Honey Roasted T-Shirts

Date:     Sun, 27 May 2001 10:56:32 -0700 (PDT)

From:    Jay Schneider

Subject: Is this the end??  

I had a bit of a hammock mishap. 

I know, I know, it’s an overdone scene, a tired tale. You’ve all witnessed the man vs. hammock battle countless times, if not in person, then on t..v., probably involving Jon Ritter. But my injury did not come from my ineptitude at proper hammock mounting. On the contrary, I believe I am quite experienced and skilled in the ways of the swinging, net cradle (er, as the scholarly like to call it).  I even have my own. I’ve never actually used it, but that’s not the point.  Or maybe it is, considering if I had set up my own, I may not be wasting your time with this little blurb now. See, each time I’ve reached a beach bungalow, riverside balcony, or a mountain cottage that just screams ‘set up your hammock and lay in it all day long,’ there’s always been a hammock already in place. Upon finding a suitable bungalow on the island of Koh Pha-ngan, I again found a hammock ready and waiting for me on the porch. But this hammock was a good 4 feet off the ground, and nothing around to step up on, or hold on to and assist my mounting. After attempting several various methods, I finally found a way that, while a bit awkward as it resembled an Olympic gymnastics routine, I seemed to find success.  Reaching as high up the rope end of the hammock as I could with my right hand, then placing my left hand on the bunched up hammock-to-be part, I kicked my right leg up and over, so that I landed on the hammock (at this point, still essentially just a thick rope), and I quickly had all my four points on the line. This not being a very stable position, I immediately used my feet to spread out the netting and begin to create a stable cradle.  During this bit, my right arm is still awkwardly stretched out above and behind me, the only secure hold I have, but not a balanced one at all. Once my feet have made a bit of a cradle, it’s necessary to use my hands to further stretch the hammock out, to achieve a proper, resting place. This is a critical time in which I’m still essentially just sitting on a thick rope, but I must let go with my anchor (right) arm, and very steadily use both hands to finish the job. (There’s a move I did which would’ve made my high school wrestling coach proud, where I bridge up on my neck, raising my bum in the air so I can spread the hammock with my hands–it was really cool) For a few moments, perfect balance is required, and though I’d thought I’d gotten this part down, I guess I got cocky and ‘whump!’ on the ground was I.

My hands broke the fall, and before I hit the ground, my instincts took over and prioritized the situation. First, did anyone see me? My second, concern was my left leg, still in the hammock, toes entangled in the net.  No pain or problem as I lay face down, but not being as flexible as I was in my days of martial arts, I’m not sure that when I stand up, my hamstring will appreciate it. I did stand up without problem (no small task, standing up on one leg), freed my toes from their captor, released my leg, and flashed the “ok” sign and a smile to the Thai girl who witnessed the whole thing.

It wasn’t until later that I noticed strange red marks on my arm. At first, I thought it was a stain, but they wouldn’t rub off, and it appeared some sort of slight bruising, probably some broken capillaries as my arm scraped off the hammock. While eating dinner, a German guy asked about my arm:  “What’s that?”

“Oh, this? It’s, er, It’s a Hammock Hickey” (end of story)

So here I am in Bangkok enjoying the final hours of my Asian Adventure and sending out to you my final update.

It’s a lot of pressure, really, and I’ve been fretting for weeks on how to wrap this all up. I feel it’s a bit like the final ‘Seinfeld’ episode or Beverly Hills 90210, and your expectations may lead to disappointment.

I had thought about going for a ‘hi-lights collage’ of the past ten months (accompanied by nostalgic music, to add tears to your smiles–and it’d all be in slow motion ). But I’m sure you’ve all re-read each installment countless times already, and I think you deserve something new.

Another option would be to give you ‘out-takes’ and bits that didn’t make the final cut (that wild and crazy night I stayed in my room and played solitaire, for example), but I should keep some things private (lest the authorities find out), and I need to have some stories left to tell in the years to come without you cutting me off with “Jay, you’ve already told us about that time in Dharamsala you ate something bad and puked all over yourself as you walked home.”

Then there’s the ‘bloopers’ option: When writing about my hatred of donut-stealing monkeys (‘Beware the Monkeys’, India, December 2000) I accidentally typed ‘MONKEY-STEALING donuts’.

I could share with you some of the lessons I’ve learned through my experiences here: don’t believe that junk the media and our governments would have us believe about roosters crowing at the crack of dawn. I can attest they start way, way, way before there’s even a hint of light, and go all day long (and then some). More like CROCK-a-doodle-doo, if you ask me.

But instead I’ll just ramble on for a bit, and let’s just see where we end up, shall we?

As my time (and money) rapidly diminished, I had to carefully consider how to best use my time (and money). From the beginning, my plan (yes, dammit! there’s always been a plan…) was to spend the final portion of my trip on the islands, doing nothing but, well…being on the islands. The purpose of this idea was two-fold. One, it would provide me with a period of reflection for me and also an opportunity to look ahead and prepare for my future (reading up on American culture, perhaps studying from an American English phrasebook). The second fold (?), is so when I got back to the States and was working packing frozen chickens, or some other dismal job, I could constantly complain, “you know, one week ago I was on an island in Thailand…” At any rate, I spent nearly 3 weeks in the Gulf of Thailand, visiting the islands of Koh Tao, Koh Pha-Ngan, and Koh Samui. 

As I said (typed) before, the use of my precious time deserved careful consideration, and unfortunately, time and money constraints meant I often had to choose one thing over another. Some of you may question the decisions I made. Instead of a kayak trip through the beautiful islands of the National Park (as featured in ‘The Beach’), I had an eye exam and bought a new pair of glasses. I also chose to spend money on tailor-made suits, rather than cheap women and booze. And on my final night in Bangkok, I opted to finish this update, over catching one last ping-pong show in Patpong. But I assure you, these choices were all for the greater good.

But it wasn’t all serious, being responsible and preparing for the future (‘growing up’ is the term often thrown around). I did the requisite ‘fun in the sun (and rain on occasion)’ activities. Swimming, snorkeling, hikes to waterfalls, walks on the beach, tending to additional foot wounds, and I’ve already mentioned my hammock routine. On several occasions, I got my motor running and headed out on the island-ways (lookin’ for adventure, and whatever came my way…) renting a bike to race around the islands and explore. I even got to visit the police station (on the opposite side of the island from where I was busted, and my bike impounded) to pay a fine for not wearing a helmet (who knew?) And I finally got certified to dive, taking my PADI open water course, and continuing on to the advanced class. Again, I was wise to plan (yes, this was all part of the plan) my diving stint at the end of my journey. Had I gotten into it months ago, I would’ve spent the rest of my time and money diving. Diving is an unbelievable and incredible experience, and I was introduced to a whole new world. Also, now I can make critical comments when watching movies: “It’s great the Navy seals SCUBA-ed their way into the enemy’s headquarters, rescued the hostages and were whisked away safely by airplane, but they really shouldn’t fly so soon after diving.” or “Hey! James Bond is diving without a buddy!” 

And sometimes, I just sat on the porch of my bungalow, and stared out at the sea. It’s a beautiful and incredible world we live in, and I never let myself forget that.

