where you go to eat, not sleep) are the worse culprits.  They come waltzing up, all smiles and English welcome, and if they can get to the cash guy before you do, the price manages to double somehow.  Again, it’s pennies I’m paying for bits and pieces here and there but for those of you who have travelled these roads, it’s the principle.  It’s frustrating but yes, it will come in time.  Only the beginning.

There’s a stamped out tourist route that I’ll get to in the south but wanted to head north to see a few cities I thought I should check out before heading to the travel books’ sights to see list.  Hardest part?  I can NOT pronounce the names of these places with more than 6 letters in them.  Seriously annoying.  Quick run down of the places I’ve seen so far:

Colombo.  City.  Surprisingly clean city compared to where I’ve just come from.  Chaos and congestion but somehow fairly manageable.  Got on a bus and everything!  Didn’t get to see too too much but impressive coastline and functioning infrastructure with fairly happy people all about.  Memorable moment, dropping my camera out of my bag and smashing the UV lens.  Frick.  Camera still works, pics seem to be fine, moving on. 

 Anuradhapura.  Yeah, YOU say it!  Old capital city, temples, history, yadda yadda.  Tuk tuk driver insisting on taking me on a tour to see all these temples and important places.  *yawn*  He started quickly dropping prices as he could see 1., not interested, 2., that I was going to walk and check things out on my own before making any decisions.  $30 was his going rate before I ventured off.  Wander, wander, wander, not so far, and I find myself at the entrance to these temple / tree / sacred places.  Checkpoints and official people manning the gates but I nonchalantly stroll up, feigning any knowledge of where I am and chatting to all the cows and dogs lounging about.  Seems that the official looking people simply want to make sure you aren’t carrying any weapons and poof!  I’m in, looking at this sacred tree and lovely temples for the grand total of $0.00.  Even got ash smudged on my forehead and pretty white thread wrapped around my wrist (think that means I’m blessed for today).  Funny how it works out like that. 

After holy tree place, off to Jaffna.  Tamil territory.  Give me some drama.  Nope.  Can’t even really get anyone to talk much about it.  My presence turned very few heads in this town even though I only saw maybe 4 other white faces.  Not that I’m by any means head-turning-worthy, but you know what I mean.  The entire town of Jaffna, from the roads to the buildings to the EVERYTHING, is under construction.  It’s hard to tell what’s old, what’s new, what is war ravaged and what is just Sri Lanka.  But the town is in progress and that’s never a bad thing.  Not a lot of information to be had and I’m just not a military fort and history kind of girl so I tired of the city pretty quickly.  The mania of the market and centre of town was amusing but cities, well, I’ve gotta keep moving.  Was in Jaffna for Diwali, walked endless in search of something celebratory.  Nada.  Pretty lights on trees and candles alongside the road but that was it.  Guess you needed to be connected to get into a house party. 

From Jaffna to Trincomalee.  250km, 2 buses, 8+ hours.  Ugh.  But I learn on these torturous journeys.  I’ve learned that while the aisle seat may offer a quick exit, it also means getting pushed, shoved, twisted, smushed, smacked by bags, handed bags to hold in your lap, and generally sat on (lap, shoulder, head, any exposed area) as the aisle fills to over capacity with bodies on the move.  The window seat may jam you in, but you’ve only got that one other body to deal with.  See.  I learn quickly.

Trincomalee.  Rain.  Arrived in the tiny little town, found a guesthouse, tried to get a bit oriented, almost drowned.  It’s rainy season on the east coast.  Fine enough as I was shattered from the cross country bus marathon, but come the next morning and it’s still raining, let the pacing begin.  I’m the only one staying here (as most people realize it’s rainy season and are smart enough to stay away) the owner and care taker arranged a tuk tuk tour to see some of the sights around town.  Game.  I’m in.  Learning to barter a bit more and like it less and less.  Some people are made for it and shine like superstars.  Me?  Not only do I suck at it, I don’t like it.  Hate talking money at the best of times, haggling for what I want or need – fail.  Massive.  But I’m getting by.  Again, the people are lovely and it has yet to turn ugly.  Maybe that’s because I’m paying way more than what I should be and have no flipping clue??   Regardless, I haven’t pissed off the locals.  Yet. 

