Indonesia Part I: Planes, Trains and Becaks

I never pictured myself visiting Indonesia for some reason. Maybe a factor in why everything has been so unpredictable thus far.  One month into my travels.  Sun-baked and pleasantly satisfied.  From Kuta and Seminyak, the party, beach-bum surfing towns, to Ubud, a heady, organic, superfluous spa induced town, to a one night retreat under the stars at a Lewak coffee plantation (world’s most expensive coffee) combined with a sunrise volcano hike to Mt. Batur, then onto Lovina, where the black sand beach and locals were nothing to write home about, Bali glistened with comfort and tourism compared to Java.  You got what you expected in Bali.  More


Myanmar With Mo Mo and the Gang

His name was Mo Mo.  He approached us at 8 a.m. at the crossroads of sticky, sweaty Yangon, formerly called Rangoon until the military junta renamed it in 1989.  He was small, compared to Andrew, who towered over him like one of the Petronas Towers.  He was toothless, but knowledgable.  Frail, but firm. He casually followed us, until he noticed we had no idea which way was left or right. That was when he became our tour guide, personal assistant and friend.  He had the day off from his government job as a woodworker and had some time to kill.  He quickly grew fond of Andrew’s crisp, clean, plaid, brand name shirt and admired Andrew’s style, not just of his fine clothing selection, but of his privilege of traveling with two women. Andrew’s nickname became “John,” and he frequently received compliments on his beauty.  If he heard chatter behind him, he anxiously turned to Andrew in a frantic, “What’s the problem, John?”  Then demonstrating his impatience towards me as I would straggle behind taking in the energetic scenery of the city, along with a couple of pictures (or ten), he would then add “Where is she, John.  Where is she?”  He helped More

India Part 8: The Amazing Race

On the way to Port Blair

My over-determined original plan of flying to Dharmasala (a small Tibetan influenced mountain town North of Delhi) to do a week long yoga class, then take a toy train down to Armistar to see the Golden Temple, was abolished when an unexpected cold front transpired.  My wanderlust attitude of just going with the flow and not adequately researching the inevitable;  snow in January in the mountains, led to the consequence of digging into my savings and impulsively buying a plane ticket to the Andaman Islands for my last week with Melissa.  After browsing through Frederic from Belgium’s pictures and listening to his seductive sermon about secluded white sand beaches, money was no object (in this situation at least!)  But in the wise words of Donald J. Wooden, “We’re here for a good time, not a long time,” right? More

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