I would have bought the t-shirt but every other I-have-more-stamps-in-my-passport-than-you Caucasoid is already wearing one.

“You drop this,” a young Malaysian man tells me, holding a few ringgit bills out.

“Oh, wow, thank you, but that’s okay, you keep,” I tell him.

“You drop,” he reminds me.

“Yes, but you keep for being honest.”

“No sir, you drop this.”

Having just come back from give-me-all-your-rupiah-white-man Indonesia this is a shock. After a three hour plane flight I can’t give my money away. I can’t even leave it somewhere unattended.

He’s adamant. He stuffs the bills in my pocket before walking away. I murmur a terima kasih (thank you) to the back of his head as it shakes back and forth now out of patience having encountered yet another dumb farang.


I would have bought the t-shirt but every other I-have-more-stamps-in-my-passport-than-you Caucasoid is already wearing one.

From Bali, Indonesia to Malaysia, to KL, to Penang, to Krabi, Thailand, to Ko Phi-Phi, to Phuket. I have to work my way north to Bangkok for a flight to Nepal so I stop at a few spots I’ve been to and couple I hadn’t. I like going back. I know where I want to stay, where I want to eat, which public restrooms are the least urine-soaked, and where the crazy Penang vagrants will be depending on the time of day. Their minds melted in the humid-heat, their skin the same, if you need extras for a post nuclear fallout film Penang is the place to find them.

I’ve come home. That’s what it feels like upon each return so, naturally, I’m quite aloof. In the mind more and the moment less, been there, done that, would have bought the t-shirt if there was more room in my backpack. Thailand’s Andaman coast is every bit as this-has-to-be-CGI beautiful as it was months ago, but I already took pictures. I’ve already eagerly scoured each location within a ten kilometer radius of the Caucasoid drop-off point. Now I’m more interested in meeting people. Uh-oh, what if, just like the locations, I’ve already run into them? Not them per say, but someone just like them. Someone smart, cool, and beautiful from that one country where the accent makes their English oh-so-seductive. Someone with a real zeal for the journey, not the destination. Seen you, met you, stole your t-shirt but it doesn’t fit so I gave it to a transient.

All the sudden travel has become ho-hum humdrum. I’d be more excited to see a hamster than a monkey. It would be a pleasant change of pace to be around an animal I can (probably) outsmart. Monks are just quiet, pleasant people that are too lazy to put on a pair of pants. I can pass by beggars like a local bearing in mind that their sorry sidewalk domicile that’s cracked even more than their parched lips is karmic and that I would be doing a great disservice to their next lifetime by easing their suffering in this one. I can talk to the Thai transvestite who just cooked my fried rice at a food stall without thinking, ‘Holy s**t, I’m talking to a Thai transvestite.’

This is a problem. I like to read about exotic adventures in far flung places. For me, Asia was always the most distant, the most foreign, the most peculiar. Now it’s home.

So, you got any good African fiction?

Hold up. I’m in Bangkok now, a place I’ve been to four times but had yet to spend the night. The temples are bigger and more extravagant than ever, the streets more neon, the energy more intoxicating, more thrilling, more I-hope-I-can-hold-on. Yes, “Bangkok has [me] now.”*

Keep drifting.


*A line from the Hangover 2 (it had just come out in Malaysia as I was passing through), I have yet to awake in a confused skull-throbbing daze with a shaved head, facial tattoo, missing finger, or sore rectum so I suppose I haven’t been having that much fun.

Wat in Krabi, Thailand

Krabi Town

Beach near Krabi Town



Okay, so I took a few more pictures; Ko Phi-Phi, Thailand




If you're going to call yourself disheveled you'd better look the part.



A wat lit up at night in Bangkok, Thailand.

The trash bag full of rotten produce on my lap smells even worse than the dead pig.

“Never give Indonesian bag, even if pay him to carry,” I’m being told on a four hour ferry ride by a middle-aged Indonesian man. “Maybe you no get back.”

“Not even you, huh?”

“No, no,” he smiles, more gums than teeth, “never give to me.”

The trash bag full of rotten produce on my lap smells even worse than the dead pig.

I’m in Mattaram, Lombock, on my way back to Bali. I take a taxi to the public bemo (van turned bus) stop hoping to get to Lumbar where the public ferry awaits. As I exit the taxi I hand the driver a 20,000 rupiah note. I owe 11,000. Instead of giving me change the taxi speeds off. This was expected. This is Indonesia. It would have shocked me if I’d been given my change. In fact, I would have tipped the driver the difference for being one of the few to deal honestly.