A nice few hours about town with temples and rainy beaches and a local look around.  Tsunami area and wow, the water here scared me just looking at it from the rain soaked beach or the tops of temple ridden cliffs.  It’s big here.  I don’t know how else to describe it.  There’s a bit of sandy beach, maybe 100 meters, then massive, boiling, wave-smashing water that looks like it would swallow you whole as soon as you stepped foot in.  Granted it’s rainy season and the water is always much rougher and wilder this time of year but I was amazed at how CLOSE everything is built to this raging coastline.  A brand new hospital has been built ON THE EDGE OF THE WATER!!!  The tsunami funded housing (which is so painfully obvious but who cares when you need a place to live?) is built far back from the water, there are the obvious re-constructions of battered but still existing buildings but the newer constructions, I don’t get it.  Maybe it’s that lightning never strikes twice optimism, maybe it’s simple necessity, nostalgia, who knows.  But made me nervous just standing there.  Come summer time, I bet it’s a beautiful stretch of water though.  For now, too much rain.   

Temples are lovely, I need to learn more, but enough.  Much to the frustration of locals trying to show me various sights, I have ended up getting distracted by street puppies or meandering cows .  I drew an entire street worth of attention after scooping up a palm-sized kitten off the middle of the road and sitting on a curb to cuddle her.  Dissolved into tears of laughter as a sweet, brave lady emerged from the crowd of onlookers and came over to ask, “Do you like pussy?”  Oh dear gawd, how do I answer THAT one?!  Fabulous, fabulous, fabulous.  The kitten was left in her care.  Week one, done.

24 Hours in an Airport

24 hours in Singapore – I had a plan.  The world’s best airport (yes, the BEST!) was meant to keep me thoroughly comfortable and fairly entertained as a simple route from Bali to India turned into a drawn out day lost within the vacuum of time when the destination was switched to Sri Lanka.  I had no intentions of going into Singapore and getting a room because, well, I HAD A PLAN.  And we all know by now how perfectly my plans always work out, right?  *sigh*  Yeah, right. 

Left on a 5:45pm flight out of Denpasar with a surprising lump in my throat.  I had spent the majority of the last few weeks in very good company, hardly ever on my own, having silly great fun, excellent conversation, and generally being happy, happy, happy.  The 15 months I spent in Surabaya heralded some spectacular experiences however it’s the end of my time in Indonesia which will be asterisked as some of the highlights in the Indo memory bank.  It’s lovely how our memories do away with the struggles and replace all the heartache with warm fuzzies once you have moved on.  Well done, brain, well done.

Okay, so the plan!  Arrived in Singapore and collected my bag as I had to switch airlines.  It was about 8:30pm.  My flight to Sri Lanka wasn’t until 9pm the next day.  Whatever.  I have a plan.  Up to the airline counter I go and …  Sorry, cannot check in until 5am the day you are meant to fly.  Really?  But I have a ticket and it’s travel centre of the universe and you’re open now and really?  You can’t just take my bag?  No.  No?  No.  Of course you can’t.  Fine.  Singapore has a bag storage area so no need for tears, I lose 20kgs and am looking forward to all the comfy cool things I have mapped out for the next 24 hours in this uber fancy airport.  Right then! 

As I had to pick up my bag and check in elsewhere, I'm obviously in the arrivals / check in area, right?  That horrible part of the airport which is all excessive fluorescent lighting, endless rows of deserted and often unused check in counters, abandoned ankle crashing trolley carts, cold, hard tile floors, and a smattering of miserable, unforgiving plastic chairs.  I see a few people trying unsuccessfully to settle into some sort of restful, relaxing, repose and wonder why on earth they would be subjecting themselves to such torture when Eden was just beyond a set of doors.  Silly novice travellers.  Get it together!  I walk confidently towards the information desk to find the way to the best sleeping areas that I had been dreaming about and *pop* - defeat.  I don’t have a boarding pass.  Of course not, I can’t check in yet.  Discount airline rules.  Sorry ma’am, without a boarding pass, you can’t get into the departures terminal which allows you access to all the glorious golden treasures of our divine airport.  But I have a ticket and you can see that my bag is in storage and you know I can’t check in because of the airline and but but BUT!  Sorry ma’am.  Here’s a free blanket to help you suffer through your miserable wait.  *sniffsniff*  thank you. 

