send me on my way

I returned to San Pedro with the terribly brilliant idea of settling down for awhile. There was delicious veggie food, cheap accommodation, and most importantly, amazing people to spend endless hours wasting time with. The town itself invites the laid back backpacker to hang out, party, and connect with the community and I couldn’t see myself anywhere else for the moment. So I got a private room and shower, bought groceries, and settled in immediately.

I can’t say I did a lot of terribly productive things during this time. Sure I wrote and exercised a bit, but I spent the vast majority of my time relaxing. Purely enjoying the simple things in life is one of my favorite activities and San Pedro is most definitely a place to do that. And best of all: I was surrounded by incredible, unique, creative, and fun people to be lazy with There were music festivals, movie marathons, and sunrise hikes. But my favorite activity was the regular community dinners we shared. While I didn’t actually sleep at Yo Mama’s Casa, I did make that hostel my home. Collectively we’d put in money or vegetables and then spend a few hours whipping up a delicious home cook meal for 20 people. That was no easy task. Usually fueled by smoke and drink, we somehow managed pulling off unique gourmet meals about 4 nights a week, and I never stopped being impressed. Of course when the night came, we would eventually go out for 10 q drinks ($1.50) and random debauchery at the same few bars we visited almost nightly. It was fun to say the least. Eventually I got burnt out smoking and drinking everyday and had to escape for some legitimate detoxing. Plus I had card/bank issues and the intention of meeting up with others for travel. But in reality, I knew it had to end at some point. And I hate being the last to leave the party and so I exited semi-gracefully to Xela. Pronounced “Shaey-la” and located high in the mountains only a few hours away, Xela provided the perfect detox setting. I immediately went to Spanish school 5 hours a day and moved in with a local family. I stopped smoking and drinking entirely, wrote furiously, and began soaking in all the culture I admittedly missed in San Pedro. I felt great. I started exercising regularly again and even went running with the 72 year old grandpa I adored. I also joined a women’s only gym and I must say that was quite the self esteem boost. I showed up late the first day to a class of 6 and while I was concerned I wouldn’t be fast to follow, I quickly learned that I had a massive edge on 40 something overweight Guatemalan ladies. Besides their clumsy coordination and general lack of athletic abilities, I had a natural energy all their tortilla eating must have zapped. I thoroughly enjoyed myself to say the least.

During this time I did notice a vast improvement in my Spanish as my teachers diligently berated the various types of past tense into me. But I probably learned the most from the families I lived with, one of which I truly adored and loved. I went to two schools, one for each week and you can read about my experience at one here. Yet the most rewarding experiences are always people related and that’s why my first family with 6 kids (a mix of cousins really), an old grandpa who runs, and a mother with the loudest, most genuine laugh was my favorite experience. I truly settled in cooking together, sharing recipes, birthday celebrations, dancing and singing, and Semana Santa. This holiday is massive in Latin cultures, but even more so in Antigua, Xela’s neighbor. Still, being the second largest city in the country, there were plenty of processions, alfombras, and street food.

For hours and days on end, men and women somberly walk in a procession of up to several hundred people each, extremely slowly, over alfombras. These brightly colored carpets are made by hand hours before the procession tramples over them, destroying this unique art, similar to mandalas. The people carry large, intricate structures dedicated to Jesus and Mary and it can take up to 70 people to carry each one. These processions block streets making it impossible to get around the city but invite a carnival like atmosphere where families for all over the country gather to celebrate ‘Holy Week’, with heaps of cotton candy and Jesus trinkets (obviously). Truly an interesting and once in a lifetime experience, mostly because I never need to go through that again. But healthy living simply isn’t for me long term; it’s much too boring. After just 2 weeks I was ready to get back off the wagon. My friend from home, travel companion, and work colleague Justin joined me in Xela for a few days of focused work and hiking. He brought his brute caveman friend, Captain Strangelove, with him, someone I quite quickly loved to hate. I had my good friend Kate from San Pedro come and join us and together we climbed the highest point in Central America. Climbing the volcano Tajumulco was something Sam had inspired me to do and I couldn’t leave Guatemala without conquering this 4222 m feat. While I have lived in higher altitudes, continuously walking uphill with a large pack stuffed with camping supplies is not an easy task. The crisp windy air gets fiercely cold and the altitude cuts your breathing ability in half, more so if you’re a smoker (like I have so unfortunately chosen to be). We were not alone though; we trekked with a large group of 30 people with a fantastic non-profit organization called Quetzaltrekkers. They have an amazing reputation and based on my personal experience I’d highly recommend any of their treks to anyone traveling through Guatemala or Nicaragua. At some sweaty point we made it to the base camp, just below the two summits. That evening we hiked the lower one to witness a sunset that wasn’t really impressive with so many clouds. No matter, we were still nearly on top of the world and it felt damn good. After not much sleep in our freezing tents, we woke up before 4 am to climb the final ascent to the highest point in Central America. It wasn’t very far, but we were sick, exhausted, and constantly catching our breath. Kate in particular had been properly sick for awhile and I’m impressed I didn’t have to carry her up. But the struggle was well worth it.

An array of colors slowly emerged in the distance and the sky began to light up vibrantly. Luckily, we barely made it to the top by sunrise and I’m so grateful we did because it was one of those epic sunrises I will never forget. The sky was clear except for the sea of clouds we were perched above. Yet the chain of volcanoes throughout Guatemala was still visible poking through and I literally left as if I were sitting on top of the world. It was one of those perfect mornings that was made even better by the fierce struggle it took to get there. The decent felt more like a cake walk compared to the previous day and we nearly ran down the volcano. Beer was much needed when our lungs could open up and I spent the next couple of days recuperating and working in our new hive team: me, Justin, and Captain Strangelove. I was sad to say goodbye to Kate as her path directed her back home. The boys wanted to stop in Sumac Champey for a few days and since I had already seen it, I decided one quick return to San Pedro would be best before I said goodbye to Guatemala. So I returned for a week of reunions only to discover that most of my good friends had already left. Plenty were still there but the town felt like a Twilight Zone replica of the place I loved so dearly before. The rainy season was setting in, tourism eased off, and I discovered the main reason I loved this place so much was because of the people in it. This goodbye was easier as it was clearly time to move onto the next adventure in my journey. So I met back up with the World Travel Buzz team hive in Rio Dulce, a small not so touristy city on the Caribbean coast. We worked, visited an orphanage with 300 kids, and met up with some crazy girls the boys had acquired whilst in Sumac Champey. Altogether we took the boat cruise down river towards Livingston, the truly Belizean border island town used for jumping in and out of Guatemala. We didn’t stay in Livingston though, instead opting for Finca Tatin, a gorgeous hidden hotel nestled in the jungle and right on the river. Nature enveloped this place and with as many hammocks as there were, it was virtually impossible not to relax there. Dinners were served family style and the 8 of us loudly took over what was supposed to be a quiet getaway. Not surprisingly, our last night included nude night swimming, super dragons (don’t ask), and heaps of rum. The girls that joined us were just the kind of girls I like: down to party and get weird.

During the day we remained active: kayaking a few hours down river, hiking several hours back through the sweltering jungle, and swinging into the river to cool off. The atmosphere was serene with lush tropical forest and a calm wide river. Boats came by every so often, but not near our hotel because it was down a side river which made it more peaceful and secluded. We were soon on the go again towards Honduras which was really close but inconvenient with public transportation. Two boats and three buses in one day and we made it to the hostel brewery located in the highlands of Honduras. D & D is truly off the map; unless of course you travel with a Lonely Planet. Nonetheless, this hidden gem remains a growing trend among backpackers and locals alike because it is, by far, the best freshly brewed beer in Central America. From porter to apricot ale, they have it all and for a mere $2 a pint. If beer really isn’t your thing though, they have a pool, hammock, fire, and great food. After a few days there chilling out, exploring the natural beauty of the area, and getting drunk on yummy beer at night, it was time to move on. The Bay Islands were next on our itinerary and we were eager to get there. It’s hard to begin to explain the shenanigans that is Utila, so I won’t and will save it for the next installment. But I’ll leave you wondering about what kind of damage I could do with 50 cent tequila. I know, I know, bad idea. But I’ll never learn. And that's what makes my adventures so entertaining.

caring is creepy

Thick lush jungle, crystal blue waterfalls, playful monkeys, ancient ruins, cobblestone streets, gourmet food, towering heights, colorful markets, and endless opportunities for fun and debauchery. Guatemala has been more than I ever could have hoped for.

In my last blog I mentioned that I had met someone and we decided to travel a bit together. I had never really done this before (romantically) and felt both nervous and excited. Traveling with someone is far more intense than living together: you literally spend every moment in sync. You know everything they eat, when they fall asleep, and when they go to the bathroom. (And if you’re with a French Canadian, you know the size, smell, and color of said bathroom goings.) Traveling with anyone, romantic or not, can be difficult but luckily for me, everything about our journey together was easy.

A long time ago I decided not to write about the men I meet or the relationships I have just because it opens Pandora’s Box. The reality is I couldn’t write this blog without mentioning Sam and who he is to me. So let’s ignore the ‘we’ as nothing more than the reality of traveling with someone, no matter who they are. This is a story about my journey through Guatemala.

The first stop was in Flores to visit Tikal, the most beautiful and fascinating Mayan ruins I’ve seen. The cool part was that only a tiny fraction of the ruins have been uncovered, which means under the thick grassy hills and through the dense jungle forest you can stumble upon all sorts of ancient architecture. And considering the spread of the park was beyond a day’s walk, not including the vast protected areas, there was a lot to stumble upon.

Rather than seeing it all, which you can’t, we spent way too much of our time playing with monkeys and chasing other animals. It was nice to be with someone who wanted to do exactly what I wanted to do, which was get off the beaten path, climb a hidden ruin, and eat a jenky can of beans and bread lunch “talking” to the nearby howler monkeys and trying to get them to growl. (Which we did using an old recorded video of howlers and it was AMAZING!)

From here someone suggested a stop at Semuc Champey and it only took one postcard to persuade us that we had to change our plans. One of the important traits in a travel partner for me is someone who can truly go with the flow. Someone who is open to suggestions and understands a change of heart or weather determining where you book your next ticket. Sam is one of these people and that’s one reason we traveled so well together.