So I made it back to Bangkok with a couple of days to spare, the master-plan calling for it. I figured my tattered T-shirts and grimey flip-flops may not get me very far in my life back home, so I needed time to go to the markets and bargain for NEW T-shirts and flip-flops. And in a totally unexpected and unplanned (see, my plan is flexible and can accommodate unforeseen happenings. A 10 month trip instead of 5, for example) turn of events, I met up with Julie again (‘Beautiful Dutch Girl’ featured in such episodes as ‘Rambo and Room Service’, Jan. 01 and ‘The Jay Luck Club’, Feb. ’01). We would have about a 4 hours window when we’d both be there, so we met for some noodle soup, and did some catching up.

It was nice, of course, to see my old travel-mate, but for me, it also helped make a proper end to my trip. Sharing our own adventures of the past few months and where our next steps would take us, in addition to exchanging gossip on other travelers and friends we both knew and had run into again, made it quite like the final minutes of a movie or t.v. show, where all the stories are wrapped up, and the minor characters are accounted for (“and remember Orlaf? well, he finally realized his dream of becoming a cricket herder…”). My point? While I can’t say I’ve given you a proper sense of closure for my time on the road, I certainly feel ready to roll credits and anxiously await the sequel.

It’s time to go home.

Am I tired of travel? Not at all. I haven’t been to a county I couldn’t easily go back to (though I won’t cry if I never see Delhi again), and I could easily spend another 10 months visiting these same countries (A serious consideration, now that I have glasses again–I mean, imagine how great Angkor Wat would look in focus, to say nothing of those erotic temple carvings!). And there are so many more countries I want to visit, I could easily fill a lifetime wandering the earth.

Too bad that’s not possible, right? Well, no, that’s not right. It actually, it IS possible. In fact, what I’ve realized over the past few years, and even more so in these 10 months, is just how much these things ARE in fact possible. It’s just a matter of deciding what you want.

But to travel forever is not what I want. I’ve got lots more I want to see and do, but no worries. Next time.

So why go home? Well, several reasons. For one, I started out on a 5 month trip, and parlayed it into 10. That’s a pretty good deal, I think. Oh yeah, and then there’s family and friends I haven’t seen for ages, and all that stuff.

But perhaps one of the strongest reasons (not forgetting family, yada-yada), is found in remembering what I want out of travel, and out of life. In my trip, as in my life, I like challenges, adventure, and keeping things interesting.  I feel I’ve been doing a pretty darn good job of it over the years, but that’s no reason to rest on my tuffet. Continuing on in Asia or heading towards Africa or South America, or so many other places would certainly keep me stimulated, and perpetuate my deep living of life. But if I really want a challenge and adventure, if I want the most bizarre experience in a place that would give me the greatest culture shock, I’ve gotta go home to the U.S.A.

So what do I mean by all this, dear readers? The adventures (and misadventures) are by no means over. Fear not, pets, my Asian chapter may be closing, but the adventures will continue…

Thanks for reading my ramblings, and sharing my travels with me. I also deeply appreciate all your e-mails and messages. Please keep in touch and let me know what’s going on in your lives. Take care, enjoy life and stay tuned…

Jay “To be continued…” Schneider

——————- (optional reading) ——————-

 This is to set the record straight and at least have my side presented in a fair manner.

On one of the final dives in the open water course, our instructor led us to a sandy bit of ocean floor where we removed our fins and were allowed to just play around. As we were all quite comfortable with our equipment, and we were being filmed and had a camera to play to, wackiness ensued. After getting our fill of flips, one-fingered push-ups, and Matrix/Crouching Dragon-style impossible kick/flip around/double kick again battles, the time had come, as planned, for a foot race. It is this race and what may (or may not) have happened that I should like to address. Without admitting to anything, there is no solid evidence to support the allegations that I pulled off Robin’s (or anyone else’s) mask.

— if his mask was in fact off (as he claims), his vision would have been impaired, and he cannot be expected to make an accurate identification of the attacker. — though several witnesses identified me, as we were all similarly dresses, it’s hard to make any positive ID.

— the only rules of the race were that we keep our feet in contact with the ground, and we couldn’t turn off anyone’s air. Anything else was legal, so even if I did (which I’m not saying I did), it was nothing illegal

— If I did attack Robin (and I’m not saying I did, nor do I even concede an attack occurred –perhaps he took off his own mask, eh?), he should take it as a compliment that I (or the offender) saw him as a threat.

— The video footage provides no evidence, as the view of the de-masking (if it happened) was blocked by the Swedish woman, who eventually won the event.

— Since I did not go on to win the race, my lesson (if I deserve one) should be that ‘a cheater never wins.’ But as I admit to nothing, the only thing I learned, and will now share with you is this:  “I should’ve attacked the Swede.”

Apr 15th, 2021 by The Jay Luck Club

In this episode, Jay heads to Chiang Mai and finally meets back up with Justin and Dan, just in time for songkran–the biggest, baddest water fight he’s ever seen. With the end of his journey near, Jay tries to speed his way through Laos, but learns some things shouldn’t be rushed. He also snubs actor Matt Dillon, a move he deeply regrets all these years later.

Shop for The Jay Luck Club Souvenirs

Do you have your copy of “Dal Bhat Ditty”? Download or stream now from iTunes, Amazon Music, Spotify, or wherever you get your music!

iTunes/Apple Music – Dal Bhat Ditty

Amazon Music – Dal Bhat Ditty

Date: Fri, 4 May 2001 05:52:35 -0700 (PDT)

From: Jay Schneider

Subject: “Here I am…”

 “…rock you like a hurricane!”

(sorry, I was at a restaurant the other day which played “Scorpion’s Greatest Hits,” and I just can’t shake the tune.)

Before we begin, I should like to talk about the length of my last update.  Most of you, I’m sure, prized each and every word, savored all 20-something-K, and were so engrossed and absorbed in my wacky/heroic/inspiring adventures that upon reaching the end, immediately stood up and cried out, “More, Jay! Tell me MORE!!!” (much to your own embarrassment if in the workplace at the time of your outburst). However, a few of you were cheeky enough to make snide comments about it. To those of you who had to pay dearly for your internet time (sorry, Ava), I apologize. The others, I suspect,, were fueled by envy and jealousy. No apologies there, as I’m thankful I could write so much about two months of my life, and pray I never reach a point when I can’t write more than a few words about my life.

(enough scolding)

In my last few weeks, I celebrated my fourth New Year in as many months and also made some serious decisions, which may affect some of you. But before I get to that (I’m sure my rambling e-mails have nothing to do with my inability to keep on track), I have a bit of a confession to make.

I did something a while back, of which I’m not too proud–I thought about filling out a job application for a position back home. I didn’t actually do it, mind you, but the thought’s as much of a sin as the deed. Fret not, my dear readers, my lapse in judgment had nothing to do with me becoming responsible about my future. I chalk it up to having nothing better to do (devil finding work for idle hands, and all that). I had some time to kill at an internet cafe (hour already paid for, caught up on my fan mail, no neighbor’s screen to read over the shoulder)and, and I just got to surfing around. Out of curiosity, I happened across some job listings. It put evil thoughts about careers, my job skills, experience, and what not in my mind, which I quickly squashed, clicking my way over to the ‘Survivor’ homepage, and catching up on what’s going on in the outback.