So now what?  I have 8 hours, EIGHT, in the arrivals area, purgatory of airline travel.  And I’m tired.  I waste a bit of time by wandering and using the internet and wandering and then score!  I find a little carpeted area that is some kind of gallery, information thingy and there are people scattered about chatting and SLEEPING!  So I hunker down in a little corner, gleefully more comfy than I was hoping for, and quickly nod off.  Less than an hour later, some random man is speaking loudly but kindly above me, telling me that this public space is closed and I must leave.  But it’s an open room, how can it be closed?  There are no doors, it’s just a room with a carpet and I’m really tired and look at how sad I look and seriously, come on, please?  Sorry, closed.  *grumblegrumblegrumble*  I stagger around, open mouth zombie stumble.  It’s nearing 1am, I just want to sleep. 

Top floor, restaurant level, no people around as everything is closed.  A long hallway leads towards the entrance to the car park and it’s slightly, just slightly warmer and darker than the rest of the cold-hearted arrivals area.  This will do.  I use my gifted free blanket as a pillow, wrap up in my trusty travel blanket, pull my hood over my face, curl up around my bags, and look like a proper homeless person stretched out alongside a random wall.  Do I care?  Nope.  After my body becomes numb to the unyielding tile floor, I’m out.  I got in a good 2 & ½ hrs of tossing and turning then up to reclaim my stored bag, check in for that sweet, sweet boarding pass, and hoof it to the comfy section of departure hall heaven that had been calling my name for hours.   

For those of you who haven’t had the luxury of travel, I’m sure you’ve run into large groups of Asians in your home country at some point or another.  Japanese, Korean, Chinese, Indonesian, irrelevant.  Populations from this side of the world.  Yes this is a sweeping generalization but one which Asians undoubtedly agree with me on.  They are loud.  Unbearably loud.  I find the most sublime sleep chair in a rest area called “Oasis”, am 3 seconds from over the moon, but keep getting jolted awake by the unbelievably loud groups of people in the surrounding chairs.  This area is dark, the chairs are obviously designed for sleeping in, all kinds of other people have settled into them attempting to sleep, and these folks are guffawing and shouting and carrying on their daily gossip as if they were sitting a full mile and a half apart.  Dirty glares, nothing.  Big sighs.  Nothing.  Moving to change my sleep spot in a pouty stomp.  Still nothing.  Oh wow.  Don’t mess with me now, bitches.  Just don’t do it.  I thankfully remembered to bring my earplugs so in they go, one last dirty look for good measure, and I’m out for the count.  Ugh.

A good couple of hours and I’m able to face the day.  Plan of action – the free bus tour of Singapore.  When in tourist town, be a tourist!  I hop, skip, and jump my way over to sign up for the tour and *thud*  kick in the teeth.  Because I had arrived last night, stamp in passport says Nov. 8.  I couldn’t check in, hence clear immigration, until this morning so THAT stamp says Nov. 9.  Technically, my passport stamps say I have been out then in again.  But I haven’t left, there was just no way to check in.  It doesn’t matter, your stamps won’t allow you to leave the airport again. Sorry ma’am, no tour for you. 

Of course not.

I console myself with Subway for breakfast (oh my gosh I have missed Subway), consider getting hammered on duty free alcohol samples, and decide to just carry on with the rest of my plans.  Hopping between terminals, I wandered through gardens, koi pond areas, and a butterfly enclosure, had proper Skype conversations (thanks Nix and Jase!), found those great chairs with feet and leg massagers, caught up on some internet time, watched a bit of TV and a terrible movie, took a 20 minute hot shower (the best $7 I have ever spent!) and was surprised at how fast it all passed.  While yes, my 24 hour Singapore airport plan was riddled with disappointments, overall, it was still a success.  If ever you’re crossing the seas and need to waste a few hours , have I got an airport for you!    