It’s not just taxi drivers. Book transport--a boat, a bus ride--and if you don’t have exact change you’ll be told the excess paid will be returned before you leave, the proprietor just needs to get smaller currency. When it’s time to depart this person won’t be around. Rather than miss a ride already paid for you’ll board shortchanged.

The taxi drops me off at what’s supposed to be the public bemo stop. There aren’t any bemos in sight, only seven different dudes talking over each other at once trying to entice--nay, pull--me onto a mode of overpriced transport I’m not interested in. Not when I’ve supposedly traveled to the public bus station. Try to escape and the hawkers only get more aggressive, grabbing and yapping their gums like machine guns.

The actual bemo stop is a half kilometer away. Of course, once there it’s time to haggle for a ride to Lumbar. As the only Caucasoid on the bemo it’s expected I pay four times as much as locals. I manage to barter the driver down to only paying three times as much. This is expected. This is Indonesia. After negotiations we wait around two hours hoping to acquire more passengers. The eight-seater is crammed with seventeen people, six chickens, a pig carcass and several trash bags full of produce before leaving.

Once reaching Lumbar a ferry ticket must be purchased. Hawkers crowd the harbor wanting to sell me tickets that may or may not be legitimate. Nobody wants to tell me where I can buy an official ticket from the ferry operator. Note that the ferry is run by the government. Even government employees working at the ferry, when asked where to buy a ticket, just point off in the distance. In different directions. It takes twenty minutes to locate the ‘official’ stand to buy a ticket that will actually admit me onto the boat.

The journey starts in the early morning. After a four hour ferry ride I reach Bali in the early evening. In total I haven’t traveled more than 60 kilometers. This is expected. This is Indonesia.

When you’ve reached and temporarily reside at a particular destination hawkers are very forward. Very in your face, crossing the street to ask you if you’d please visit their shop or buy sunglasses or book transport or get a massage, wink-wink. Sometimes they grab and pull and whine. Scan an Indonesian guidebook and you’ll see the words ‘tout’ and ‘annoying’ and ’blood pressure’ a lot. In fact, the guidebook warns against trekking Bali’s volcano or visiting some of the island’s best temples because the locals can be so exasperating, even threatening.

Even when leaving the country I’m scammed in immigration. Required to pay a 150,000 rupiah departure fee, my wallet’s dry. I reach into my secret stash and find Malaysian ringgit. When the immigration officer hands me back 30,000 rupiah I give a cough-cough and a ‘That’s all?” He tells me he’s sorry, he miscounted. He gives another 20,000. He’s still shortchanging me by at least 50,000. He won’t budge. This is the guy that’s stamping my passport and he’s stealing from me with the ‘ol currency exchange shortchange. He’s not even good at it. I’ve caught him and there’s nothing I can do about it. Or at least nothing I want to do about it. While sometimes it’s fun playing see-if-you-can-go-a-day-without-being-swindled I’m not in the mood with a five a.m. departure time and a sleepless night at the airport. Others huff and puff behind me, apparently eager to get ripped off themselves.

It’s only six dollars. After a month, however, these unanticipated expenses add up. It’s never about the money anyway. It’s about the teeth-grinding-steaming-forehead feeling of being taken advantaged of. Next time just charge me a 200,000 rupiah departure tax. It’ll work out the same but I won’t be weighing the pros and cons of committing a capital crime before takeoff.

Most transport hassles can be avoided with money. Hire private transport for five times the already inflated public Caucasoid rate and you won’t notice a thing. You also won’t notice the endearing locals. On the ferry ride back to Bali a group of kids traveling from Lombok to Java to begin college sat in a half-circle around me. It was their first time off Lombok. They won’t see their families for four years until coming back home with their degrees even though it doesn’t cost more than $40 to complete the trip. Initially shy, they soon began asking all sorts of personal questions and wanted to take pictures with me. Later, children came up to play and wrinkled, toothless Indonesians stood near to simply stare and smile.

Many tourists fly into to Bali, go straight to the resort, and spend a week or two lounging by the pool bar with a cocktail in hand. They’ll enjoy a week of perfect sunsets and a tour of the island or two. Maybe go to one of those cultural dance performances revived to extract rupiah from Caucasoids. They’ll return home sun burnt and happy with a couple cool Balinese demon-boar masks. The same could be said for a trip to Hawaii and one of those ‘authentic’ luaus and coconut bras. Vacations are escapism. There’s nothing wrong with this. You’ve worked hard, you need a break. You need to vacate from reality for a while and simply not think.

Long-term travel, on the other hand, requires much in the way of mind churning, the world is infinitely complex, there’s pushing and pulling from all directions. Figuratively and literally. It isn’t glamorous, I get frustrated, sometimes my stance gets wider and my elbows flair out. Sometimes one accidentally catches a jawbone that was in my ‘American’ personal space.