So then we convinced a couple of friends to join us to Sumac Champey, a gorgeous series of pools and waterfalls nestled in the mountainous jungle. It was fucking beautiful to say the very least. There were also caves to go splashing and swimming through with only candles, a river to swing into and tube down, and then a sweet hike up to an even sweeter viewpoint. But it wasn’t the waterfalls that kept us in town for 6 days; it was Zephyr Lodge, the chill party hostel we adored.

Despite our makeshift shack we called our room (no walls and located above the workroom) we kept extending our stay every day based on the scenery, hangovers, and good company. There was so much to explore and see here; simply enjoying the incredible view from the open air hot shower was a favored activity. We had a fun group of people there and had some good times partying. Too good because I woke up with cat whiskers one day and no recollection of receiving them, despite there being pictures of my clearly lucid face. (Thanks again Sam.)

From here I learned about a place called Earth Lodge, an avocado farm nestled into the hills 20 minutes above Antigua, our anticipated next stop. ‘Avocado’ was the only word either one of us needed to be convinced to make a pit stop, and again we stayed longer than anticipated. It was quiet, calm, and beautiful. We stopped drinking, went to bed early, and became lazy with our days, but loved every minute.

In Antigua we stepped back into tourists’ roles strolling the cobblestone streets, trying all the food we could, and sampling the local brew. We even did a chocolate making class where we learned the whole history, made traditional cocoa using both Mayan and European methods, and then made our own variety of gourmet chocolates. Super delicious and fun! We also visited an organic macadamia nut farm and climbed a volcano. I’m not usually one for cramming lots of tours or activities into a small space but I love that Sam encouraged me to see and do as much as I could here being that my lazy ass probably misses out on so much when left to my own devices.

Eventually we made our way to San Pedro de la Laguna, a small traveler’s paradise located on Lake Atitlan. It had been our long term goal of reaching this place and hanging out for as long as possible. Stories of this chilled out community of backpackers had convinced us this would be a place we would like, and we were not disappointed.

San Pedro is so small you can walk everywhere you’d possibly want to go, even though most of it is concentrated into a few alleys lined with delicious restaurants, fun bars, and tiendas for everything else. This area had clearly been developed by travelers who were ready to stay put for awhile and wanted a bit of their homes with them. You can find anything from falafel to Thai curries, and all of it is reasonably priced as well. To be honest, Guatemala was not as cheap as I had planned on and it was bothering me, until I reached San Pedro. Finally a place I could afford to eat out well and drink everyday! Even the accommodation was a tiny fraction from what we were paying before.

To make this place even more paradise, we already knew a few people in town and automatically joined in the community of people who were staying long term. I knew I would become one of them automatically. At this point I knew Sam was leaving soon, and it seemed obvious I would end up staying here longer than planned so I planned on awhile.

While Sam was there we remained active: kayaking, hiking, horseback riding, going to markets, and constantly discovering delicious food. But eventually his time had come and he had to book it back to Cancun fast in order to catch his flight home. But the last thing he wanted to do before he left was climb the largest volcano in all of Central America, located just outside of Xela which was only 3 hours away. But timing is everything and somehow we screwed up our one and only chance to climb the volcano. If there is anyone as good about procrastinating as me, it’s possibly Sam, so naturally as a team we sometimes suck.

In the end, we spent our last day together enjoying the simple beauty of a hot spring finished by an evening of cooking and drinking wine. I am extremely grateful for all of the incredible adventures we shared. I have heaps of wonderful memories and pictures to take with me and that’s good enough. After the final farewell, I scoped out some Spanish schools as I knew I’d eventually come back to detox. Then I quickly returned to San Pedro to settle into my next favorite community and home for the following month. And what a truly amazing home and family it turned out to be.

things i cannot recall

Considering how long it’s been since I last updated the world about what I’m doing, I’m sure a summary of most things will be sufficient. I’ll save the ramblings for unnecessary tangents on rooftops. You’ll see why later.

I last left off where I was traveling through the Yucatan Peninsula and loving being back in the comfortable life of a traveler. But early on I found a hostel I wanted to work at so just after the New Year I returned to Cancun for over a month of random debauchery.

I knew we would be family immediately; not sure why or how, but my co-workers at Ka’beh hostel were better than I ever could have hoped for. First and foremost, there is Joe, and there is no one else on this planet like her. She is energetic, loud, outgoing, and totally unforgettable. There is no way to describe her completely here, but stories of Joe will travel with me throughout my life.

Then there was my insta-gay husband from Kosovo and we immediately clicked as we smoked our first bowl together straight away. I could talk to him forever and we connected in so many ways, especially spiritually. He is one of the most interesting people I’ve met and I was lucky to have him as my confidant and guide.

There was also the Aussie hippie who was managing and basically running the place and keeping it all together. He was the one who actually convinced me to come back for work and he continued to make me laugh throughout my stay. The last worker was a local girl who didn’t sleep at the hostel, but worked most of the awful 7 am shifts and cleaned better than all of us combined. The final piece of the puzzle was a French-Canadian who had recently invested some money in the place and came down to learn to scuba and relax and enjoy life for a little while. Altogether we were the core Ka’beh family, and altogether we were a bunch of loud, ridiculous, but hilarious drunks.

Our staff was small but so was our hostel. Sixteen official beds to rent out, then some hammocks, and even our beds in the staff room of four went up for grabs plenty of nights. The hostel didn’t just feel like home, it used to be one. Converted only a few years ago, Ka’beh quickly became known in Lonely Planet as a party hostel, and lives up to the title to this day.

Every night of the week we had activities planned including free bbq and beer pong. My favorite was open bar on Fridays when for just 20 pesos, or roughly $1.50, you could drink as much liquor as you wanted for a few hours. Now that’s some good messy fun!

My first shift was during tequila jenga and needless to say, I learned pretty early on that there was a whole lot of leeway in the term “work” around there. After staying up till dawn and getting wild and weird in hammocks, I realized I was going to love working there.

As Cancun is a major party destination it was our job to facilitate getting our guests out to the bars and have loads of fun. Not always up for a night of binge drinking, I still had to get others amped to drink and party any night of the week. And it never mattered if it were Saturday or Wednesday, Cancun was partying hard.

But that fact rarely affected me; in fact plenty of days I never left past the hostel walls. I didn’t need to, I had everything I needed right there: stocked food and kitchen, internet, and most of all, people I loved being with. I could waste time so easily at Ka’beh because I was genuinely enjoying every moment I lived in. Even though I was technically working, it was so laid back and relaxed I could never take it too seriously.

Most often we would visit the roof. A jenky ladder led to an even jenkier roof top, we escaped multiple times a day to talk, relax, and smoke a bowl. We would invite the guests we really liked up to the roof as it was kind of a random but amazing spot. I also slept/passed out on that roof. A couple of times. Naked. Whoops. (Sorry, it’s just that kind of roof.)

More than just the hostel workers, our Ka’beh family was extended into our guests that stayed for awhile and really bonded with us. It’s surprising how close people become when they’re not working or studying and instead only enjoying life. It becomes easier to meet people, connect, and bond. Especially if you’re drinking every night together.

So many amazing people came and left Ka’beh that touched my heart and made me happy. I wish I could tell stories about them all, but I can’t, so I’ll pick just one: Samuel. He is a French Canadian chef and it wasn’t long before we started hooking up. One thing lead to another and it turns out he’s one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. He stayed for over two weeks before he had to make a move, but promised to come back soon. When he did, he brought me two pairs of feather earrings, both beautiful and both totally my style. It was around then I really realized this guy might be different. Before he left for good, we talked about wanting to travel together. I wasn’t ready to leave when he was so I planned to meet him in less than a week in Guatemala and we would travel together there. But that’s a whole other blog you’ll have to wait for.

Sam was definitely part of the Ka’beh family though, an intricate part that cooked many delicious meals. In fact, we all cooked amazing meals together and that fact alone is what makes us family. Everyday someone would cook something for everyone. It wasn’t planned who, when, or what, but eventually someone would get hungry or feel like cooking and groceries were already bought for us ready to be prepared. No one else was vegetarian but no one minded at all eating veg most the time, considering how much cheaper it is. I loved creating this community and having a time where we all came together and ate. Not around one big table literally, but together with conversation.

Since I worked at Ka’beh so long and drank so much, there are obviously many crazy stories to share. But I can’t (and won’t) share them all so instead I’ll just focus on a few. The craziest ones always involve Joe, and her birthday was no exception. It started off slowly with a game of King’s Cup and somehow turned into us making human pyramids at the bars and then stripping to our undies and running into the ocean at sunrise. It was one of those magical seamless nights, the only bad thing was that someone jacked my purse while we were swimming. Not really surprised though.

The best part of the whole night was the bus ride back, most of which I don’t remember. What I do recall is Joe staying in her drawers and stopping/directing traffic so we could cross the 8 car lanes. Mind you, it was a Thursday morning around 8 or 9 am and everyone else around was going to work. Joe has no shame but instead a huge heart that wants to keep her friends safe.

Even though Cancun had a plethora of large clubs to go out to all night, most heavy drinking nights were spent at home in Ka’beh. It was incredibly cheaper to get pissed back at ours and we had the most fun just being our weird drunk selves. It was a giant blur of spanking with paddles, dressing up in ridiculous outfits, and death defying hammock tricks. The most infamous night of course was Australia Day, when hammock sutra was invented. There were only 5 hammocks, but there were over a dozen people in them, one of which was performing. Joe literally gave lap dances to everyone in the hammocks, carefully balancing herself above everyone’s crotches. Eventually it became too much and a couple of hammocks pulled out from the wall and asses went down on the ground hard. Just another day at Ka’beh.

Naturally with this much drinking, people are bound to pass out, anywhere and anytime. (Joe regularly chose to sleep on the main couch, usually close to naked.) But if someone assed out during their “work”, they were bound to get taken advantage of. It started off innocently enough with pictures of the victim passed out with a sign on them saying “hard at work”. (Hard at work quickly became the slogan for our hostel.) Near everyone got a photo with the sign, but sometimes we felt like being artistic with the victim, namely Joe. One night there was a sombrero, empty bottles, and a condom filled with milk all over poor Joe (who is genuinely a hard worker). But that’s what you get for drunkenly passing out while doing math for your checkout at 2 am. Or for living at Ka’beh.