Leaving on a High Note

Wow.   5 & ½ weeks of floating through a life of leisure in a country I had been desperate to escape for some time.  Not so bad.  The paths I’ve been led down over the last few months have been ever changing and full of unscripted surprises.  Stomach lurching upsets and heart bursting reunions have fuelled emotional tidal waves worthy of dramatic accolades and set me on a road that I would have never found if left to my own small mind.  It’s the people, always the people.  It has been an uplifting end to my Indo road, the note I wanted to go out on.

Life is easy in Bali.  Easy to travel, easy to understand, easy to live.  Yes, yes, it’s Indonesia so there are the everyday frustrations that come from an inability to think outside said “box” but things work, more or less, here.  The service industry here truly is a functioning industry but pride in who they are is present outside of the service industry world, in even the very small things.  Efforts are evident in yes, promoting luxury tourism but also in keeping good care of their island, their home, whether the boss is watching or not.  While of course trained (or tainted) by western influences, there is still culture woven through the everyday performing pony duties.  People are kind here, peaceful here, personable.  From the big cities to the smaller, lost on my motorbike villages the interest is genuine, soft, inviting.  Oh wow, don’t get me wrong, there are turds, there are always turds, but they seem to be much less concentrated here. 

Gone are the shudder inducing shouts of slurred “BULE!” (foreigner) donkey calls as I walk down the street or drive by homes.  Gone are the gawking, finger up the nose, glazed eye stares as I pull up to a stop light or enter a shop.  Gone are the whispers and giggles and agonizing delays accompanying any small task as one or the other gathers enough courage to speak a word or two of English on a dare, not a welcome or greeting, sending all surrounding parties into collapsing hysterics.  *sigh*  Gone, gone, gone.  Yes, there are still the occasional looks of surprise, gasps of shock, and signs of distress when my white face shows up but almost always, almost always, composure is quickly regained and a genuine smile replaces any previous sign of alarm.  The Balinese people are lovely, lovely, lovely.  Instead of running frantically towards the airport exit gate, I will breathe a small, wistful sigh of thanks that my ever changing plans allowed me to experience this very unique island within this very complex country before going on my way.  Thanks Universe, I owe you. 

The weeks have passed in a spin cycle and I’m having trouble remembering all that I’ve done.  I’ve visited familiar places and relished in feeling a bit like a local while doing nothing at all.  I’ve seen new places that left me ooohing and ahhhing when I thought there couldn’t be much left to wow me.  I’ve met people who have rekindled my love of exploring by willingly doing it with me.  I’ve refilled my closed door lonely heart of the past year with new memories with dear friends from days of when I was more … me.  My camera wasn’t so much the focus this time around, even though I do have more than I need; these past few weeks have simply been about … feeling it.  Just feeling it.  My emotions have been intense, from serenity to rage to heart wide open love.  I’ve run headlong into laughing without restraint, reacting without filters, and embracing experiences without analyzing.  And it has felt very, very good.

 I am ready for the next part of my journey (she says now in the comfort of a familiar house in a familiar town).  I am welcoming the anxiety that always accompanies my first steps in heading towards a new country (she says with a tight-lipped grimace).  I am moving forward, finding a path, making decisions (she says with 3 years of lost and aimless on the road quickly approaching).  I am ready.

A few highlights, shall we?

Hidden away, barely there, well-kept secret bays and pristine beaches found by merciless motorbike maneuvering shared with some of the best company I could have ever hoped for. Surfers and divers demand the most breath-taking scenery in the world.  Easy. 

Meeting a friend from a lifetime ago and getting to snorkel with him, a pod of dolphins, and a few magical mantas.  Wow.

Laughing my guts out with my SA boys from Mozambique.  The love and peace I feel in their company centres me entirely.  So.  Much.  Love.    

A mute, mentally and physically disabled girl on a deserted beach taking my hand, leading me to the sea, and playing in the water with only the sounds of the waves and her laughter.  Heaven. 

Fully mastering motorbike riding chaos with large men on the back of my bike.  Victory.

Experiencing the lunatic fun of diving with friends rather than random divers.  Ridiculous fun.

Liberating a tied up crab.  Yes, a crab.

Meeting a very cool Bristol Boy who just happens to love mantas as much as I do.  Bliss.