But my on the internet was not all bad. As many people do on such extended journeys, I dabbled in my own self-examination. I did a bit of searching for myself and after typing “Jay Schneider” into my search engine came up with some interesting (if not frightening) results. For example: Jay Schneider of M.S.A.M. Games writes, “Games and gaming have always been an important part of my life. I started  playing chess at 5, played in my first tournament at 8, and was the highest-rated elementary player in the United States” He also enjoys playing the game “Magic, the Gathering” and is apparently famous for designing a deck called the “Schneider Pox.” (I don’t quite know how I feel about the existence of such a thing.”)

And then there’s the page that begins his homepage by answering the question I’d been asking myself all these years… “Who is Jay Schneider?. . . Jay Schneider is an evangelist committed to the idea that the word of God holds the key to any true change of heart and life. ”

And yes, I have been writing ‘reverend’, ‘preacher’ and ‘internet evangelist’ as my profession for all my various visa forms and entry/exit cards this past month.

 And now, on with the show (finally),

Having it in me to ride a Thai train again, and unable to do so for my Malaysia–Bangkok leg, I was more determined than ever ride the rails to Chiang Mai, and went to reserve my ticket days in advance. But it happened to be nearing the Thai New year, and I was disappointed to find all sleeper berths were totally booked up for days to come–that is until I asked about first class. And so it was, that I rode to the Northern Thailand city in style, even receiving a complimentary Thai State Rail coffee mug. Nothin’ but the best for this kid. (though I want to make it clear that if any of you reading this should receive such a mug from me as a token of my affection, THAT particular gift is a precious item, sought out, selected, and given with all my heart.)

(hang on, it’s 6 pm. Thai National Anthem. Gotta stand….okay, I’m back.)

In Chiang Mai, I made my way to the thoughtfully named “Chiang Mai Guesthouse.” As most guesthouses in the area, mine offered jungle treks (in fact, it’s how they make their money, so there’s a bit of pressure), and not being too keen on this kind of package deal, I spent much of my morning politely refusing to sign on for the trek leaving the next day. (“Look, for the last time, I don’t want to go on your damned trek!”)

Already in town were Justin and Dan, two Americans I’d met in Nepal, and with whom I’d hoped to cross paths again. Though I came to Chiang Mai in style, my digs at the CM guesthouse couldn’t compare to the place at which Justin and Dan stayed. A little background: Justin lived in Chiang Mai for 3 months studying Thai kickboxing, and since that time frequently passes through his old stomping (kicking?) grounds for a few weeks at a time.  Consequently, he’s found a great top-end place, with very reasonable rates, particularly when staying long-term.  After waking up the boys and catching up on the past 5 months, Dan and Justin were confirming with each other about the hazy events of the previous evening (outside a local disco: a slight scuffle with a local lady-boy, which continued even after the participants were on fast-moving motorcycles — Man, I always miss the good stuff!), while I was captivated with the cable t.v., a/c, cable t.v., kitchenette, cable t.v., large bed, and cable t.v. They also had cable t.v., and I was content to spend hours catching up on my Mtv (finally got to put faces and names to those boy bands I’d been hearing all night, every night in Bangkok). Finally, I was dragged out of the room and up to the roof-top pool which commanded great views of the city. If you haven’t figured out by now, it’s not too shabby a place.

But it’s not just to impress me that the boys live so well in Chiang Mai, it’s actually a very reasonable deal, and since their ‘Big Trip’ (as they’ve dubbed it) is a rather lengthy one, it helps to have a base to come back to, a get re-charged before going back out again (why I’ve chosen disgusting, shoe-box rooms in Bangkok to do this, I still haven’t figured out).

Also, Justin’s taking advantage of the setting to study for the LSAT, and Dan plans to return in September, specifically for that same purpose. That afternoon, Dan was going to see what deals he could find at other hotels.  I, on the other hand, planned to go out and see if there were any tests I could sign up for, giving me an excuse to stay at such a place. (I bet if I chose to study for something like the Bar Exam, I could justify a good year or so in such a place!)

Anyhoo, in talking with Dan and Justin, they convinced me that a trek wasn’t such a bad idea, and they’d quite enjoyed their own trips. Since these were the guys who convinced me to shave my head and have needles rammed through my ear back in Nepal (Ears pierced in Kathmandu? What were we thinking?), I was sold.

So back at the Chiang Mai Guest House, I sheepishly asked about the possibility, and..er..if there was any way, I..er..ha-ha.. I mean.. of my perhaps getting in on that ‘damned trek’ that I earlier had no interest in. Signing my name on the sheet, I noticed just about all of the other trekkers were women, and immediately began to think this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. The trek is a bit of a ‘sampler’ involving some jungle trekking, elephant riding, riding a bamboo raft downriver, and staying with local hill-tribe villages. I had initially been turned off, knowing if I wanted to do serious jungle trekking, I’d need to go further out, and that the ‘staying with a hill tribe family,’ would in no way compare to my times in Cambodia or Nepal. Also, I’d done the ‘ride an elephant through the jungle’ thing the first time I’d been to Thailand, and it’s not a very comfortable ride.

As it turned out, the trek was good fun. This was all due to the other members of the trek, who were really great people (and I’m not just saying that because they’re being sent this same message). We had a good laugh (laughing with each other, if not at each other), and I was reminded that part of what I enjoy so much about travel is meeting my fellow travelers.  (Funny that meeting fellow travelers can also be what I hate so much about travel, but there you go.)

The ‘jungle trekking’ wasn’t much, but it was nice to hike around a bit, the elephant ride wasn’t nearly as bad as I remembered, and though I felt more an intruder (and paying customer) than a guest in the village ‘homestays,’ the bamboo rafting ride was good-wet fun! After we’d returned to Chiang Mai, we all spent time together until we each moved on our separate ways. I feel lucky to have met them, and hope we keep in touch, perhaps to meet again someday. (And I’m not just saying that in hopes of a free place to stay in, say, London/New Zealand, or wherever…)

Happily chatting and getting to know each other in the back of a truck on the way to begin our trekking experience, none of us knew what hit us (literally for a moment or two), when the first bucket of water smacked us.  We had just been introduced to ‘Songkran.’

‘Songkran’ is the Thai New Year, during which worshippers ‘bathe’ Buddha images. They also bless each other, sprinkling or pouring water over each other. At least that’s the theory. In reality, it’s the biggest, and greatest (assuming you’re a willing participant) water fight in the world.  For 3 days (officially, but some rogues are at it for a full week) from dusk till dawn, Chiang Mai was pure and utter, wet ‘n’ wild insanity. Cruising pick-ups trucks, loaded with water-warriors, armed with buckets and super-soakers, packed the streets around the moat. Foot soldiers held their ground on the sidewalks, drenching any car, truck, motorcycle, bicycle, and pedestrian passing by. No one immune, no one safe, everyone wet and soaked to the bone. Everyone is fair game: the armed, the unarmed; the old, the young; the wet, the dry; and even the truck full of monks. Fathers and mothers carefully instructed their children how to take aim and wollup the silly tourists. That older, innocent woman approaching with the bucket?  Mistake to let my guard down. She got me. She got me good. Sneak down the alleys and less crowded side streets? Those in ambush hit you harder, ’cause they get fewer targets. Empty gun in hand, run into a phone booth for protection from that approaching truck? Too late, I was spotted. The truck stopped, the booth door was opened and a bucket gently poured over my head, female attacker smiling all the while. No matter how wet you get, and how many times you’ve been hit, you never get used to the buckets of ICE WATER(!), which were far greater in number than I’d have liked. While the water pulled directly from the moat was warmer, you never feel totally at ease with the purity of its content. And through all this, there was nothing malicious about it. Smiles were always in fashion (except for the unsuspecting tourists who had hoped to actually sight-see and keep their cameras and valuables dry. I think if I let loose with a water gun on a total stranger back home, he (or she) may return the favor with a real gun, but there ya go.) It’s the coolest water fight in the world.