I was more than lucky to have this place and time of my life; I loved everyone who was apart of it. The flow and tempo of life was slow and steady but much to my liking. From time to time we were challenged though with the reality of work. If there was a flash storm (and there were a few) we had to get soaked in the rain as we scooped buckets of water out of the alley that threatened to flood our kitchen and into the garden further away. We ran out of water. More than once. And we were lucky if the hot water ever worked. Don’t even get me started with the laundry machine. But overall it was mellow light housecleaning work and checking people in and getting them situation. We had to keep the place clean and everyone happy, that was most important. But in general someone just had to be around 24/7 so that meant someone always had the 11pm-7 am night shift. That was rough.

You were allowed to sleep a bit but I rarely did. And after a few days you get properly worn out and ready to sleep all day. The whole schedule of partying, sleeping, and working throws your body through a loop. I definitely adored every minute I had at Ka'beh and could have stayed longer, but it was my time to leave when I did (even though I did so sobbing). I had Sam to catch up with and was eager to start traveling again, this time in Guatemala.

time and time again

Time is entirely what you make of it; it’s the same as a glass that’s half empty or half full. One week in a new country is however much or little you want it to be. And for me, one week is full of far more experiences and observations than conceivable back home in the States.

I’m not sure why but I was born an incredibly lazy person. I also have a lot going through my mind constantly and realize that no matter what I will never become bored with myself. I might go crazy and need to exit my own head, hence supplemental escapism, but I’ll never run out of things to think about. What this translates to is my ability to travel alone and remain content with just myself.

Since I’ve arrived, I have spent much of my time only with myself and have yet to feel dissatisfied. True, I have a lot to sort out right now and also I understand this time is both limited and important. But it allows me to wander markets, discover vegetarian restaurants, and shop as I see fit, without any pressure or expectations from someone else. I realize not everyone is capable of this as the need to share experiences is inherent in human nature. But true explorers and wanderers seek adventure for their own sole appreciation, and I am not an exception. My safety may be a concern for some, but nothing will change my intense desire to discover every random corner of the world one village at a time.

While I have only been in Mexico just over a week, I have been observing their culture for much longer. Working in various restaurants, I’ve had many experiences with Mexican people, mainly though men of the lower economic class. While it may seem unnecessary to mention, I do this because class status has a lot of influence on how a person acts or how they view the world.

For example, the men I work with are infamous for catcalling and wooing women, to the point of discomfort. Here in Mexico I have had experiences with a variety of classes and it has been noteworthy that middle to higher status males do not participate in this behavior. The Mexican women of higher status simply do not tolerate this behavior as they see it as rude and uneducated. Education is the key here in dividing the classes.

The poorer you are, the more necessary it is for you to work and not attend school. The richer you are, the more important it is to receive a higher education and have interaction with various cultures. Studying, traveling, or au pairing abroad, meeting foreigners, and being fluent in English takes precedence over immediate income as it will help them in whatever white collar career they choose.

I’m not sure why the endless sexual harassment exists in the lower class, but I know it isn’t exclusive to Mexicans. All over the world men try to prove their manhood by hassling women, although it is predominant in Latino cultures. I wish I understood what they were trying to accomplish: do they think we like this? Does it make them look good to their comrades? Or is it just something they’ve witness since they were children and think is both normal and appropriate? If I had to take a wild guess, I’d go with the last and I can only hope through education this will change over time.

I flew into Cancun because of the cheap ticket, not for the intense partying (despite what my past history might insinuate). So instead of hostelling I couchsurfed with a Brit who had been living there for a long time to get a more authentic experience and better understanding of what to expect from Mexican culture. I spent the first few days laying low and figuring out my plan of action. I lazily soaked in the sun on the beach all day and had mellow evenings with my host sharing good conversation and getting inspired. My main focus was creating a travel plan and trying as much delicious Mexican food as I could fit into my stomach.

And then, as it always does, it happened oh so quickly. I already had conflicting plans with different cs (couchsurfing) hosts and fast decisions to make. And for anyone who knows me well, you know that decisions are my kryptonite. Despite my desperate attempt to make faster decisions and let them go from my mind once they’ve been made, I still struggle with them everyday. From meals to new places to travel, I have trouble in creating my own destiny.

But sometimes, I can hear a whisper from the Universe and I know in my soul where I'm supposed to go. And that’s what matters most I suppose; to be able to read signs and let the Universe be your guide. And that’s exactly how I ended up in Mexico.

In allowing myself to accept whatever offers came my way, I have already found confidence in knowing I am exactly where I am supposed to be. The Universe has given me several coincidences that I use as bench markers and reminders that I am right on my path.

So I decided to go to the cs party in Cancun being held at a hostel trusting I would meet someone or hear something that would guide me to where I was supposed to be; I knew in my heart this would lead to something good. But in the meantime I had one day to kill and I’d had enough of the Cancun beach; it was time for another.

So I set off for a quick ferry ride to Isla Mujeres, a beautiful island with one of the most clear blue tranquil beaches around. I needed a bit of adventure and was ready to challenge myself to meeting new people on my own in a hostel. And after another lazy day on the beach and strolling the town, I set in for an evening at a fun and full hostel. The first person to really talk to me was an Argentinean who spoke no English. I realized my Spanish was going to have to improve quickly so I went out for both food and booze. First I purchased bottle of rum and then I found a chilled out taco stand that most definitely would churn my stomach. The old men running it were sweet enough so I sat and joined them for a long while, practicing my Spanish and drinking my rum. For anyone who has struggled with learning a second language, they understand just how much inebriation helps you both speak and understand a new language.

So when I returned to the Argentinean and his friends I was both confident and fluent, and I had some rum to share so they loved me even more. The night rolled on and I knew I was getting into trouble but I loved it. Eventually I met others and we set out from the hostel bar on the beach into town for some legitimate troublesome fun.

I used to think trouble found me and not the other way around, but lately I’m beginning to realize I have a real knack for attracting it. Really though it’s the people I choose to spend my time with. I like characters; not boring people. I won’t talk to the people who sit in lounges all day on their computers or go everywhere with their Lonely Planet. I’d rather meet the people doing cartwheels off palm trees or who are clearly on binges that are over 24 hours. These people have stories to tell and the lives they lead are far more interesting, if not dangerous. But these are my people and I’ll be damned if society dictates that I should avoid them.

Anywho, my new group was clearly on an intense and long binge to which I was invited to join. I politely declined most of their offerings but liked the fact that I had been taken in as one of their own. The night crept on and soon became morning and I was the last into my dorm crawling into bed with extremely dirty feet as I decided to roam the street without any shoes. (I suppose I look like a bit of trouble myself most of the time.)

The next day passed quickly as I got a bit more beach time in and said goodbye to my new friends and sailed back to Cancun for the cs party. I had just enough time to shower and sort myself out before we had to arrive at the hostel to set everything up. It wasn’t just any party; it was a posada, which is a Christmas party that involves traditional food, songs, and piñatas. And for us, alcohol. The large group involved a mix of both Mexicans and foreigners, all excited to meet the other and practice their languages.

Salsa was danced, piñatas were beaten, and alcohol was consumed. By the end of the night I had received an offer to work at the hostel as the manager desperately needed help and some time off. I considered it and promised to return for at least New Year’s Eve, although I knew in my heart this was a gift from the Universe. And so my plans once again created themselves.

But first I needed to explore a bit of Mexico and so I set off the next day for Merida where my next cs host awaited me. She was Mexican but had lived in both Paris and New York for extended periods of time and was extremely fluent in both languages. She had obviously grown up in a family that valued both education and traveling and the outcome was this energetic, outgoing, and open minded woman. I only had a few days to spend with her though as she had just purchased another ticket to New York and much like my own travels, didn’t know exactly when she would return but knew it would be months. She was more then generous to offer me to stay with her in her final days at home (that also happened to be her birthday) and it was a whirlwind of meeting new people and going places. While I was proud my Spanish came flooding back to me rather quickly, it also challenged me daily and made me super tired at night.

Being on my own allows me the luxury to observe people constantly, which in turns creates a natural flow of thought. I ponder questions and come to conclusions about both the world and myself and am constantly seeking more. I look into windows and see homes and families, celebrations and daily life. While this blog will chronologically follow my trail, it will be more or less the observations I make about society that I prefer to share. These are the things that matter most in the end.

One thing I have written about before but cannot express enough is how similar we all are as human beings. More often than not, we focus on the differences: our religion, political preferences, skin color, etc. But the truth is we have more things that unite us together than divide us apart. We all go to the bathroom, eat and drink, listen to music, need to sleep. We all have friends and enemies, opinions and preferences (although different, we still all have them). We all have emotions, whether we suppress them or not, and we all have the capacity to love. We feel sorrow and happiness, longing and content. We have family and friendships, and relationships that hurt and help us. We make connections with other human beings, or we choose to avoid them. We are all alike and not alike at the same time and we should celebrate this fact alone because it is what makes us human. The more I travel the more this is made clear to me. No matter the language or skin color, I see families singing songs, couples in love, and everyone laughing. I may not always get the joke, but I smile because I am happy to witness these things. To be exposed to as many cultures and experiences as I have has made me an extremely lucky girl and I do not take this for granted. And what I take from it all is that we as human beings have no natural reason to hate one another, but instead to love. And in the end love is all we have, all we need. The sooner we realize this as a collective society the sooner in harmony we can all live.

freebird

Chaos entangles me in a web of heat, people, and Spanish. My pack is heavy, I’m without any sense of direction, and I stick out like a gringo sore thumb. I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing or where I’m going.

I’m back baby!!!

Most people travel when they take a sabbatical. I, on the other hand, leave the long winding road from time to time to take a taste of the “real world”, to see what it’s like to work a vast majority of your time. Like most sabbaticals, their time is fleeting. Last I left this blog I was in Indonesia being doted upon by my family. Since then I spent 3 more months between Thailand and Malaysia volunteering at an animal refuge and sterilization clinic, couchsurfing with families, and celebrating the Thai New Year with the world’s largest water fight. To be fair, I could (and should) have written some catch up blogs about my final months in Asia. But I found myself preferring to enjoy my time and writing specific articles rather than working on my blog. And home provided me with zero inspiration for reflection.

And so here I sit, on my first day on my next big adventure, trying to play catch up with my past. So I won’t. Instead I’ll focus on the moment, and possibly how I’ve come across it.