Relearning the art of just going with it.  Excellent.   

I’ve covered all of south Bali several times over, been up and down Lombok and over to a few islands.  I’ve blown my budget clear out of the atmosphere but wouldn’t take any of it back.  I haven’t sat still for very long at all and I’ve made a new travel plan which will keep me on the road for the next few months, fingers crossed. 

India is still in the plans but Sri Lanka will be the first stop.  Too many conversations and flashing neon arrows have pointed in that direction over the last couple of weeks so yes, Sri Lanka is mine for the taking.  No connections, no plans, just going.  How hard can it be? Ahhhh... the trouble I have found myself in and the stories that have followed past utterances of those 5 little words … I cannot wait.  New worlds on the horizon folks, wish me luck!    

Motorbike Molestation

One day.  I’ve crossed back over to the dark side for only one day and it has revealed itself in all its distasteful and difficult nature.  One short day.  Give me strength, not to tolerate but to strike quick and firm.  Defenses are re-ignited.  This is not the way I want it to be but I will be ready.

I left Bali today for a road trip to the next island, Lombok.  Knew one friend Carol would be diving here and will be meeting up with the Moz monkeys, Darryn and Nick, here in the next couple of days as well.  Hopped on my bike and had a general idea of where I was meant to be going which means, what?  Yes, got lost.  So after a little turn around, I was on my way.  Roooooaaad triiiiiip!!!  Big backpack on (full of I don’t know how it gets so full and heavy stuff) and it felt quite cool to be ripping around, solo-style, on my little mini motorbike.  Got to the ferry, skillfully avoided the police check stops, and a very uneventful 4 hour boat trip ensued.  So I had some time to watch. 

I’ve mentioned the differences in cultures already but this is the longest I’ve been out of contact with the rest of Indo since I’ve arrived in Bali Indo so the differences were all the more striking.  To see women, young girls, children covered in an overabundance of layered clothing, headscarves, and face veils again is something that evokes a visceral reaction in me.  And the men, okay, yes, I’ve been in fairly touristy areas over the last two weeks, but the nose-picking, toe-picking, horking, spitting, belching, scratching, slack-jawed stares were just overwhelming.  I haven’t seen it in all its vulgar atrociousness in two weeks so the primitiveness of the everyday behaviours was glaring in daytime glory.

As a single, white, travelling female, I have learned to be aware of things that others may not need to consider.  I’ve learned to confront the slack-jawed staring men with an abrupt WHAT?! in Bahasa which usually shakes them enough to stare a little less openly or move away from this aggressive, vibrating foreigner.  I’ve learned who I can ask for help, where I can stop for food or bits and pieces, and where I should stay at night based on a quick glance of who is lounging about outside the front area.  A flip was switched on that ferry and I was immediately back to being on full guard and attention due to a simple observation of the way people around me were simply reacting to my presence.  Things aren’t so peaceful on this side of the water. 

I got off the ferry and began driving aimlessly in the general direction of south.  In no way at all did I think to prepare for this little road trip so I had no idea where I was going or what I was looking for.  Smart girl.  Smart.  I saw a road sign for the name of a town where I was sure Carol was staying so I drove and drove and drove and didn’t really find anything.  Then the skies started to get heavy.  Rainy season is just around the corner now.  I decided to find a place to stay before it either started to rain or got too dark.  Commence the other fabulous behavior I had not missed at all… the lying.

A quick stop at a little beach side set of bungalows where an eager young man spoke in okay English and offered a way over-priced room for the night.  I asked in terrible Bahasa about a homestay or guesthouse and he quickly replied, “no.”  I raised an eyebrow, laughed a “come on!” and again he insisted that no, there are no guesthouses or homestays or anything around anywhere else but his place (which was a one minute walk down the road from another set of bungalows that I had just passed).  I tried again, come on, you know that’s not true, there are many, I have seen many.  No, was his reply.  Really.  There is nothing.  No guesthouse.  No bungalow.  No.  Only me.   I was done.  Conversation over and I walked off to find a lovely little bungalow 5 minutes down the road.  You’d think I’d get used to it, this is the common place behaviour  I have experienced time and time again in this country but nope, it gets under my skin each and every time.  Say “I don’t know”, that’s fine, but to argue with me about what is an obvious LIE just does my head in.  *sigh*  deep breath in, deep breath out.