Vexation is just as much or more memorable than any sea turtle snorkeling odyssey. It’s not always fun, but it is always interesting. I’ve never been more exhausted. Welcome to the real.

Keep drifting.



Pandangbai, Bali




Entrance to Don Antonio Blanco Art Museum in Ubud, a neurotically erotic exhibit, the entrance is his signature. 



Bali temple



Bali rice field





Another one of those perfect Bali sunsets



Better incinerate that stick before a baby gets a hold of it.

“I don’t like Gili,” the Sama-Sama bartender says, naming the island we’re on, then pausing expecting me to implore as to why not. Unfortunately, I’ve already heard him use this line four times tonight, I know what comes next.

The pause, it’s getting awkward. Okay, okay, I’ll bite. “You don’t?!”

“No, I don’t like Gili, I looooove Gili!”

This is just about all the English the gentleman knows, it’s all he needs. He looks the part, his long dark hair and muscles ripple as he dances to reggae and cracks open beer bottles. Women drool.

“Hey, you want to do one of those Freaky-Friday / 17 Again deals where our minds switch bodies?”

“I loooooooooooooove Gili!”

Didn’t think so.


Better wash bleach incinerate that stick before a baby gets a hold of it.

A couple days in Pandangbai, Bali, two more in Sengiggi and Mattaram, Lombok, they’re beach destinations that would excite if you hadn’t recently been dazzled by the tropical gems of Thailand and Malaysia. Face it. When it comes to sand and surf you’ve become more critical than a wine connoisseur, you sift and swirl the salt water, inhale, sip, review, then work your way on to the next with a broomstick up your cultivated ass.

Relax. Go to the Gili Islands and don’t judge, just indulge in the string of three small isles off Lombock’s northwest coast. No cars, no asphalt, no structures over one storey, and no stick.

Broomstick abstraction comes with (1) the coral ‘drop off’ when one goes from snorkeling in water ten meters deep to, quite jarringly, deep blue sea depths where the Kraken lurks, and (2) the mountain and volcano backdrop of Lombock in the distance. When one emerges from the deep blue to stare out at this prehistoric-looking panorama it’s awing in a I-wish-I-was-made-of-marshmallow-so-I-could-float-here-forever kind of way. The sea turtles, rhinoceros fish, schools of sparkling fish, flying fish, and sea snakes interest too. Oh, and the women.

Go to these backpacker populated Southeast Asian islands and you’re going to meet stunning sun kissed women from all over the world Europe and Australia. Even if you’re as ugly and as unpleasant as I am. The best part, many of these women have priorities akin to yours. They come without suitcases, only backpacks. They’re spending their time and money on travel instead of new rims for the whip*. Some of them even read a fair amount. The tide pulls you from one infatuation to the next. You’ve never been so jealous of yourself. No job, no responsibility, you live in swim trunks that wash themselves in the ocean everyday. The same goes for your body. You end your days listening to a live reggae band that puts Ziggy Marley to shame as they cover his father’s hits. After traveling over five months you’re in a frame of mind where this is just fine, it’s finally okay not to see everything in the guidebook. When it comes to Indonesia a 30-day visa would make that impossible anyway. Hell, a 365-day visa wouldn’t suffice. The country’s comprised of over 7,500 islands. That’s just it, though. There’ll always be more. Even if the next thirty years could be dedicated solely to world travel you still wouldn’t see and do all you’d wish to.

Real-Time Travel Tip # 9: Ambition is for suckers. Seek what interests, ditch the rest. If all of it interests and you find yourself in undecided inaction--the wealth of possibility paralyzing--then embrace catatonia. Stay put and see what happens. Especially if you’re in the Gili Islands. Besides, how many Asian temples and coconut-tree-white-sand-volcano-looming-in-the-background islands can one possibly appreciate?

You’re right. It never gets old, each alluring in their own way. Maybe ambition is just for people with more energy.

I’m tired. My wardrobe personifies. Holes riddle my shoes and both shirts, my shorts torn and frayed, the zippers of my backpack no longer functional. The guidebook has been taped and patched three different times yet remains in three separate pieces. How am I going to survive Nepal and India and whatever comes next? Like tomorrow.

I’ll guess I’ll just, like, well, you know...

Keep drifting.


*Whip = what the young call their tricked-out vehicles that cost as much to modify as it would to don a backpack and travel for six months. To each his own.

Sengigi, Lombok

Gili Terawagan of the Gili Islands

A Gili T sunset I took thirty photo variations of, each worthy of a frame and your wall (because I don't have any).

Broomstick abstraction