Americans are the first to spout the benefits of freedom although they very rarely understand what it is to be truly free. Most people are tied down to mortgages, car payments, relationships, and the inevitable pile of stuff they simply cannot live without. They become stuck; caught in a hamster wheel only few truly yearn to be free of. And even fewer make the escape. Me? I never joined. I took one look and ran the other direction, even though it involved a huge cliff and a jump down a dark rabbit hole.

I don’t know how to describe myself other than someone who yearns to be free; always. To explore the world at my own pace and never feel forced into a life I wouldn’t create on my own. My only guide is the Universe and I trust it to give me wonderful experiences, as it usually does. I believe so strongly in the Universe that if I notice a few signs, I will take the first exit. I know when I’ve stayed my limit anywhere and I’m fully capable of bowing out at any time. The fact that I bought a plane ticket to Mexico without any plan or forethought isn’t a surprise, certainly not to me.

I’ve been backpacking many times. I have the gear, the knowledge, and the fearlessness which enables me to be ready to go literally at any moment. And so I did. In the matter of 24 hours I bought a plane ticket, quit my two jobs, and prepared myself for an adventure I hadn’t planned on in less than 2 weeks. And I couldn’t be more excited.

I am home here. Not Mexico (and certainly not Cancun). But on the open road guided by my intuition and curiosity. Meeting new people and trying new things. This is what makes me alive, this is what makes me me. I don’t expect people to want the same for themselves or to even understand it. But I will give you a window to my world so you can enjoy it from the safety of your own home, wherever that may be. But I do hope you find your own inspiration to create your own wealth of happiness in your world, whatever that may be. We are all free no matter the shackles that entangle us, there is always opportunity. You just need to listen and look for the signs that tell you what to do. The Universe is always there, but it’s up to you live your life.

So what is the plan then you ask? I’m planning on no plans currently. I’ll explore the southern bit of Mexico for a couple of months; relaxing on the beaches drinking margaritas and exploring beautiful Mayan ruins. Eventually I will head towards Belize, Guatemala, and the rest of Central America in no particular order. I will hopefully get some Spanish school in, volunteer somewhere, and ride a moto recklessly without a helmet or license. I will enjoy everyday, take every chance and explore every opportunity. I will be happy going wherever the signs may point and following the long, winding, and unpredictable road I’ve come to adore. And I will share all of it with you. Thank you for reading, joining me on my journey, and for being apart of my life. I appreciate you all. <3

the good life

PART 2

Often throughout my travels, people have taken me in as treated me as family. This is the only time I’ve stayed with people who actually are related to me, despite never having met them previously. But by the time I left, there was no question about it: we are family.

My first full day in Jakarta was merely a tiny eye opening introduction to this crazy world I was entering. After some running around, I was indulging in a much needed nap only to be woken by my father asking me to join him at the whorehouse for a drink. I thought he was kidding at first, but he wouldn’t let me go back to sleep and insisted I join him, my stepmom, and uncle for a beer with some nice classy hookers. And in this house, no never means no.

As Ping had loaned the money to build this brothel, he was given unlimited free access to anything he wanted, and I really mean anything. He also has a coupon book (not a joke) he can use whenever he wants or give out to friends. And you better believe this book is good for any number of girls he wants. Luckily for me, no one indulged in anything that would later traumatize me, but I did have to remind myself a few times that this actually is my life.

What’s interesting about this place was that it was set up as nightclub so you could easily forget it was 4pm on a Tuesday, yet all the girls were piled into a back room lit disturbingly bright with numbers tagged on all of them. They simply sit there altogether chatting, not doing much, as the men stand outside watching them creepily and taking notes on which numbers they want. Later, the numbers are given to “Momma” and she will fetch whoever you choose. They come out for a drink, a chat, and then you can head upstairs whenever you’re ready. I think I might have been the first person to ask these girls what they want to be when they grow up, because trust me, they weren’t all grown up yet.

What makes this experience so great is that since Ping knew the owner, the Momma came and not only chatted to us for a bit, but gave me a necklace as a present. (I’m fairly certain young white females are not common there.) When we left we tipped the few girls who sat with us and needless to say, it was a most interesting start to this vacation.

Something I learned within a matter of days was not to mention any needs or wants unless I’m very serious about it because it will happen in an exaggerated manner. Say you like lychee (a fruit) and in comes 20 pounds of it. Wish I was kidding. I never expressed hunger because even when I showed slight interest in food, 10 plates of it would make its way to me. Still not kidding. Even after I’ve been given three breakfasts, somehow they think I can eat more and offer copious amounts of fresh, delicious food. This wouldn’t be so awful if it weren’t for my stepmom whose favorite thing to say is, “finish it”. (Thankfully after she left no one has told me to finish anything.)

Truly though, if I dared touch something it could soon become mine. I quickly became afraid to touch anything as if I were Midas. When purse shopping I was only interested in one purse, but since it was the most expensive one there, I insisted I didn’t want it. I reassured them many times and told them not to go back and get it. Low and behold a few days later it magically made its way to my room. To be honest, I really wasn’t surprised (or upset…I love my new purse).

What I love best about this family though is how unpretentious they are. Despite their ability to design any number of houses they want or eat constantly at fancy restaurants (and they do both), they love their near dilapidated warehouse and eat at hole-in-the-wall noodle shops. It’s truly not because they’re cheap; they have no problem spending money. It’s because they want what they want and it’s as simple as that. My favorite example of their unpretentious attitude lies in the Kobe beef steakhouse story.

The one and only night Ping decided to stay out late was to take us to the best steakhouse in Jakarta to sample Kobe beef, the best in the world. Located at the top floor of an exquisite building with a fine view, we strolled in this classy joint with beer bottles in hand. (Ping goes absolutely nowhere without a couple of beers in the car and in hand, grocery store included.) He also brought his own whiskey bottle and had no problem cracking it at the table. Was he trying to save money? No, he just wanted his whiskey, the best $120 bottle he could find to match the best steak. Now for the best part…

He didn’t want to bring the whole bottle so he simply poured some into another smaller bottle. But this bottle was for some cheap as dirt Malaysian crap. So despite the dime he dropped on dinner, he looked like a weirdo strolling in with beer bottles and cheap whiskey in pocket. He just doesn’t care what people think of him, and that’s what makes him the Godfather.

Despite not visiting much other than Jakarta, we still ventured to neighboring areas. One of the best day trips we took was to Bogor, the lush, green, mountainous region hours away from pollution. Sure the botanical garden was great, even the shopping was fun, but what made this full day adventure so fantastic was our trip to Jurassic Park. Or at least the closest thing in the world to it.

I’m not exaggerating when I say this park is set up nearly exactly how it is in the movie, minus dinosaurs. Instead, substitute lions, bears, hippos, giraffes, ostriches, and every other animal you can imagine. Yes they’re all free and yes they can wander right up to your car. Luckily the dangerous animals don’t usually do so, although I’m not entirely sure as when we were in that particular section it was raining pretty badly and they couldn’t be bothered to do much of anything other than sit under shelter.

But when it was clear, the zebras and camels did all they could to nearly poke their heads into our car as we fed them carrots and bananas. Before you enter the park, it’s up to the individual to load up on snacks to feed the animals and attract them close to your car, despite the warnings not to do so. (The joy of being in a country without crazy lawsuits.) Does this park sound crazy? Yes. And was it fun? Absolutely. As an animal rights advocate I hate zoos, more than you can imagine. But I loved this place. Here, the animals roamed free and could stay as close to people or far away from them as possible. Is it entirely natural? No, but it’s a hell of a lot better than being in a concrete cage behind bars with asinine children taunting them.

One interesting fact about Indonesia I’ve neglected to mention is that fact that there are no laws. Well, technically there are, but nothing a bribe can’t get you out of. The price of the bribe must be in direct proportion to the size of the law you’re breaking, but everything is negotiable.

For example, there are no extensions given to the one month tourist visa. Unless of course you have an Uncle Ping who knows someone in the government he can slip some cash to and an extension stamp will magically appear in your passport. (The immigration officer at the airport was a bit surprised how I got it, but I was clearly not someone to be questioned as evidently I knew people.) The bottom line is, don’t break the law in Indonesia…unless you have the cash to back it up.

While the massages, shopping, drinks, and delicious food was absolutely fantastic, it was never the best part. By far what makes this place so special in my heart is how welcome and loved I felt. They took me in and without question I was family. Over time we grew closer; I stayed up late chatting with Aliu, went to Wei’s home in the country no one had seen before, and soon they were all able to predict my preferences. While I might have glorified all the material blessings I’d been given, that’s not the reason I stayed so long. Feeling welcome and appreciated is a priceless gift never to be ignored. And being given a family in Indonesia is by far the most valuable thing I’ve ever received.



BANGDUNG BONUS!!!!!

My first two weeks in Indonesia was spent vacationing with my dad and stepmom aka being ushered around constantly meeting new people and sharing pleasantries over meals out. It seemed everyone knew my stepmom was in town and had to schedule an appointment with her and her bule family.

One of the families we met had three daughters, all near my age, and spoke perfect English as they go to an international school. We hit it off on our first lunch and we were all promptly invited to their house in Bandung the following weekend. (I actually remained close with them my entire time in Jakarta.)

Bandung is a breath of fresh air compared to Jakarta. Sure the traffic and malls have followed, but there is a chance to escape up the volcano, go for a hike, and receive at least some peace and quiet. After only a couple of days it was time to leave, but somehow I knew it wasn’t goodbye. Final farewells do not exist in my book and I’m always liable to return.

At first it was only for one night, but somehow I stuck around for a week and a half. It started with meeting Jasmine at a birthday party for one of my friends here. She was half Indonesian and half British, but had lived in America for nearly 10 years. Being that she was still in high school, that’s enough of her life to consider her American. She was on two week holiday with her father and invited me to stay for the weekend for a couple good nights out. (Since arriving in Jakarta I had been deprived of any nightlife and after a month I was itching for it.)

Our first night was a prelude to the new absurd world I had entered. Entirely different from that of my family in Jakarta, this one was still crazy and unreal in its own way. Cloud 9 is the only way to describe the first night; it’s also the name of the bar up in the hills we went. With live music, good food, and a spectacular view, this place is the perfect place to swig cocktails all night. So that we did.