As I was settling my stuff into my lovely little room I turned my head to the open door to see two small children and a full grown woman staring into my room at me.  And this continued everywhere that I tried to walk.  “Hello misterrrrrrrr!” howled young boys as I walked past, yelps, barks, shouts, and grunts were bellowed across the street or over the sand as I looked at the water.  Is this really how people communicate?!  I’ve driven wild and walked free for the past two weeks in Bali and not once, not ONCE was I shouted at, gestured at, or harassed in any way.  Hours here and I am ready to run for cover from the gawking mental patient lock up ward that is all around me. 

So I kinda do.  I hop back on the bike determined to find Carol.  And I do!  Yay!  A lovely little surprise visit and will reconnect with her and her friends tomorrow as we move on to the next town.  I will be thankful for the company because you haven’t heard the worst yet.  There’s always more to these stories, isn’t there?

I had about a 20km drive back from where Carol was staying to my place.  I planned to take it slow as it was fully dark and it was a small, windy road that led me home but I had no real fear or hesitation about the trip.  Again, lesson learned.  The road is fairly deserted with a few small clumps of houses and shops every couple of kilometers or so.  Shortly into my journey, in a dark section of the road, two 18 year old punks pull up beside me and start whooping and hello misterrrr-ing and keeping pace with me.  I had NO idea how vulnerable you are on a motorbike.  I shouted a few choice obscenities, slowed right down, and they drove off laughing and high-fiving. 

 I continued on, they were waiting for me.  If I sped up, they cut me off, if I slowed down, they waited, and it was dark, dark, dark.  At one point they were following right behind me so I slammed on my brakes and pulled to the side of the road.  They zoomed up on me, veered to smash into my handlebars and mirrors and tried to run me off the road laughing their hyena-like laughs as only underdeveloped teenage boys can do, before driving off.  Did I mention it was dark and there was nothing around but jungle on one side and sea on the other?  F**k.  Think, Janice, think.  So I slowed and waited until their taillight disappeared before carrying on. 

I saw them, lights off, parked on the side of the road, waiting for me again as I tried to get to the next cluster of civilization as fast as I could.  This time, they zoomed up on me, swerved into me, and one of the putrid little snots reached over and grabbed my boob!  Yes, I was groped going 60kms on a friggin motorbike.  Okay, you little shits, it’s on. 

They thought they were in control (and maybe they actually were) but I was seeing red.  I let them drive off and when they slowed to try to get even with me again I stopped my bike and started screaming obscenities, gesturing wildly, and generally acting like a crazy woman. (keep your comments to yourselves, smart-asses!)  They weren’t too sure what to make of this.  They slowed down more and attempted to stop so I upped the hysterics and moved up on them.  I saw them flinch.  Then I saw two motorbikes approaching from the opposite way.  I sped around and ahead of the two sloth-brained, repressed, evolutionary retards and managed to flash and honk enough to get the bikes to stop.  This sent the punks racing off from whence they came.  YES!  VICTORY IS MINE! 

That being said, I still had almost 10 kms to go and I was CONVINCED that they were going to loom up out of the dark behind me and run me off the road to my death.  So yeah, I was a bit of a shaking mess when I arrived back at my place.  My uneasiness was not the least bit assuaged by the fact that upon my return, I met the Swiss guy who owns the place and when I told him of my ordeal, he wasn’t surprised, kept saying, “yes, stupid here.  stupid boys here.”, reminded me to not leave anything outside my room (shoes, drying clothing) and to lock my door as soon as I was inside.   You’ve got to be kidding me.  One day.  I’ve been here one day.

So as I fight sleep and keep re-checking the lock on my door and the function of my flashlight, ruing the loss of my little pocketknife and feeling exceptionally vulnerable, I can hear the waves outside my window.  Somehow that makes it okay.  Tomorrow will be different.  No one has to die.  Breathe in, breathe out, waves in, waves out.  Oh Indo, you truly push me to my limits.