'When does the bus leave?' We asked the lady behind the counter at the bus station who seemed to be there to unhappily answer your bus related questions regardless of what time of day it was. Yesterday we had stopped by in the morning to inquire about a bus timetable and then stopped back in after dinner with another question, and she was still there. I guess maybe when you work all day, every day, you are allowed to be a little disgruntled. 'At 11am,' she grunted. It was 10am. 'So we will come back at 10:45' we told her. Through past experience, we have learned that practically the only way to catch one of these elusive public buses is to make a personal appointment with the 'Queen of the Bus Station.' The other day we had stopped by to ask when the public bus made the 5km uphill journey to the next town. 'Every two hours' the Queen had told us, without looking up from the newspaper. 'And which hours are those?' Jonathan asked. She sighed and rolled her eyes like we had just asked what time they turn the Falls off at. (Which, by the way, we have been asked multiple times by people in the last few weeks. As soon as they find out that we are from Niagara Falls they 
say, in this order: 'Oh! Wow! I have been to Niagara Falls. I didn't know people actually LIVED there.' And then. 'Didn't they just turn off the Falls recently? I just saw a picture.' Apparently the one photo taken pretty much the only time the Falls had ever been 'shut off' in like 1970 has been circulating around the world and this is the first picture that, oddly, pops into people's heads when they think about the Falls. The Queen of the bus station glared at us as she started rhyming off the times the bus would run to the next town, '8:30, 10:30, 12:30....' 'Ok, we get the idea. Thanks. So, the bus will leave here at 4:30pm for the night market in Brinchang?' We confirmed. Now she was really annoyed. 'Yes!' she exclaimed. Great. We returned to the bus station at about 4:15 and went to the window to buy our tickets. 'Can we get two tickets for the 4:30 bus?' we asked. The Queen's hands flew in the air in exasperation. 'You just missed it!' She yelled. We looked at the clock right behind her. It read 4:25, even though it was actually only 4:15. 'It left 5 minutes early because of a traffic jam!' She told us. This confused us. First, it must have left much earlier than '5min' and second, how could there possibly be a traffic jam between this tiny village and the next tiny village, merely 5 km away?' We gave in and took a taxi into Brinchang. The bus would have been 3RM and the taxi was only 6RM, so really, it was the difference of $1 Cdn. We waited faithfully at the bus station in Brinchang for the return bus to Tanah Rata, 
where we were staying. We arrived half an hour early, to be on the safe side. Sure enough, there came the 7:30 bus, rumbling down the street in a cloud of thick black smoke at precisely 7:10. Ha!We have been determined to get a handle on this public bus situation though, if only for vast accomplishment it would be.... and because with that extra 3RM we would save not taking the taxi, I can buy a delicious chocolate and peanut butter pancake. I am highly motivated by food, if you didn't get that already. This brings us back to what I was originally going to talk about before I got sidetracked by all that background bus babble. So we arrived back at the bus station at 10:30 for our 11am bus. 'How much is the ticket?' I asked. 'One ringget(RM)' The Queen's Assistant told me. 'You can buy it on the bus.' Great. We boarded the super stuffy bus and found a seat. This bus
was not going to leave without us. We settled on practically the only bright blue, sticky vinyl seat that was more than less, intact. at least there were more chunks of vinyl there than not, which wasn't the case for the majority of the seats. Looking around, I was just content to be in a seat that was still upright, as the pair right across from us had somehow become so rusted that the bolts holding the seats upright had given out and the seats now lay on their back on the floor of the bus.The Queen's Assistant started yelling and people started boarding. It was 10:35. Then the bus driver got on and the bus grumbled to 'life.' Then the bus driver got off and had a cigarette. Then the Assistant ran around the bus station yelling some more. At 11 o'clock, on the dot, the bus driver got back on the bus, followed by the Assistant and another bus employee, the bus door slammed shut and we started to move. As soon as the bus left the confines of the bus station, the Assistant, whose voice only comes in two volumes: Loud and Ear piercing came through the bus