The following day was Christmas and while I was concerned I was impeding on some family day, her dad told me to get ready to really party. Breakfast consisted of guacamole, apple streusel cake, and every other western junk food you can imagine. We didn’t even see her dad all day until we went out at night dressed to kill. Jasmine had a hair straightener, little black dress, and heels for me to borrow so I could escape the backpacker I had been for so many months.

Being that I had never spent the holidays away from home, I was hoping for something good. I didn’t care what; I just didn’t want to completely ignore it as I had Thanksgiving, Halloween, and my birthday. And thankfully it was the best Christmas I could hope for as drinks were heavy all night long and the bill footed by her father. A far cry from backpacker’s budgets, I drank everything from shots on fire to tequila, and you could tell at the end of the night.

By the time the weekend was over it was clear I needed to come back for New Year’s Eve, but as lazy days stretched into long nights, it became obviously stupid to leave for just a couple of nights.. Besides, Jasmine’s dance on stage and vomit on the table antics were reminiscent of me a long time ago. (A month could be considered a long time to some people.)

The week was spent sleeping in, watching Sex and the City, eating dinner out, and if we weren’t partying, we were still hanging out with friends. Luckily for me, her group there could speak English and while it took some time for them to use it regularly, they always made me feel welcome and I loved hanging out with them. From adventures in hot springs to late night movies, I had a great vacation away from my vacation.

New Year’s Eve was a whirlwind of a night as we were ready to go out by 5 (even though I only had 45 min to get ready). The traffic in Bandung on the weekends is epic and nothing to be trifled with. We all wanted to be well drunk by midnight and that meant not only an early start on the bottle, but on the road. Starting with classy martinis at a 5 star hotel, we then bought some flashing devil horns and were ready to find trouble at the North Sea.

The North Sea is the little bar Jasmine’s father has taken as his own, where he and his gang of friends hole up every night owning the place. They’ve acclimated to only buying bottles as single drinks is just ridiculous. Luckily for me, their drink of choice are gin and tonics. And I never thought I’d meet anyone who likes a stronger G&T than me, but her dad’s is lacking in the T department; pretty much entirely.

While Jazz and I planned on venturing to other places all night long, we somehow drank our way through the evening without ever switching venues. At midnight the horns blew, everyone cheered, and then my memory started going. I know I was loud, saying stupid things, and acting a damn fool. But in the end, I had heaps of fun, made it home safely, and didn’t have too bad of a hangover the next day so it was a roaring success.

Early Sunday morning it was time to bid farewell. Jasmine and her dad had a plane to catch back to reality, and I scored a seat in their car back to Jakarta. Despite having so much fun, I was tired, sick, and in dire need of recovering my body before I got back on the backpacking trail. While this blog doesn’t give too many specific stories, it’s for a specific purpose. Things that happen in Bandung should stay in Bandung, and out of respect for others I’ll keep these stories to myself. Or I’ll tell them to you in person after I’ve had some wine. The very least I can say is that Jasmine can turn a gay man straight and a straight girl gay.

lifestyles of the rich and famous

PART 1

All my life I’ve wanted a sugar daddy, just without all gross older man stuff I’m not actually into. It’s been a life dream I assumed impossible, until now. Turns out, the whole time I should have been wishing for a sugar aunt and uncle. It’s rare you make it to 26 years of age without knowing all of your family, but somehow I did. Ok, so they’re not blood family, but if I’ve learned anything from my time in Indonesia, family is family.

My father has been with his Indonesian born wife for well over ten years, yet I never knew a whole lot about the life or family she left behind long ago. I had the vague impression she came from money despite her being the biggest coupon clipper I’ve ever known. She also always encouraged me to visit Indonesia and when the chance for my backpacking trip to collide with their vacation here, I jumped on the opportunity to join.

After a few solid months of being a dirty hippie scavenger, I was ready for some indulgence and vacation. I arrived quite literally penniless and in need of both a meal and shower (I had been stretching my money my last few days in Cambodia and making a bag of chips last as two meals. A joke the family likes to now tell.) I was rescued at the airport and promptly brought to one of the many malls in Jakarta. After being stuffed with food we went shopping and I was told if I wanted or needed anything just to let them know. At first I appreciated the gesture, and after some time I learned that they literally meant anything.

But before I can get into the absurdity and amazingness of my situation here, let me introduce the cast of characters.

First and foremost is The Godfather. He’s my stepmom’s brother (aka my uncle) and very clearly the head of the family, the main breadwinner, and the official decision maker. His name is Ping and when he says “jump”, you say “how high?”. Well, I don’t. In fact I don’t know what he says most of the time because he doesn’t speak much English. For the most part, I can tell he enjoys having me around though and likes to show off his bule (white foreigner) niece to others. He insists I join him at lunches, 5 am jogs, or afternoon karaoke just so I can be introduced to his circle of friends.

And I do it dutifully too; it’s the least I can do for the roof he’s put over my head, the food in my belly, and the clothes on my back. And accessories, massages, and plane tickets. Yes, Ping is The Godfather for the reason that he makes a shit ton of money and loves to spend it on his family. And by the grace of God I am his family.

Yes it’s true; somehow I’ve slipped into a world where money has no value, mostly because there is a seemingly endless amount of it. At first I could tell they had money. It’s only after living with them for over a month I get just how much of it they have, and who they lend it to. Because that’s pretty much what they do, lend people money. It’s as simple as that, yet Bank of Ping lends out hundreds of thousands on a regular basis to government officials, oil drilling companies, and God knows who else. Over time he’s collected favors from every business you can imagine: jewelry makers, whorehouse owners, and senators; and I’ve met them all.

But the best and most absurd part of all of this: Ping lives in a shack of a warehouse. Despite his huge financial success and ability to buy several properties a year (and he does) he prefers his 30 year old deteriorating office building as his castle. He is a man who likes simple comfort and is unwilling to change, even if this makes him the butt of jokes amongst his class.

Ping loves routine and sticks to his regimented schedule of waking at 4 am, exercising, and then commencing his day. There is no specific daily work schedule; he comes and goes as he pleases; but mostly people come to his office to ask for money. It’s a very relaxed atmosphere as the room is small, no frills, and filled with yelping dogs. The walls are covered with countless photos of Ping with various high ranking government officials and military and one of him with the infamous Indonesian major mob boss. Because he wants you to know who his friends are if you decide not to pay him back.

If Ping weren’t a big time loan shark he’d be a bartender because he won’t let anyone pass through his doors without a drink. And when he says “one for the road”, he really means three or four. While he starts asking me early on in the day if I want a drink, he respects my ‘no’ answer; that is until 4 pm. Whenever 4 o’clock rolls around, if I’m anywhere near Ping I’m destined to have a drink in my hand. First he offers beer, then whiskey, and when I’ve declined both, he just gets me whatever he is drinking. No doesn’t mean no to Ping. (And this refers to all aspects of life.)

If Ping is king of his castle, then his queen is Alio. Or indentured servant, I’m not quite sure which anymore. Otherwise known as Auntie ATM, she handles the money and loves spending it. It took some time to get used to, but whatever I wanted, I would not pay for, no matter how hard I tried. And I did try. It honestly became a mission and I did everything I could to buy my own earrings and I failed over and over again until the one time I succeeded, only to discover she let me pay because she ran out of cash.

In the end though I still wasn’t paying because since the day I arrived my pocket had been stuffed with their cash. I felt uncomfortable with this at first, but after one month it’s become routine. And my biggest fear is that I’ve become far too comfortable with having other people pay for everything for me. I’ve been fiercely independent for as long as I can remember and take a certain pride in paying for all my own travels, despite what other people assume. This is the first time someone else has footed the bill. And to be honest, I kind of like it.

Alio is by far my favorite person here as she is my interpreter and protector. She speaks English, although not entirely perfectly, but always has a sense of humor and kindness about her I adore. As a good Christian, she goes to church regularly and prays often and I can tell it’s her faith that is her fuel in life.

The truth is Ping has worn her down. He is most demanding on her, requesting her schedule stay similar to his, that she only rarely goes out at night and with his permission, and is at his beck and call. A dutiful wife, she feels she has no other choice, but doesn’t complain. But I can tell it wears her down, physically and mentally. Whenever questioned about the irrationality of a situation, she simply sighs and says, “This is Ping”.

On the bright side, she can call the masseuse and beautician to come to the house whenever she pleases to try and relax. And since money is no object, she purchases anything and everything “for health”, no matter the cost. Eye mask for $100? Yes please! Bird’s nest soup for $300? Why not?! As long as it’s beneficial to her health, she’ll invest.

As for Ping’s investments, he loves watches. His collection in the hundreds are sprawled everywhere and their value range from $1,000-$50,000, although I’m not sure where he wears the expensive ones to since he never goes at night. Because of his self-imposed 4 am wake up, he goes to bed around 6-8 pm. He won’t leave the house past 4 pm because it will infringe on his schedule; another reason he might be the butt of jokes.

One more of my favorite characters has to be Wei, otherwise known as Uncle Wei Wei the tour guide. Tall, thin, quiet, and patient; my other uncle is also at the beck and call of Ping and has played tour guide and driver since my arrival. He drives us anywhere and everywhere, the mall or overnight trips, and I’m curious as to what his life is like outside of here. More evasive than anyone else, he lives far away despite Ping’s offer to house him next door (he owns the surrounding houses yet does nothing with them; he just doesn’t want neighbors. I think Wei likes his personal space. But he always has a smile on his face and a pleasant demeanor.

What really makes Wei’s driving skills exceptional is the legendary traffic of Jakarta. Unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, I’m fairly certain I’ve spent half of my time here sitting in a car. Not joking. It’s not as chaotic as Hanoi or death defying as Cairo, but far more infuriating than even LA traffic. It’s nonstop, everywhere, at all times of the day, and what keeps me from venturing out on my own more often. If there is any place on Earth that has worse traffic than Jakarta, I don’t want to go there, although I’m afraid I already have. And that place is called Bandung.

Roughly 2-3 hours outside of Jakarta, Bandung is the mountainous fresh air escape from the city everyone needs. And since everyone needs it, they go there on the weekends bringing their cars, pollution, and traffic along with them. Once in Bandung a drive that should take 20-30 minutes without traffic, took 2 ½ hours. Two and half friggin’ hours sitting in car going out of my mind. (It was New Year’s weekend. More stories of Bandung to come.)