Songkran officially over, and finally dried out, I made the decision to move on. I smiled as we passed through the villages, the children still ‘at it,’ splashing every car to pass through. I laughed at the fun I’d had, and even more that I was dry inside a closed vehicle.

A vehicle which brings us (or at least it brought me) to Laos.

I LOVED LAO. It’s impossible to say which place is “my favorite” or “the best,” as I’ve had such incredible and varied experiences in many countries. That said, if someone caught me unawares (say, sneaking into my room and waking me in the middle of the night to the question, “What’s your favorite place?”) there’s a good chance ‘Lao’ would escape from my lips before I could say anything else). In spite of inadvertently visiting during the HOTTEST month of the year (April is the HOTTEST month of the year!), and apparently the only one in Laos who didn’t one way or another meet Matt Dillon (filming in Cambodia, on holiday in Laos), I LOVED LAOS!!!

I know, I know, I can hear the groans from here. After how much I raved and consequently typed about Indonesia, you’re all hunkering down for another long haul. But, I’ll just give you a few bits ‘n’ pieces (isn’t that what I said last time?), and leave the rest unwritten. “If you wanna know, you gotta go.”

+++ Slow Boat to Luang Prabang +++

From the border town of Huay Xi, I traveled down the Mekong for 2 days to Luang Prabang. I was assured that though the small cargo boat was slow, only 20 passengers would be aboard, with plenty of room to stretch out, relax, and enjoy the beauty of the countryside. Waiting on the landing, I noticed far more than 20 (closer to 40) waiting passengers, and one tiny boat, the floor of which was filled with dozens of 50 kg. sacks of rice. Hopes that ‘our boats’ had arrived yet, were dashed when we were all herded on to the boat.  “Oh, well,” I sighed to another traveler, “I guess we’re all in the same boat!”

(pause for laughter)

+++ Anything fo (pause again while you control your continued giggles) Anything for a Picture +++

Outside of Luang Prabang, there is a waterfall, and some others at my guesthouse were rounding up people to go to it one day. I was skeptical. Don’t get me wrong, I now and forever love waterfalls, but in many places I’ve visited, locals have caught on that foreigners like waterfalls, and it seems every city, town and hamlet advertises a ‘must-see waterfall’ half of which aren’t much more impressive than the shower in the shared bath.

These falls, though, were magnificent! A multi-tiered and huge set of falls, Huang Xi really did qualify as a ‘must see.’ The turquoise pools of water were not only beautiful, but thoroughly refreshing, and the whole excursion was the perfect way to escape the heat. (April is the HOTTEST month of the year!). After climbing to the upper-most tier, and taking pictures frantically, some daring German decided to climb an overhanging branch, and jump into the pool below. I questioned the soundness of this idea, but since I had my camera in hand, decided it was my responsibility to capture the act on film, regardless of the outcome. The leap was successful and the guy turned out all right, at which point I realized I now had a picture of someone else taking the jump. Do I want to be an observer of life, or an active participant? Am I satisfied in the audience of life, or do I want to be performing on stage? yada, yada…handing my camera to a Danish gentleman standing by, I made my way to the tree. (for those of you who have been following along, I am insured again)

Having spent half my childhood in trees, I fancy myself a bit of a skilled climber and didn’t expect the climb up the tree to be a challenge. In the event, the climb was more difficult than the jump. The mossy, wet tree provided little traction, and the weak handholds crumbled with each touch.  My mother will be particularly happy to know that during this most difficult stretch, was not the waiting pool of water, but the jagged rocks of the falls. Anyhoo, I inched my way out on the limb, stood up, let out a “BANZAI’ cry, and leapt into the pool below. (The jump, though a good 10-12 meters, was easy to make since a crowd was watching, and a camera was waiting, no time to waste thinking about how far below I would drop.) The jump was quite a rush and upon safely resurfacing, I was glad I had ‘taken the plunge,’ as it were. The Danish guy yelled that I’d have to do it again because he couldn’t get the shot. Funny, I thought. Not an original joke, but one that had to be said. Climbing out of the pool, I realized he was serious. A local Lao man (eager to see the silly foreigner hurl himself out of a tree) what been standing between the photographer and me, and wouldn’t get out of the way. “That’s okay. I made the jump and I’m satisfied with that. I did it for myself and I don’t need a picture to prove anything to anyone.” “Really?” “…no, not really.” and I made my way back to the tree.

By this time everyone seemed to be jumping on..er..off the bandwagon, so I had to wait for an New York girl I’d been traveling with to jump. As I said before, the climb was more challenging than the drop, but it wasn’t until I saw someone else do it that I thought “oh, my god! I did that?” and the shakes set in. Still, I did climb again, confirmed the cameraman was ready, and tempted fate again. Anything for a picture, eh?

So how does this little bit (or is it a piece?) finish? well, the pictures have since been developed, and for reasons I can only begin to explain, instead of a picture of my death-defying (or at least ‘great and agonizing pain and injury’-defying leap), I have a partial snapshot of a Danish man’s feet. Back to Luang Prabang for a 3rd shot? Not necessary, the picture I took of the guy who pioneered the jump looks enough like me that I s’pose I can just claim that it’s me. Who will ever know?  oh, er…maybe you should forget I mentioned that last part.)

+++ It’s a Small World +++

Outside the small town Vang Vieng are numerous caves, and liking caves myself, I went out to go and see some. It wasn’t a long trek over the river and through the rice fields to the limestone cliffs, but it took me quite some time to get there, stopping every few steps to let out a series of expletives and curses (often involving some religious figure on a popsicle stick), totally unable to articulate with any grace and eloquence just how incredible and beautiful my surroundings were.  I developed a routine which went as follows: come to dead, dramatic stop, say something along the lines of “Holy <female relative> <popular expletive> <first name of prominent religious deity’s son> <another expletive> <last name> on a <choice here: same expletive as the first, else use the British term ‘bloody’> Popsicle stick! <previously unused expletive>! <one more curse for good measure> This is so <insert all previously used, and a few new curses> beautiful!”, take out camera, take several pictures, realize what a waste it was, knowing my snapshots could not capture it all with any justice, put my camera away, pull it out again figuring I may as well have a few with me in the shot, put the camera on an abandoned hut, run out to a chosen spot, press the remote control, moments before it clicks, realize I’m probably a bit low in the picture, jump up into the air just as the shutters goes, laugh at what an idiot I am for taking such a lame photo, but immediately do it again, perhaps to do it better, put camera away, begin my walk again determined to get on to my destination, take a few steps, repeat routine.