collecting money for the tickets. '1.50 RM' she declared, holding out her hand. 'But, YOU just told us 1.20RM at the bus station!' I protested. 'Ohhhh' yelled the Assistant, 'But this is the NICE bus.' Jonathan couldn't help himself and burst out laughing. I sent a sharp elbow this way. Another outburst like that and this ticket would surely become 2RM. 'And how is this the nice bus?' I asked politely. She waved her hand around like she was Vanna White. 'This bus has air-conditioning! The other bus you have to open the windows!' She frowned. I could use an open window right about now. 'This bus has air-conditioning?' Jonathan asked doubtfully. I looked up at the gaping holes above our head that 
probably did house some sort of ancient air conditioning, back before they were ripped out....like in 1901. 'Sooo this is the nice bus?' I made sure I had heard correctly. Jonathan was still laughing as he handed over the 3RM for our tickets. I looked around to admire the nice-ness. Exposed wires were hanging everywhere. The dash had been ripped out and all that was left was reminents of the glue that had once held the dashboard in place. The material on the walls was slashed and the vinyl chairs that still managed to be somewhat vinyl-y had people's names carved into them. There was no ceiling. The tiny shards of tile lined the centre isle were black with decades of dirt. The Assistant ripped off two tiny tickets from her pile, handed them to Jonathan and then stood behind our seats. 'AIR CONDITIONING!!!' She bellowed to the driver. There was a disturbing noise followed by a steady stream of smelly, stale air pouring out from the hole above. So, she wasn't lying about the air-conditioning.. Then, much to our 
delight, the second bus employee started making his way down the isle, checking to make sure everyone had a ticket and then ripping the tickets that the Assistant had just dolled out. I counted, the employee to bus rider ratio was 1:2. No wonder they had to charge so much more to ride the 'nice' bus! We had the tickets in our hands for not even 10 seconds, no exaggeration, before the Official Ticket Ripper' took them back from us and ripped them in half. Darn. They would have been good souvenirs. Both the Assistant and Ticket Ripper were now beside us. 'So what time should we be outside waiting for a bus back town?' We asked. The Assistant yelled at the Official Ticket Ripper and he mumbled back, apparently discussing what time would be the most entertaining for them to tell us to be standing on the side of the highway awaiting the non-existent return bus. '2:45!' Yelled the Assistant at the same time as the Official Ticket Ripper stated '3 o'clock! The bus made a sharp turn and the poor belly-heavy Ticket Ripper tumbled back onto the broken seats parallel to us with a thump. Either that or the sheer force of the Assistant's booming voice knocked him 
off his feet. Both are equally likely. 'Ohhh this is SO blog-able, ' Jonathan mused.When we arrived at the Barhat Tea House and Plantation a very short time later we were so happy we had made the trip. Other than the tea being (relatively) expensive, the teahouse itself sat on the edge of a cliff overlooking, and surrounded by the lush, green, rolling hills of the tea plantation. It was nothing short of spectacular and a backdrop we had never seen before. We spent the whole day sipping tea, hiking through (and over) the paths between the tea bushes and
sipping more tea. The tea company had very thoughtfully biult a second tea house about a kilometre up the road and made it so you could walk through the tea plants in between cups of tea. So, we sat and had another cup of tea. If possible, the view from the second teahouse was even more breathtaking than the first. At about 2 o'clock, a full 45min-1 hour before the bus was scheduled to arrive for our pickup (depending on whether you believed the Assistant or the Official Ticket Ripper) we started watching out for the bus. Luckily for us, the road through the highlands was so twisty curvy that we could see the cars 'comin round the mountain' a good minute or so before they would arrive in front of teahouse. This, in theory, would give us more than enough time to jump from our tea table on the patio and scamper out to the parking lot in time to flag down the bus. Watching for the bus turned out to be a little more cumbersom than we expected, however, because keeping our eyes on the road meant that we couldn't look out at the gorgeous hills, which were significantly more pleasing than a bunch of old rusty 