If there were two words I’d use to describe Jakarta it would be ‘traffic’ and ‘shopping’. This whole place is a clusterfuck of both and I’m surprised it hasn’t sent me out of my mind yet. I suppose free shopping takes the edge off though. I’m not sure why my family here assumes I need to go shopping so much, maybe it’s the holes in my clothes, but it’s pretty constant. I resisted at first, only getting one shirt here, a pair of earrings there.

Really though, they’ve encouraged me to do a lot worse damage and a tiny voice inside of me is screaming to do so. But in the end, I have a new wardrobe, new accessories, toiletries, and set of DVDs to keep me very happy. I even have to be careful not to ask for things. If I even touch something and ask what it is, rather than an answer I get, “do you want it?”. Anything I look vaguely interested in and it’s assumed I want it. And since no doesn’t mean no here, sometimes things get bought I don’t really need or want. The shopping situation here is so absurd that all I can do is laugh.

At least when my father was here I had someone to laugh with. We were the two bules together and I think explaining who I am was a lot easier when he was here. No one knows why this family has a white niece (or nephew as my aunt sometimes introduces me. Her English isn’t perfect). This was my dad’s second trip here and as I’m told he’s done much better this time around.

Adjusting to a strange new world can be surprisingly difficult for most people. Particularly when you’re thrown into another family’s schedule and habits which can be vastly different from your own. My father is a man that shows up not on time, but early. He doesn’t like to wait or make others wait. He makes a schedule for the day and sticks to it. This family couldn’t be more opposite.

First they’ll say we’re leaving at 9 am. Then we’ll leave at 10:30 and we won’t know where we’re going. When we get there the plan will change and we’ll go somewhere else. For a go with the flow person like myself this is fine, exciting even. But for someone like my father, this is infuriating. Apparently last time he became incredibly frustrated. But now he knew what to expect so he didn’t make a big deal of it. In fact, he laughed a lot about the ridiculousness and I think appreciated having me to laugh along with him. I’m sure the endless whiskey helped as well.

In a nutshell, this house runs similarly to a fire station. You pretty much sit around, relaxing, chatting, eating, and suddenly at the drop of a hat they’ll tell you to go-go-go and you have to be ready. You never know where you’re going or what for, but when they start walking out the door, you better follow. If I ever say, “let me grab my purse” they answer with, “what for?”. In reality I’m not sure since I pay for nothing, and can buy anything I need.

As I couldn’t possibly begin to fit all of the tales and observations into one blog, it had to be split into two. But now that you’ve been introduced to the cast of characters and have a basic understanding of this strange world, you might be ready for some actual events. Stories include prostitutes with my father, free range rhinos, and how to cheapen the best steak in the world. Don’t worry, none of these tales are related.

here i go again

Opportunities to find bar work in Sihanoukville are abundant, pretty much because every bar in town wants to hire Westerners. While the accommodation and food situation varies from place to place, there’s always one guarantee no one will work without: free alcohol. It is the fuel that keeps the town vibrant and what bartenders need to get through the long nights. True, this kind of offer can get messy but if you can’t handle yourself, I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t last very long in one place.

That doesn’t mean you’re not granted some leeway and allowed to go on a binder every now and again. Even if it’s your first night working, you can get so black out drunk you full on disappear halfway through your shift, only to be found sprawled out on your bed, passed out with the lights on and hopefully your clothes on. This may or may not describe my first night working. (Well, it could have been a lot worse you know.)

While I had the option of working at a couple of different places, I didn’t really search around too much as Jam’s seemed like the kind of place I would enjoy. The staff was friendly, the vibe was chill, and it was literally right on the beach. But the real selling point was that Jam’s closed a bit earlier than other bars, which meant I could have a social life after work. As if it were really work.

Let’s be honest folks: anywhere that not only provides the means but encourages you to be drunk while “working”, is not work. Bars back home do not condone such behavior; but in Cambodia they sure do.

You’re probably wondering what I got in exchange for working, because it certainly wasn’t money. Free unlimited booze, naturally, a room to call my own, and some food. Sounded pretty sweet at first, but soon I realized nothing is quite what it seems. My private room isn’t anything to complain about for a week or so, but the roof leaked which created a God awful moldy smell, plus the fan was jenky which meant with the intense heat the room was unbearable during the day. Sure I had a private bathroom, but there was no door, a shit cold shower, and another God awful untraceable smell.

And the food? Well, if it did show up it was awful and full of meat. Did the manager know I was vegetarian? Yes, but his response everyday was to “pick it out”. Never mind the fact he bought six pizzas one day, six, but not one without meat. I swear he was testing me. And this is even if there was food provided. After a few days I stopped looking for food. Instead, I was the only bartender who took advantage of the fully stocked kitchen and cooked myself brunch everyday. Every day the Cambodian staff watched with curiosity as I created new Asian Western fusion kitchen sink dishes. Ultimately, it was a decent trade but not possible for more than week or so. Had I any real intention of sticking around town I’d quickly seek out a new bar. But for the time being it would due.

While working at Jam’s did not turn out how I expected, in the end I quite enjoyed it. The first couple of days were a bit rough as the shift started at 7 pm but no one really shows up until at least 9. And since I was new and not encouraged to be behind the bar at first, that meant I was sitting alone out front handing out flyers and trying to get people in. It wouldn’t have been so awful if there actual people to hand flyers to.

To briefly describe the location, our bar wasn’t on any main walking drag which doesn’t allow for a lot of foot traffic. Also consider it was dinner time and most people want to relax on the beach and enjoy a quiet beer. No one starts looking for a bar until much later (I told you this is a party till dawn town); thus I spent several hours contemplating my life’s mistakes and staring at the water. That, and smoking my early shift spliff, just to get through it, you know.

By far the most interesting characters at the bar were the owners, Mr. and Mrs. So. I’m still not entirely sure why this Korean couple well in their seventies/eighties decided to move to S.ville and run a Western bar. They don’t speak English or Cambodian and if it weren’t for the temporary help of the Korean-American manager, there would be zero communication between the owners and staff. Besides the practicality of it all, they made great characters.

Mr. So, my favorite, is super tiny, super bald, and super smiley. He walks around in white linens observing everyone constantly like the all knowing Buddha I think he is. Kung-fu Buddha that is, as he really does practice martial arts and can break nearly any piece of wood in half. Bad ass. As for Mrs. So, the bipolar afro haired lady, well, she can be fun or frightening, depending on the day. While she loved me because of my appreciation for Korean culture, she is constantly suspicious of her staff and demanding massages from our on staff Cambodian masseuse/dancer/screamer, Charlie.

As the Western staff is constantly filing through new people, there needs to be some constant and that need is filled out by a few locals who can speak decent English. My favorite is Charlie and before I even started working there, I knew we’d get along famously. Charlie is rarely working, instead dancing his ass off behind the bar, and I was in need of a fabulous new gay boyfriend. Of course within days Charlie was near raping me and groping my boobs whenever he could. Not sure why I encouraged such behavior, but it made bartending during lulls vastly more entertaining.

Another entertaining part of the job was getting hit on constantly. It was entertaining in the fact that I was never interested but loved watching these silly old men make awful advances. From buying me drinks (even though I got free ones) to facebook friend requests (ummm, no????), it was an endless parade of uninteresting offers. Perhaps I neglected to mention this was a bar filled with DOMs (dirty old men) and prostitutes. I consider this good people watching.

The best/worst DOM, hands down, goes to the Russian. A slimy, rail thin old man who didn’t speak a word of English came in night after night making it blatantly obvious he was interested in me. I was nice at first, then evasive, then downright rude. From refusing tips to showing him my “boyfriend”, he never really got the hint. I partly blame my co-worker who gave him information about me in exchange for tips, even though he knew this man was creepy as fuck. (Thanks Sam.)

But the culmination of this near week long episode was when through an unnecessary to explain series of events, he had to remove his blood soaked shirt. He then put his arms around me from behind and breathed into my ear, “Stephanie….you….sex…..me?”

Ummmm….FUCK NO.

It’s at this point I threw up a little in my mouth and made it a point to pretend he no longer existed. I also realized I had to be more defensive with men at this bar as I was the only female staff member and whiskey buckets were $1.

Luckily at the end of each shift I had enough booze and friends to head next door to JJ’s, the paint ridden, heavy drinking, dance all night party I couldn’t resist. Trouble can be found in all corners of this bar; I’ve had spliffs, made out, and even been vomited on (thankfully none of these are connected). Basically this is to say that as a nightly routine I was destroying my body. This is how I knew I couldn’t stay in S.ville forever.

During the beginning of my time here I did feel a tinge of loneliness. I was experiencing withdrawal symptoms from being surrounded by my alcoholic bullshitting friends from Laos/Thailand and was not liking having to make “new” friends. On a low day I went to lay on the beach alone and basically wished, hoped, and prayed someone from Laos would randomly show up. And as always, I got more than I bargained for.

From Rob the ballsack sharing legend from Manchester and his saint of a girlfriend Helen, to Hoover the shirtless American with his love of motos and randomness; it was an endless parade of friends from past adventures. Every single night a new familiar face randomly popped up and I couldn’t have been more grateful. The only ones I expected were four of my favorite boys from Mama Rasta’s/Vang Vieng/Pai. They were coming to celebrate Jack’s birthday, although they showed up earlier than I anticipated. It seemed the Universe had overloaded on my wish.

By the time Jack’s birthday rolled around, we were armed and dangerous for an entire day of inebriation. The day before the big 2-0, we ventured out without Jack to pick up the supplies. A full day of beach bar hopping was the only scheduled event and we planned on making total fools of ourselves. An absurd outfit for Jack was selected consisting of skin tight female booty shorts and cami, arm floaties, a gun, goggles, and a huge bucket to be filled with various types of alcohol throughout the day. (Did I mention the Viagra we drugged him with?) The remaining four of us got airplane floating tubes (meant for children) and decided to wear them the entire day. To say the very least we looked ridiculous, and I couldn’t have been more excited for someone else’s birthday.

It started normally enough, playing some pool and drinking beers. Then some girls showed up and tequila shots were promptly ordered. (Did I mention I skipped breakfast?) The rest of the day was a blur of laughter, buckets, various bars, spliffs, and Cambodian children swarming us for our airplane tubes. We probably shouldn’t have taught them beer bucket pong but they loved being around us so we couldn’t help it.