In the midst of one of these sessions, I found an unopened bottle of drinking water in front of me. Still cold, I knew it must have been dropped by someone recently, so I picked it up, knowing I was bound to run into whomever it was who dropped it. Having long ago lost track of the hand-painted signs directing me to the caves, I continued my way, giving the roaming herd of water buffalo plenty of room. Everyone says they’re no so bright, but I decided to give them credit that one of these days they’re going to figure out that in such large numbers, they could easily overtake me and my water bottle.

At last, I saw two foreigners on mountain bikes. Figuring it likely that a bottle of water could fall unnoticed from one on a bike(and them being the only two foreigners around), I headed in their direction, thinking I had found the rightful owners (note job skill: problem-solving). Approaching the couple, I hoped they were thinking “Gee, I hope someone finds and returns our water bottle” and not “At last! Finally, we’re away from all those other cursed travelers. We are truly alone and…”

“Hey, are you by any chance missing a bottle of water?”

The girl responded affirmatively and was quite grateful (April is the HOTTEST month of the year!). She was very surprised and at my deducing it was theirs and returning it to them. I wasn’t so surprised by this (my brilliant mind making the solution to the’ Mystery of the Missing Water Bottle’ a matter of course), but I was surprised when the guy asked, “Did you teach English in Japan?”

James, had taught English in the town next to me. “It’s a small world” was the tune of the day, momentarily displacing Scorpion’s ‘Rhythm of Love’ (let us find together, the beat we’re looking for..)

+++ Wow! Beautiful! Number One!” +++

The three of us spent the morning hiking around the fields, exploring a number of caves and sweating more than I had previously imagined possible (April is the HOTTEST month of the year!). The views were stunning (I toned down my cursing commentary and made it suitable for family viewers, but we all suffered a similar fate, stopping every few paces to just stare about and comment on the land.) The caves, too, were spectacular, in their form, but also in a way that they’re just there. Of course, the locals have caught on, and there’s bound to be someone at every cave selling and entrance ticket, but then it’s up to you to just wander in to get lost/hurt/injured/dead on your own. It’s really a freedom that’s hard to come by in many countries these days. So we wandered, deep into the caves, again were in awe of our beautiful, though darker surroundings, and sweated profusely.

One cave, we did have a guide. In part because it’s so large (2-3 km; in wet season, it’s possible to swim inside), and also to point out all the beautiful formations. Now, caves round the world will often have some neat bits which resemble something else, and are kind of neat to see. This cave, too, had a ‘snake’s head’, ‘elephant’ and ‘flower’, for example. But they went a bit overboard, and we found ourselves stopping every two steps, as our guide pointed out another one. And as we went on, some of them took more stretches of the imagination, or just became absurd (and over hear is…er..a rabbit’s cheek! and look! a butterfly’s butt!). I admit I did think the ‘toilet bowl’ was amusing, and spot on, but others I would have been satisfied with the nameless, yet attractive formations.

And our guide, bless his heart, was able to direct us through all this with a very limited English vocabulary. At each stop, he would shine his light at the object of our attention, give it’s title (“donkey’s thumb!’) and enthusiastically say “Wow! Beautiful! Number One!” in such a way to not only make us believe it was actually one word, but also to impress upon us the joy and emotion we should be feeling at viewing such a thing. We would, generally, be quite amazed, but by the time it just began to sink in, our guide would be off with a “let’s go!” We did, however get a bit more out of the guide than the average foreigner, I’d imagine, as James, now teaching English outside of Bangkok, could speak some Thai (similar to Lao). I told him I was impressed with his Thai abilities, and he was equally impressed by ability to trek through the fields, climb rocks, and navigate the caves in my flip-flops. We all have our skills. (note job skill: able to successfully navigate a variety of fields with minimal support) Reaching our turn-around point (the cave continued on for another 2 km!), we reached our final ‘amazing formation.’ The guide, laughing, asked if I could identify the PHALLIC-looking formation in front of us. Gesturing to me and mine (a little too close for comfort, I dare say), he laughed, “and how about you?”

What could I say? “Wow! Beautiful! Number One!”

+++ Go with the Flow +++

Those of you who managed to read all my last update, will remember my tubing experience in Sumatra. In Vang Vieng, I once more hopped in a tube and rode downriver. Only in Laos, this was a totally different experience. First, there weren’t nearly as many Indonesians around. Second, unlike the wild, whitewater adventure of Sumatra, well, it’s dry season (April is also the HOTTEST month of the year!), so the river’s low, and very slow. So what took 5-10 minutes up the road by tuk-tuk, took 3 hours of drifting downriver. (Yes, that last sentence was a mess, what with the 2 ‘took’s and a ‘tuk-tuk’) Not that it wasn’t an unpleasant experience. While I would have enjoyed an adrenaline-rushing event (remember, I’m insured again), the slow drift downriver was a great way to sit back, relax and watch the world go by (Or perhaps it was watching me go by, I can’t really say). In many ways, tubing in Vang Vieng was much like Laos in general. It forces you to slow down and relax, and just enjoy what’s around you. Sure it’s possible to rush through the country, as I had originally intended to do, but I got a lot more out of it when I let myself drift on Laos time, soaking it all up.  I’m sensing I’m about to relate all this to a way to live and enjoy life and greater and larger things, so I’d better wrap this up and just say I recommend everyone float down a river in an inner-tube. I also recommend sunscreen (youch!)

 +++ Homecoming King +++

So, It’s May, and I’m in Bangkok, having just returned from 2 weeks in Laos. Why is this important? Because it’s not June (which it would have been had I stuck to an earlier plan keeping me another 2 weeks exploring Thailand and 30 days in Laos). Again, why is this important?

My plane arrives in L.A. May 28th.

But you’ll hear from me before then. Oh, yes, you will…

Gotta run. Perhaps because of my impending homecoming and my great expectations for the future, I’m reading Dickens’ novel of the same name (“Great Expectations,”‘ not “Impending Homecoming”), and I’ve just got to get back to it and see what the devil’s in store for Pip next…

Jay “Can someone pick me up at the airport?” Schneider

can anyone guess the song is stuck in my head now? Britney Spears’ “Ooops! I did it again.” Sorry for making it so long again, but the series is almost over, so enjoy it while you can.

Date: Mon, 2 Apr 2001 05:36:31 -0700 (PDT)

From: Jay Schneider

Subject: Jay, the Aussie Surfer

U.S. State Department Travel Warning:
Office of the Spokesman Indonesia
February 28, 2001

The Department of State urges American citizens to defer nonessential travel to Indonesia and all travel to Aceh, Maluku, Papua, West Timor, Central Kalimantan (Borneo), and Central Sulawesi…Indonesia is experiencing a major political transition, and unrest and violence can erupt with little forewarning anywhere in the country. Bombings of religious, political, and business targets have occurred throughout the country.