trucks spurting out black gunk. We waited and waited at the edge of our seats, poised, ready to leap into action. We waited. And waited some more. In theory, we weren't that far from town. Five or six kilometers, maybe. Unfortunately, every single one of those kilometers was uphill. At 3 o'clock we went and stood on the side of the highway, just in case. At 3:10 we started waving down every bus that passed. On the off chance that our 'nice' bus had actually transformed into a 'nice' bus. It hadn't. None stopped. They all waved apologetically though. I was contemplating jumping out in front of the next bus that passed and demanding to be driven into town. Jonathan suggested we just start walking instead. How boring. That thought hadn't really crossed my mind. Deciding that filling out a claim with our travel insurance after getting smoked by an oncoming bus would probably be even more painful than huffing it uphill to the village, we started to walk. It was about 3:30. We had been sweating it out for almost 15min when we heard the familiar groan of the ancient engine belonging to our 'nice bus' coming from behind us. We flagged it down. It 
was the exact bus that had dropped us off. The same driver sat behind the wheel. The same Assistant sat in the front seat. 'Why are you walking!?' The Assistant yelled at us as we climbed the steps. 'Never mind. The ticket is 1.20RM now.'Cameron Highlands Fact: Did you know that there are more Land Rovers in the Highlands than any where else in the whole world? Don't get too excited though, most appear to be from the very first batch ever manufactured...
we immediately messaged him to assist in his quest. Free accommodation and the chance of hanging out with a 'master' would just happen to be side benefits. Considering Yee Tea had three-hundred-sixty-five positive references from fellow couchsurfers, it became apparent that Tea was already well on his way to achieving his goal. Yee Tea, fittingly, owns a tea shop on the main street of the old town of UNESCO World Heritage protected area of Melaka. 'Tea talk is free' his profile read. Perfect. We found Tea's shop pretty easily. 'You want a tri-shaw ride?' asked one of the thirty-eight tri-shaw drivers standing proudly beside his contribution to the 'tackiest tri-shaw in the world' competition. Its their thing in Melaka, apparently. They deck out their tri-shaw with fake flowers, flashing Christmas lights, heart-shaped pillows and Happy Meal toys and then tourists find the idea so entertaining that they can't possibly turn down a ride. 'No Thanks, we don't need a ride.
Our friend lives right down the street.' 'You have a friend in Melaka?' the driver asked curiously. 'Yes, he owns a tea shop.' Jonathan told him. 'Ohhhhhh,' said the tri-shaw driver, nodding, 'Yes, he has many friends.' I guess you can't host five-hundred couchsurfers without your townsfolk taking note.
did. The old town itself, particularily Chinatown, is a fantastic jumble of narrow streets lined with shops and restaurants offering eyefuls of window-hanging meat, huge bags of meat-crackers, and colourful sarongs and paintings combined with nosefuls of smelly dried fish, barrels of mushrooms and sweet pineapple cookies.
Chinese and Indian communities he jumped up from the table and returned with a couple of so-fresh-they-were-too-hot-to-touch chinese doughnuts (dough stretched out into long sticks and fried). 'To soak up the bottom of your soup with,' he explained. Chinese doughnuts to soak up our Indian soup. Multiculturalism at it's tastiest.
to do with chopsticks. Then, from what we gathered, his dissatisfaction turned to something sushi related and before we knew it Fred had run into the kitchen and grabbed a large, extremely well cared for chef knife to show us how to properly cut air sushi. We think. The knife made me very uncomfortable and I quickly offered to return it to the kitchen for him. Then I hid it underneath all the dish towels at the very bottom of the very furthest drawer: this just in case Fred decided he wanted to demonstrate cutting something else in the middle of the night. When we woke up in the morning with all of our digits in tact we came to the conclusion that maybe Fred really was a nice guy who was just very passionate about chopsticks and sushi. 'What are you doing today, Fred?' I asked him on his way out the door. 'Coffee bean,' was his reply.