Day shifted to night at some point, tubes popped or lost, memory blurred, and only pictures can tell the tale of what happened, even though that’s questionable as well. In the end, it was the best birthday ever, even if it wasn’t mine.

It was so good that while I was supposed to leave the next day and said all my good-byes, I was too hungover to function and missed all the buses. So I agreed to one last bar shift so I wouldn’t have to change to a hostel and then had to live down the shame of all the questions, “I thought you were leaving today?”. Not the first (or probably last) bus I’ll miss due to hangover. In fact, it’s the third one I can blame on these specific boys. Luckily it’s usually worth it.

In the end, I believe everything is meant to be. If I had caught that bus I wouldn’t have run into my favorite couple Ban and Death for one last good laugh and to have a proper girly catch up. The people I’ve met and experiences I’ve had in all of Southeast Asia are entirely based on buses I’ve caught and missed.

The following day, I caught the bus to Phnom Penh and spent a half day being a semi-tourist and went to bed early to catch my flight to Indonesia. I was in dire need of a real detox at this point. A luxurious vacation with an abundance of sleep and good food was exactly what I needed. And once again, I got more than I bargained for.

nowhere fast

When exhausted, sore, and frustrated there’s only one place in the world that can completely rejuvenate the soul: the beach. And luckily for Siobhan and myself, we arrived in Sihanoukville with the sun high in the sky and were eager to get a piece of it.

Located in the very south of the country, this backpacker’s paradise has grown exponentially over the years, most likely to its own detriment. Throngs of tourists pass through and faces around town change about as rapidly as new business open up and old ones disappear. Yet there is a constant abundance of guesthouses, restaurants, and bars; so much it becomes bit overwhelming. Basically, it’s a smaller, calmer version of Siem Reap…with a beach. Despite my obvious annoyance with the previous tourist packaged town, this place unexpectedly charmed me. Maybe it was the sea air or the quick and cheap moto escape to a secluded beach, but Sihanoukville (pronounced Sha-nook-ville) had a lot more to offer if you bothered getting off the main strip.

With a plethora of beaches to explore, I made it a personal mission to try them all. The obvious first one we ventured to was Serenity Beach, the main drag completely overcome with beach chairs, restaurants, and locals touting everything under the sun. Massages, books, jewelry, sunglasses, fruit, and hair removal were all up on offer and I wish I could say I never indulged. But newbies smell like fresh meat and the children surrounded us making us “free” bracelets, the gimmick being that out of guilt we’d buy something else. (It worked.) But probably the weirdest thing we purchased, really the weirdest thing I’ve ever done on a beach, ever, was threading.

For those uninformed on the pain that is beauty, threading is a hair removal process where dental floss is used in a way that rips hair from skin. It essentially is waxing without all the pain, or that’s how it was sold to me. Despite the gentle demo, threading turned out to be a painful and torturous activity, at least for me. Everyone else kept calm and quiet about the uncomfortable process, but I could not. Every now and again I couldn’t help but flinch and let out a yelp. Not only did the beautician ladies laugh it up, but so did Siobhan, the seller children, and the other patrons near us. The particularly painful bit was getting my armpits threaded. An odd mix of pain and tickling, I couldn’t stop laughing and screaming, thus confusing and entertaining the masses. “It’s all for the blog,” I whimpered as I vowed never, ever to submit myself to such torture again.

After we washed up and got ready, we headed out for a big night on the town. As it turned out, it was Saturday night and a New Moon, which meant day glow party, and Siobhan and I had yet to go out properly since reuniting. So we wore our worst clothes and prepared as best we could because with these nights, you never know what’s going to happen.

What’s day glow you ask? Any Southeast Asia backpacker knows this substance well and stays away from it, unless of course they’re drunk and it’s a moon party. Then you smoother yourself in the neon colored paint and proceed to scream, “woo hoo!!!”. It’s quite popular because you’ll then glow under a black light and it gives you great excuse to meet new people and draw on them. The downfall? The paint is painfully permanent, meaning anything it touches becomes fated as “moon party wear”, never to see the light of day nor the soil of your homeland.

So our first night we loaded up on paint, whiskey buckets, and had an absolute blast meandering back and forth between beach bars. It was only my first night but already found three different bars wanting to hire me in exchange for drinks and accommodation. While most that night has been erased from my memory, I had it together enough to realize I was going to stick around Sihanoukville for a little while.

One of the greatest and worst things about S.ville is the party always goes until sunrise, no matter what night of the week it is. It took me a few days to adjust, but I always thought it was a great idea to come home, change to my bathing suit, and then head out for some early morning rays. That is unless I passed out during the process.

After only a couple of days it was clear I needed a break and luckily for me one was already scheduled in. Siobhan is an avid diver and was eager to go out to one of the many islands for an overnight diving trip. I was excited to join her and be lazy on the beach while she was out being active. So we signed up with a dive company and set out for Koh Rung, a nearly deserted island 2 ½ hours out from shore.

Since my bad decision making skills are legendary, no one should be surprised to hear I stayed out all night partying only to come home with less than 10 minutes to pack and get ready to go for 3-4 days to the island. Of course Siobhan was livid as she was certain she wasn’t going to see me and was unsure what to do. I threw everything in together, still drunk and not answering questions, and off we ran to catch our ride. I was feeling fine, certain I would sneak some sleep on the boat, until that is I saw the pile of wood.

Not only was there no place to rest my head, but the waves were high, the wind strong, and it was obviously a bad day to be out at sea. No matter, we began our journey with spirits high. After a period of time I became intensely seasick and did my best to hold back the vomit. Some fun was poked at me until everyone saw just how awful I felt and began to show their concern. Suddenly I couldn’t hold it anymore and decided to make my way to the back of the boat so less people would witness the experience, or at least they would be downwind of it.

This proved another bad decision as I had no balancing skills with the boat rocking up and down, back and forth, and I was quickly thrown to the ground with my dress torn and my back scrapped pretty badly. With the wind knocked out of me and my back throbbing, I no longer had to vomit, but still had to endure another hour of tortuous high seas. And there went my theory I was a pirate in another life.

I have never been so happy to see solid ground and promptly laid down attempting to sleep off the seasickness/hangover I was stuck in. By the afternoon I was well enough to walk to the part of the island with the bungalows we were to sleep in. I was still sick, but completely able to appreciate the absolutely stunning scenery around me.

Nestled into the hillside and directly next to the beach, each individual bungalow had its own rustic bathroom and balcony equipped with a hammock and spectacular view. There was only one restaurant on the island and that was the one associated with both our dive shop and guesthouse, only a stone’s throw from our little abode. On our full day there together, after a solid and much needed sleep, Siobhan and I ventured to discover a secluded white sand beach. We walked along the water and through a mini jungle, ducking trees and jumping mud pits. We went until we reached the end of dry ground and even then we had to walk through chest high water to find our perfect beach. Eventually we made it.

Before us lay a long stretch of white super soft sand without a soul in site, the beach curved in a ‘U’ shape, meaning if anyone did walk past us we would see them from far away. It also gave me the absolutely secluded beach I had been seeking my entire time in Asia, or at least since I had read ‘The Beach’. So off came my top and out came my spliff, because I wasn’t going to miss a golden opportunity like this to utterly relax and tan beyond restrictive bikini lines.

Unfortunately, nature has to find balance and there was really only one catch, although it was a pretty awful one: sandflies. Now they sound harmless but truly these are the demonic cousins of mosquitoes. While mosquito bites instantly swell, if you don’t itch them, they go away. But sandfly bites are of another world. They leave only a tiny red dot and aren’t terribly irritating at first. It’s only after you’ve left the scene of the crime and showered that you realize how totally and utterly itchy you are.

While this might be annoying to some, it’s awful for me. You know those people with sweet blood who always get bit more than anyone else in the group? There’s always one and that unfortunate soul is me. While Siobhan suffered a few annoying bites, I was absolutely entirely covered in bright red bumps. The little fuckers preferred my legs to the rest of me, but still managed to get just about everything they could. Not only are these bites obvious and foul looking, but they seemingly never go away. They never stop itching and they itch so fiercely you end up creating scabs, which you will later scratch off as well, and eventually leave you covered in little white scars. Don’t worry, those will itch, too. It has officially been six weeks since the tragedy and I’m still itching. Really. (And yes, that’s how behind on my blog I am.)

So why are sandfly bites worth such a long tangent? Because for the following few weeks if I ever wore shorts I had to deal with people gasping and saying, “My God, what has happened to you?!?”. Their pitiful stares and apologies didn’t make up for the fact that I was now the leper on the beach. Nice timing for me to live in a beach town, eh?

And that was the plan. I decided to settle in S.ville for a week or so bartending while Siobhan headed towards Vietnam. We headed back the next day on a perfectly smooth and gentle boat ride that I could nap through (oh the irony), and spent our last full day together indulging it up with more beach and western food. We even splurged and went to see a movie, the second one I’ve gone to in eight months. This “theater” was simply a large room with papasan chairs that showed pirated new movies. Completely comfortable and relaxed, they offered services such as ordering pizza, free of charge, as was the added “happiness”. And with mini tables equipped with ashtrays, I knew I’d come back to this $3 a flick sweet spot.

Of course there was another night out with memories lost to the buckets we consumed, but it was all well enjoyed nonetheless. The next morning we parted ways, permanently this time, and I was ready to begin the next chapter of my journey. Bartending for bed is not unknown to me and has been something I’d been searching for my entire time in Asia. I resisted the tempting offer in Vang Vieng, but a bar on the beach is not something I could deny. And so I settled in for a week (or so) of complete and utter alcoholism.

black or white

Some people seek out electronics, some diamond jewelry, but I’m on the hunt for a new liver on the black market. Because after all the antics of Vang Vieng, even a detox can’t remedy the damage I’ve done to my body. But since that isn’t an option (at least not until I get back to Bangkok), I opted for rest and relaxation at 4000 Islands. Or so I thought.

Located at the southern border of Laos sits a maze of small rustic islands speckled throughout the Mekong. Up until very recently, even electricity wasn’t available except on the main big island. But as tourism grows on Don Det, the backpacker haven most flock to, everyday brings more modern comforts of home.