Phew! I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m still recovering from the craziness that is ‘March Madness’. For those of you who are not so up in the world of sports, I’m talking of course about the Spring Grand Sumo Tournament in Osaka. Sad to say this year I wasn’t able to attend, but thanks living in this age of the internet, the daily results were always just a few clicks away (after a long, bumpy, cramped bus ride to a town with an internet connection, that is). But March isn’t just about sumo, folks, and I’m proud to say my students at Himeji Technical High School were invited to play in the National Spring tournament at Koshien, which, again for those of you who are unawares, is a VERY BIG DEAL. They lost the first round (internet keeping me in touch again), but for any kid who’s ever held a bat in Japan, just going to Koshien is a dream. And finally in college hoops, my own alma mater Cal (go bears!) was invited to the Big Dance, and in accordance with tradition, eliminated immediately.

So you may be thinking I’ve just spent the past 2 months surfing the net and checking the sports pages, but I also surfed real waves (ha-ha). Anyhoo, there’s lots to tell (sorry, it’s a long one this time) and I’d be glad to tell you after I share with you a childhood memory…

On far more occasions than I can begin to count, I remember, as a wee little Jay, watching t.v., playing with the neighbors or talking on the phone, and having my mother interrupt, directing me to do some necessary chore (feed the dog, clean my room, put out the fire I’d started in the living room, etc.), and I’d try and negotiate more time, “Aw, c’mon, Mom, just one more hour, please?”

I hope you’ve enjoyed this childhood memory.

 INDONESIA.

For the past 60 days (length of the visa), I’ve been falling in love with Indonesia. It’s been such an incredible 2 months, and I’ve had so many wonderful experiences, and “I’ll look back and laugh on this later, though I’m in excruciating discomfort now” adventures. There are too many instances of people being so helpful, inviting me to their homes, making sure I’m on the right bus (and off it at the right stop), eagerly wanting to tell me about their country, and ask about mine, whether we spoke a common language or not, and so many more wonderful images and beautiful places and unforgettable experiences. I know I can’t tell you everything, and I’ll try and keep it brief, but I’m warning you, this update could go on for a while (I hope none of you have work you should be doing!)

JAY THE AUSTRALIAN. Upon entering a country, one must fill out an immigration card, half of which is turned into an official, the other half which remains in the passport. The information is simple enough, name, profession, passport info, etc., but still it’s always a bit of a pain. (For me, I’m always stumped with what my occupation should be). So you can imagine my pleasant surprise when, after purchasing my ferry ticket from Singapore to Indonesia’s Batam Island, I was handed an immigration card, already filled out by computer. You could also imagine my puzzled surprise to discover that I was born in, and a citizen of…Australia. (Who knew?) Anyhoo, I said nothing (you can imagine my embarrassment at not knowing my own nationality), and the Indonesian official said nothing, so for the duration of my stay, I’d be Jay Schneider, Australian. (“Enjoy your stay in Indonesia.” “Thanks, er, mate.”)

SUMATRA. Four hour boat ride. Four hour bus. Hop on another bus, I was assured would arrive at my destination around midnight. Bus stops at midnight, everyone gets out and waits at a coffee shop until 6 am, we continue trip, at some point cross the equator for the first time in my life, by 8 am, I’m in Bukittinggi, West Sumatra, reunited with my travel-mate Julie. Though I’d wanted to come to Indonesia for some time, it wasn’t on my current itinerary, so I really had no plan, just happy to be somewhere new. Julie had a plan. Many, in fact. And new ones kept popping up, or old ones constantly changing. I knew I needed to come up with my own plan. The “10 days in a muddy jungle wearing a self-made loincloth, killing a pig and drinking it’s blood” – trek (originally suggested by Julie) was nixed when she realized she wasn’t they type of person to go traipsing around, half-naked, in the muddy jungle for 10 days. I, on the other hand, put myself in that category, but conceded it’d be much more fun with a good friend, er mate, to do it with. (Where’s Ava when I needed her?) Instead, we spent our Sumatra days in the hills, on the lake, and on the coast. At one point I composed a poem about Chicken Fried Rice. On another occasion, while wandering around the streets of Padang, I was invited in to the police station, fed lunch, and offered a female officer’s hand in marriage. I declined (the woman, not the food), but it still was a great afternoon. Mostly, Sumatra was my introduction to Indonesia, and I was constantly surprised by how friendly and helpful the people were, freely giving advice and direction without trying to sell me something (still a bit jaded from India, I guess). And while we did our best to get off the ‘tourist trail,’ even when we were on it, we hardly saw any other foreign faces. It was rainy/low season anyway, but mostly, people are scared to come to Indonesia given what they’ve been reading in the papers and watching on CNN (see Travel Warning above). It’s a shame for the people who are missing out on such a wonderful country, and also for the locals who depend on tourist dollars, but I guess it works out great for those who do ‘brave’ to come here. After 2 weeks, we hopped on a Java-bound bus, and about 40 hours later, we were in…

JAKARTA (Java). Throughout my stay in Jakarta, people always made a point of showing me the American Embassy (fools! don’t they know I’m Australian?). It also happened to be rather close to where I was staying, and this was comforting, given the current instability of the country.

I had a scene in my mind of a helicopter evacuation from the roof of the Embassy, surrounded by a war-torn city. The Embassy’s American flag folded under my arm, I pause, looking around at the flames and the chaos, tears welling in my eyes, and then board helicopter, the last passenger on the last craft out of the country. Then, I’d put my arm around the Ambassador, comforting him, and say, “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll be back.” And he’d look back at me and reply, “Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing here? Give me back my flag!”

But of course, this didn’t happen. In fact, even though demonstrations and protests were a daily occurrence in Jakarta, the really GOOD stuff (of the blood, tear-gas and flames variety) always happened just before of just after I was there. No luck, I guess… (Real briefly, the issue: Indonesia is in a bad way. Economy in the dumps, ethnic violence, separatist groups causing civil unrest, corruption as usual, yada-yada… Most people feel the current President, Gus Dur, has got to go, and demand his resignation. My entire two months in Indonesia, I spoke with no one who liked or supported the current President to any degree. He does have a minority of supporters, however, and they have declared they are prepared to shed blood to defend him. Makes for a rather dicey situation, eh?)

In spite of the lack of civil unrest in the city, I really enjoyed Jakarta. It wasn’t nearly the “armpit of Asia” it’s been made out to be (I think Manilla still holds that title). Most of the time was spent visiting Julie’s family friends, and at one point we ended up at a 2 year-old’s birthday party. We also sample a bit of the nightlife, and I left Jakarta with a good impression of it, and, truth be known, a desire to return. Not a bad spot at all.