Yet despite the increasing number of tourists, there still lacks an ATM machine. This in turn determines a limited amount of time as money eventually runs dry. Of course there are ways around this annoyance as the locals will often sell bus tickets on “credit” and will take you to an ATM promptly when you cross the border into Cambodia or elsewhere. Luckily for me, I was aware of this problem (some are not) and brought an extra emergency fund which extended my four days into over a week. A week of more the same same shenanigans I’d been akin to. It’s not my fault though; I blame the various hooligans I’d been drinking with in Vang Vieng who showed up to “detox” as well, naturally.

While I intended on solitude on Don Det, the Universe had other plans for me. For starters, two girls I met in Vang Vieng showed up on my bus and it was clear calmness wouldn’t be around for the first few days. Luckily, we held it together in the beginning, but mostly because we signed up for an all day kayaking adventure. A tiny splurge I tried to resist, but in the end I was glad I indulged. A full day of exercise, fresh air, and natural beauty is exactly what I needed. Afterwards of course we did our best to resist temptation but truly, the three of us were not to be trusted with each other.

One would think the 11 pm strict curfew would curtail any shenanigans for foreigners, but alas, we always find a way. A porch and bottle of cheap whisky is really all you need. This curfew isn’t really enforced anyway; it’s more or less just the closing time for absolutely everything on the island. Annoying yes, but respectable as the all of the islanders had agreed that peace and quiet is worth more than any amount of money anyone can make from catering to whims of backpackers.

Life is slow on Don Det. There are no main roads as the rocky dirt paths are used by motos, bicycles, feet and nothing more. Water buffalos are trotted back and forth for new grazing and children pile on bikes far too big for them. Time does not exist in the specific form, rather in time periods as “dinner” or “morningish”. Corner shops are the extent of shopping and the only electronic entertainment available is the internet, and for such a steep price it’s best just avoided. Besides, that’s not what Don Det is about.

For some, the island is boring. For me, adaptation wasn’t even necessary as sleeping in, reading in hammocks, long strolls, and late night smokes are apart of my preferred life. I don’t mind not having a schedule or “accomplishing” much as life without obligations is more enjoyable for me. Essentially, this is the spirit of 4000 Islands. Virtually every bungalow comes with a hammock and the best ones are built right over the Mekong River so you can sit back, relax, and relish the beauty and serenity that surrounds you. Despite the peacefulness available everywhere, I did hunt out a particular favorite lounge zone, and it only took a couple of days.

Mama Rasta is the sweetest, craziest old lady on the island and if her joyful spirit doesn’t draw you in, then her cheap delicious food will. Her restaurant’s location is what brought me in but her hearty laugh through her black toothed smile is why I retuned. She has a charm that’s hard to describe and her laid back attitude and desire to please is undeniable. Truly, it is her family that runs the business but without her spirit, they would have nothing. Oh yeah, and they let you smoke freely on the back balcony.

Behind the restaurant is a row of only five rooms for rent but unlike all the other bungalows on the island, these are connected by a giant porch equipped with many hammocks and a table which lends itself to a much more social atmosphere. And with the freedom to smoke, food on hand, and lack of 11 pm curfew, this became the perfect place for me and the crew to hang out. What crew you ask? Why, my favorite alcoholics from Vang Vieng turned up the day the very same day the girls left.

As I was writing my last blog, I left a cliffhanger insinuating I would run into friends on 4000 Islands. The truth was, I hadn’t yet seen anyone other than the two girls, but something inside me knew I wouldn’t be alone long. Roughly 20 minutes after I wrote that last line, a couple of motorbikes drove past and I shouted at them as they were three of my friends from the boat crew: Hoover the plate licker and Ban and Death, my favorite British couple whom I inevitably run into every place I go.

They had rented motos and only had a few days on the island but before they left my favorite alcoholic boys showed up. Four of whom I had met way back in Thailand and two newbies picked up along the way. I quickly showed them to Mama Rasta’s and thus the base camp was set up. This was also the point at which I realized I wasn’t leaving, l wasn’t writing, and should no longer be held responsible for my actions.

Days became even lazier, nights more cloudy, and I couldn’t be happier. Opportunities to have a gang of good friends you’re super comfortable with while laughing at old jokes don’t come around often when one is on the road. And I’ve never been on such a tight schedule I couldn’t add a few extra days for good friends.

We had such a great time together on our last night that I managed to sleep through my bus to Cambodia the following morning. Luckily, people are so laid back on the island they barely batted an eye and simply said, “Yeah, well, go tomorrow.” That simple. No extra costs, new ticket, or hassle. Just an extra day to relax.

The next day I managed to wake up in time for my boat off the island and was ready to begin a new adventure in Cambodia. The journey from one destination to another is often used trying to sleep on an uncomfortable bus and hold your pee. This adventure was no different but involved several bus changes and a border crossing so naturally, some scamming would be involved.

After customs on both sides swindled everyone out of a few dollars for “weekend overtime tax” or whatever they said that day, the bus full of weary travelers bound mostly for Siem Reap was forced to wait an obnoxious amount of time for nothing in particular. During this time, a pleasant well spoken Cambodian made his way around selling tickets to upgrade the bus journey to Siem Reap. Being that this destination is one of the biggest tourist draws in all of Southeast Asia (Angkor Wat’s fault), we should have all seen it coming. Unfortunately, only six of us did.

Everyone else on the bus easily forked over the $3 to upgrade their ticket to a “more comfortable and faster” bus. The group of five Dutch girls sitting behind me and myself didn’t buy the ticket, nor the bullshit the guy was selling. He really tried with us as well, giving us a special discount offered to no one else. We insisted our already purchased tickets would get us to Siem Reap and even if it wasn’t until 4 in the morning, we were backpackers and well prepared for the adventure. I’m glad I stayed strong with the girls because when the bus stopped for dinner and for everyone to change to their comfortable bus, it became clear everyone had been bamboozled.

There was no special upgrade bus. The salesman had mysteriously disappeared with everyone’s cash and left them with nothing but useless paper tickets and a lesson well learned. We all piled on the same bus, everyone patting us on the back for seeing through his convincing argument, and arrived inconveniently after midnight and after 16 hours of exhausting traveling.

Being that I was already enmeshed with the Dutch girls, we stayed together in a hotel for a couple of nights while I located my friend Siobhan who I knew was somewhere in town. Pronounced nearly like ‘Shivon’, this English girl with the crazy Irish name and I had met months ago on my first day in Pai, Thailand. We clicked right away and had originally planned to meet up sometime in Laos. But as I move quite slowly and she bounded around constantly, I had assumed I’d never see her again, unless it was in her hometown of Manchester. But somehow it worked out that she bad been to twice as many places as I and was settling for one week to volunteer at an orphanage roughly the same time I’d be cruising through Siem Reap.

So I moved hotels as the two of us got on a lot better and I’m not akin to traveling in a large group of girls. (They move too slowly, can’t make decisions, and never bullshit as much as I enjoy.) So while Siobhan spent the days being helpful and productive, I slept in, relished the wifi access in the room, and explored the tourist trap that is Siem Reap.

Being that I just came from quiet, peaceful, and secluded 4000 Islands, Siem Reap was a rude awakening of poverty, dirtiness, scams, and an endless stream of people selling crap. From postcards to massages, all the children and legless men never stop hassling the continuous stream of tourists pile driving through town.

For those unaware, this is because the ancient ruins and impossible to miss Angkor Wat is located just outside of town. While this generates steady income for Cambodians in the area, it has also created an environment of ‘sell, sell, sell’ that I simply have no interest it. On my first full day I actually started to sprint away at one point shouting “no means no!”, and thus why I found sanctuary in our chilled out hotel.

At some point, I needed to venture out and actually visit these ruins I truly was fascinated to see. I hired a cheap moto driver for the day and hummed the Indiana Jones theme the whole day while flying through the seemingly endless ruins. Spread out over miles of flat terrain, this place is easy enough to navigate on a bike, but only if you buy the three day ticket. Time, money, and patience didn’t allow for this with me and I opted for the quickie one day tour of the most fascinating and beautiful temples.

The Temples of Angkor were built in the early 12th century and are spread out over a large area. These religious buildings were apart of daily life in this once bustling metropolis center of the ancient world. The most famous temple is Angkor Wat and while this is only one of many temples, it is the namesake for which travelers identify the entire area. It is indeed the most well-intact temple I’ve ever seen but most famous for being the world’s largest religious site. Time had forgotten other sites though as nature overtook what it pleased, the massive structures entwined with monstrous trees and vines.

Before visiting, I had conjured up images of Tomb Raider and Congo, yet there was nothing dangerously exciting about these ruins. Just hordes of old, fanny pack wearing, incessant picture taking tour groups blocking all my shots. I tried to borrow a couple of them to take pictures of me but they seemed to misunderstand what I wanted as my feet made the photo, but the ruins did not.

Don’t take my cynicism the wrong way: the Temples of Angkor are an overwhelmingly beautiful place I’d highly recommend someone traveling through Asia to visit. But the throngs of tourists and beggar children can’t help but ruin a bit of the grandiose splendor that is Angkor Wat.

While Siem Reap is the problem, it is also the cure. Achy feet soothed by cheap massages, weary souls filled by delicious western food, and an endless supply of 50 cent beer to cure just about any ailment. Despite the extremely obvious poverty, this is the place to indulge. And if you couldn’t be bothered to even think about money conversions, you don’t have to. Cambodia reales aren’t worthless, but they might as well be.

Dollars are the choice of currency and shoeless children pander whatever they can get (accompanied with a sad puppy face) begging for “one doll-aaar miss”. Sure it is only one dollar, but it also encourages these kids to skip school and not develop a craft or skill. It should also be noted the money never goes to the children directly because their parents are usually nearby with an eagle eye taking whatever they get as soon as they get it. If you want to help, you’re better off buying them some food or donating to an orphanage directly.

When the time came for us to leave Siem Reap, I was more than ready to go. I had been seeking the beach for a couple months and I was now only a bus ride away. With a final wander down tourist alley we regenerated ourselves with food and shopping and prepared to leave this oxymoron two faced town of Siem Reap. Siobhan and I had decided to stay together for another leg to Sihanoukville before inevitably parting ways again. We drove right through the gritty capital of Phnom Penh (ok, not drove through. Another bus scam left us with 4 hours to spare in the crack of dawn with nothing to do but try and sleep on some uncomfortable chairs. Somehow not surprised). When we finally arrived in Sihanoukville nearly 6 hours later than expected, we were tired and desperate for sand and sun. And of course, shenanigans. And shenanigans is what we got.