YOGYAKARTA. Java’s number one tourist destination, and cultural capital was a bit strange due to the lack of visitors (domestic and foreign). All the places which guidebooks guaranteed would be swarming with tourist buses, were empty. And again, joss was not on our side. The steaming volcano of Mt. Merapi, just outside the city, had a major eruption, dumping ash on the nearby city of Solo, 2 days BEFORE we arrived. (I miss all the good stuff). But to make the best of it, we did all the cultural things there are to do, and saw the biggest Buddhist temple in (insert some geographic zone here). Of course, we annoyed the guards at closing time, refusing to leave before we exercised our God-given right to a sunset photo. A British bloke led the stand, and wouldn’t give an inch, his tripod firmly in place, waiting for the sun to dip behind the mountains. Andreas (German), Julie and I held fast as well. (The Japanese girl and her Aussie boyfriend couldn’t take the heat and broke ranks). We only needed a few more minutes, and these guards didn’t scare us. We’d all been to countries where guards carried large weapons. We got our shots, and because of our tardiness, had to climb a fence to get out of the locked temple grounds (it was that or spend the night and be first inside for the ubiquitous ‘sunrise shot’). And by the time we got to the bus station, all the busses had gone for the night. As we saw it, this was not a problem, but an opportunity. With all the cars on the road, somebody had to be headed back to Yogya. It took only 10 minutes for a tiny truck to stop, and while Andreas and Julie were figuring out who should ride in front, I was already halfway in the back, atop a comfortable load, looking at the clear star-filled skies above. We discovered half-way through the journey that the driver was not, in fact, headed to Yogya. But he drove us to a main road where buses were still running, pulled up alongside a bus and flagged it down for us. Again, I can’t forget how helpful the Indonesian people could be.

After a great week in Yogya, it was time to move on, and with an overnight stop for the obligatory ‘pre-dawn hike up a volcano to see the sunrise’ we arrived in…

BALI. I was a little disappointed with Bali. There weren’t nearly as many young, beautiful native women walking around topless, as I had been led to believe. In fact, the only Balinese woman I witnessed shedding her top in the heat of the midday sun was the grandmother of the family who ran the guesthouse at which I stayed in Ubud, Bali’s cultural heart. You can imagine my disappointment. Apart from this letdown, however, Bali was incredible, tempting me at every turn to spend the rest of my time there. Bali is very developed and heavily touristed, but it’s still possible to get out of the chaos, and back to the paradise (minus the scantily-clad maidens) it’s reputed to be.

Bali is where Julie and I, as planned, went our separate ways. Originally, our farewell adventure was going to be a motorcycle tour with a friend of hers from Holland. I had been excited about ‘easy-riding’ around the island, but Julie was on a tight schedule and only had only 5 days to do it, whereas I had no need to be in a rush. I felt it was best to get back on my own, do my own thing, in my own time.

Kuta Beach is the developed, resort center of the island, with Polo, Gucci and Ralph Lauren stores all in attendance, and the Golden Arches can be seen from any point on the beach. Families can feel at home in luxury hotels, and the not-so-family-oriented, can drink and dance the night away at any number of Kuta’s notorious (and naughty?) clubs. Not exactly an island paradise, but I had to at least check it out. Kuta’s also overrun with Japanese and Australians. But seeing’s how I’ve been missing Japan so much, and for this journey I am an Aussie, I found their presence comforting. There were also hordes of Javanese teenagers on vacation from school, snapping away pictures of the funny foreign tourists. (I should say now, that I think I was photographed more in 2 months in Indonesia, than I was in my entire 3 years in Japan.) So I decided to stay a couple days, but nearly stayed a month after meeting Antonio (Italian), Glenn (Washington, D.C.) and surfing (not a person, a water sport). Antonio, Glenn and I were all solo travelers who met up one day while touring some temples and what not around the island. We had a good day of it together, surviving the scorching sun, the hard-sells of the markets, and a monkey forest (those beasts are evil, I say, EVIL!). That night we hit the ‘scene,’ sending Antonio off to talk to Japanese girls, me feeding him what to say. It was a good laugh. We also came to an important decision: We would surf! Glenn had tried surfing before in Santa Cruz and Costa Rica, and Antonio had given it a go the day before, so I was the only true first-timer, but Papa Schneider’d taught me how to boogie board and body surf in Hawaii (17 years ago!) and I’d seen the cinema classic “North Shore” about a dozen times, so I had confidence. Good times were had, and not without some degree of success, enough to make me understand why the two Swedish guys in the room next to mine had been there a month. (“We surf a couple times a day, eat, read some books, go out at night, and do it all over again the next day.”) But a second day of surfing with Glenn (Antonio was on a plane back home), consisted mostly of floating/sleeping on our rented boards, in awe that and ocean could be so flat. This reminded me that the waves can be fickle, and made me think perhaps I’d better continue my adventures. If it’s my future to be a surf-bum, I can do that back in the States. For now, I’d leave it as a fun holiday diversion. Glenn also had to be on his way, his flight to Bangkok the next day, so I headed up to the black-sand beaches of Lovina for some snorkeling, and more low-key beach action. Lovina is smaller and quieter than Kuta, and far more beautiful, the rice fields and mountains undisturbed by “HARD ROCK CAFE – BALI” and the rest. Here, I met a family who invited me to stay with them (for several weeks!), the grandmother talking to me non-stop, unphased by the fact I couldn’t speak her language. I knew accepting their offer would result in my fluency of the language, but I think it would also have meant marrying the granddaughter, who, as beautiful as she was, at 14 years, just made me feel really old.

 I’ve traveled enough to know when it comes to transportation and schedules “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Just get on the bus, and sooner or later (usually the latter) you’ll get there. So when I boarded my Java-bound bus at 3 PM, and then de-boarded again 2 hours later will all my stuff, sat around for another hour, only to board another bus, I wasn’t worried or concerned at all. It always works out. “No worry, no hurry, no chicken curry,” as my trekking guide in Nepal used to love to say. And so 15 minutes after boarding the second bus, when we didn’t move for the next 12 hours, again my feathers weren’t ruffled in the least. I just slept. When we did begin moving again, it took 3 hours to inch our way to the ferry, and the 30 minute ferry crossing took 2 hours, ending in a 1:30 a.m. arrival the next morning, as opposed to the “scheduled” 7:30 a.m. the second day. (16 hour bus ride —> 34 hours) What is time anyway? Besides, I got to know the other passengers really well, and one Balinese mother invited me back to Bali for a festival the following week. Again, a very tempting opportunity, but I think the fix was in here as well, her hinting that I could “remedy” my non-married status. (Her hints weren’t so subtle, along the lines of: “If you don’t like my daughters, I’m sure I can find you a very nice Balinese wife in my village. Balinese women are very hard workers and make very good wives.) Actually, her daughters were very nice young girls, but I’ve got my personal hang-ups about marrying a teenager.

Other bits on Bali: – It turns out the reason for my 13 hour bus delay was that demonstrations had stopped the ferries from running (for a day or two, I heard) so there was a huge backlog of buses and cars waiting to cross the channel. – Bali is one hour ahead of Java/Sumatra time. Funny that Julie and I didn’t realize this for 2 days. Funnier that it made absolutely no difference whatsoever. (Fortunately, she discovered on the day she had to meet her friend at the airport!) – During a festival period, I stumble across and honest-to-garsh, real McCoy, bona-fide cockfight! THAT was wild! (And I thought Mah Jong gambling was intense…)

JAVA. (again)

I had a mission in Java, and yes, it involved erotic temple carvings. As luck would have it, I ran into Andreas and the guesthouse, also on his way back from Bali and points further east, and he was a willing and eager partner-in-crime. The temple and carvings themselves were rather disappointing, being over-hyped to attract the tourists, I s’pose, but the several bus transfers and local transport adventures to get there and back (window seats on one bus–FRONT Window seats on the dashboard of a packed inter-city bus) made for a great day, and a reminder that often it’s the journey, not the destination, which make life great.

MY FOOT. During our adventure, Andreas had noticed my slight limp and makeshift bandage on my right foot and I confessed to him, what I haven’t yet told you, I had a slight ‘owie’ on my foot. I suppose I didn’t mention it because I’m still working out the details of the ‘shark attack’ story, which would sound infinitely better than the ‘attacked by an evil flip-flop with a grudge’ story that’s closer to the truth. The point is, I had a slight wound, of the open sore, pus-oozing out variety. Andreas offered some iodine so I could properly clean the cut, and this seemed like a good idea. “But I want to be here when you put it on,” he said with an evil grin. “I want to see you cry and hear you scream like a little girl!” I took off the sock I had protecting the cut, and showed it to Andreas. He screamed like a little girl, and ran out of the room, crying. When he returned (after he’d composed himself and I promised not to show it to him again), he demanded I go to a doctor. “You have to go to the doctor!” Andreas demanded. “You think so?” Jay ‘just walk it off’ Schneider questioned, “Maybe if I can…” “No! You are going to a doctor!” “Yeah, I guess tomorrow I’ll…” “No! Tonight! Now!”

Actually, we went out for dinner first, and met Christine, a Canadian graduate student who had been doing research in Kalimantan during the recent massacres and beheadings (over 400!), but didn’t hear anything about it until returning to Java. “After dinner, we’re going to a hospital, wanna come?” “er…” “c’mon, it’ll be fun!” “Can I bring popcorn?” And so the three of us piled into 2 cycle rickshaws and headed out in search of a hospital. We found one, with the staff seemingly content to be absorbed in the football match on t.v., and the party began. As the doctor and his attendant cleaned my wound, I directed Andreas, official photographer, to make sure all angles were covered, and though I thought she was joking, I could’ve sworn I saw Christine munching away on some popcorn. The doctor and staff said little, understandably upset at having the soccer match interrupted, and just shrugged off the happening of those strange and mysterious foreigners. They also didn’t give much in the way of explanation of the bag of drugs they gave me (again, I’ve been in Asia long enough to know the Doctors’ ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. Us westerners are sure strange wanting to know what medicines we’re taking and why), nor advice about dressing and re-dressing the wound, but at our post-party gathering at the hotel, we three examined all my goodies, and being the reasonably intelligent people we are, came up with a healing strategy. And the whole bit cost me a whopping $9. I’m uninsured again, so that came out of my pocket.

JAKARTA. (again)

Andreas and I rode in style to Jakarta, taking the ‘Business Class’ train, because the cheap one was full. We were rewarded with super comfortable seats, meals and snacks, and movies and music videos (Roxette’s Greatest Hits and Guns’n’Roses being my favorite!). Once more hoping to find the city in turmoil, and a country on the verge of revolution, we were disappointed, but had a pleasant time of it anyway. Again, I had a great time in this city, and left with a good impression.

THE 60-HOUR BUS RIDE TO SUMATRA.

I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I wasn’t trying to be cheap. I wasn’t trying to do anything extraordinary by taking the ‘ekonomi’ bus for 60 hours. You see, there’s this whole “A/C (air conditioned)” scam running in tropical countries, where it’s advertised as a luxury item. But 9 times out of 10, you end up freezing your ass off under the full-blast, non-adjustable AC, wondering how it’s possible to be so cold in such a naturally warm environment. Also, with the AC buses, they like pack on other ‘luxuries’ such as videos playing at full blast to help you through the wee hours of the morning when it’s too cold to sleep. Rather an unpleasant experience. Actually, prior to our non-AC bus ride to Jakarta, I told Julie I was a bit apprehensive about it, but the ride was quite comfortable, windows opened and closed to regulate heat, we slept well and when we got off the bus nearly 40 hours later, I felt good. In fact, I could have gone on longer if necessary. With this attitude, I wisely purchased a ticket for the ‘ekonomi’ bus, laughing at all the suckers boarding the AC bus next door.

Not all ‘ekonomi’ buses are created equal.

This bus had very uncomfortable bench seats, with non-reclining seats (actually, some reclined, though not by design, nor under anyone’s control). I had an aisle seat, and the man next to me, being a ‘sturdy’ fellow, naturally overflowed over into ‘my side.’ I didn’t think this would be such a big deal until they loaded on the passengers who would sit on stools in the aisle, thus restricting the ‘aisle-overflow’ prerogative to which those in my situation are entitled. During the night, on those few moments I did find sleep(by the 3rd night, you’re bound to be tired enough to get some sleep, regardless of the conditions), I would awake to find one aisle-dweller’s head on my shoulder, and another who had decided she’d sleep more comfortably with her rear on the corner of my seat. And so it went. For 60 hours. Think about that. 60 hours. Think about all that you have done for the past 2 1/2 days. In that amount of time, I was bussing my way to Northern Sumatra.

BUKIT LAWANG, LAKE TOBA, MEDAN (SUMATRA)

I spent the next week in Northern Sumatra (though, not so far north as Aceh, where the separatists and Indonesian army are fighting away), recovering from my bus ride, reflecting on my past 2 months in this wonderful country, and just plain relaxing. Thinking a jungle trek was not the best thing for my foot (much better now, by the way), my time in Bukit Lawang was spent hanging out on the river. I rented an inner-tube and tubed my way down the rapids. It was very unregulated, and certainly not the safest thing one could have done, but since everyone else was doing it, why not? Sure my butt banged over a number of rocks, but at least those rocks had been smoothed by thousands of butts before mine, making for a jolly-good ride. I certainly wasn’t alone, as hundreds of Sumatrans were up for the day, to ride the rapids, eat food, and play music till late. Mid-rapid, I met Metty, who reached out and grabbed my hand and asked “Hello, Mister, may we join you?” her brother and her sharing a tube. At the end of our ride, she invited me to join her family (BIG!) where I was well fed, before several more tubing runs, with as many as 8 or 9 of her family members linked together down the rapids. When we tired of this, we sat back and enjoyed the guitar-playing of her cousins (I think 1 in 4 Indonesians can play the guitar…) and thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon. At one point, I started to wonder if I should excuse myself and go see the afternoon orangutan feeding in the rehabilitation center (one of the things you’re ‘supposed’ to do when you come to Bukit Lawang’). Then, as if on cue, one of the funny creatures came down on the other side of the river, perhaps to check out all the commotion. It was a treat, not only for me, but for all the locals, as wild sightings are rare, without trekking deep into the jungle. It was a great day.

At lake Toba, I woke up, swam, ate, read, swam, ate, wrote, swam, slept, etc. most every day, save for a 6 hour stretch where I rented a motorcycle and cruised to a hot spring (and I mean HOT!).

And back to Medan, to arrange my ferry ticket out of the country (visa expires in 2 days), have Metty show me around town, and, since I’ve got some extra rupiah, and it’s only 40 cents/hour, catch up on my e-correspondence.

What’s next? Tomorrow, I regain my US citizenship, and head back towards Thailand, en route to Laos. And after that? Well, to know the future, it’s best to look at the past.

“Jay, don’t you think it’s about time you came home?” “aw, c’mon, Mom, just one..no..two more months, please?”

Smart money says I’m on US soil in June… Jay “G’day, mates” Schneider