be sweet - so obviously it made it to the top of my list as well. Cendol is a odd combination of shaved ice, coconut milk, green tapioca drops and local liquid palm sugar. I don't know why the tapioca needs to be green- but it is. The tapioca itself, in case you are having trouble picturing it, is like the pearls or bubbles in bubble-tea. So chewy and not super flavourful, but obviously there. The drink came out in a large icecream dish that was piled high with shaved ice and topped with sugar. In my books, anything topped with sugar and containing coconut is a-ok, but it certainly was unlike anything I had tasted before.
special way to drink the tea.
picture. So, really, the mess was Jonathan' fault, because he should have known better than to distract me while I was pouring. 'Tea Disaster' I was declared. Which is really unfortunate, because I thought I was capable of making quite a tasty 'cuppa' before all this.
and life would have a direct impact on how we live day to day and how we internalize and make sense of new circumstances.
to be so different. Again, it's so obvious that we had just taken our differences as fact and moved on.
experiencing, or even know for sure the way someone will interpret things we do or say. This is partly why we are travelling: to widen, and mature our personal lens and, over time, become able to understand and communicate with clarity, not only our experiences, but how others might be experiencing us. Of coure this doesn't mean that we intentionally go into situations ignorantly. We do our best to read, to talk to other travellers and locals and to learn from how we see the world happening around us. But its impossible to be prepared for every single situation and know how to react perfectly to every person. People are just as varied within a culture or country as the culture is itself from the culture we know. Therefore, the more experiences we have, the more days we spend immersed in this foreign culture, the more capable (we hope) we are of understanding other people's influence on us, and ours on them. Of course we also learn and grow through talking to other travellers, who, if from the west as well, would have experiences and thought processes at least similar to our own, and therefore easier for us to understand. Lessons that can be bundled up and easily
delivered to us via other travellers are usually of the easier of lessons, however. Harder to digest cultural differences seem to be more often learned through personal experience. The idea of learning from others, or through fellow travellers' mistakes brings up yet another issue, however. Sometimes what people are saying isn't really getting the point across that they intend to, whether because of a language barrier or just their way of explaining. And then, even if your fellow travellers do manage to successfully communicate their point, it's not necessarily the case that you will interpret the information the way it is intended. Although, I suppose these are general issues with communication and not necessarily specific to travel. Nonetheless, that doesn't lessen the value of the experiences and systems of thought foreign to us either. Nor should it be an avenue deemed to offer no or even limited opportunities for growth and maturation. Quite the contrary, in fact. Still, though, tips, advice, stories and tall tales are internalized through that lens of ours. No matter how open one is to seeing the 'real' world it is impossible to see anything any other way than through what they already know or hold as true. One of the reasons we love travel so much is it's unabashed opportunity to learn. We've said before, and strongly believe that engaging with real life and real experiences are the best way to learn about the people, places and cultures. We have noticed significant changes in ourselves over the last three and
a half months. Our experiences and knowledge have widen our horizons considerably and, no doubt, how we are experiencing Thailand today (we are posting this from Thailand) is through an enlarged and not-quite-the-same framework than we would have been able to experience it two months ago. Still, we are new, and, clearly, have a lot to learn.
After a quick transit ride to our hostel in Little India, we set off to see how the city was welcoming 2011. Our first stop was to fill our bellies for the last time in 2010. We found an Indian vegetarian restaurant and were surprised when we got the menu that we didn't recognize one single thing. We love Indian food and would have considered ourselves relatively comfortable ordering at a Canadian Indian restaurant. We felt absolutely helpless, and our despair must have been pretty obvious to everyone else in the restaurant, who all watched us like we were the evenings hired entertainment. Our server waited just long enough for us to scower the extensive menu a second time, searching for any word we recognized..naan? Daal? Vegetable korma? Nada. To our relief, he took pity on us and pretty much ordered for us. We had no idea what we were getting, but if the smells wafting out of the kitchen were any indication of how the food would taste, we probably should have pre-ordered seconds. Within a few minutes our table morphed into a buffet with small servings of about a million different things. Each tiny tin bowl had some concoction that somehow managed to taste even better than the previous one. We were in Indian food heaven. Our New Years Eve dinner was devoured in approximately seven minutes. I don't think I chewed one single thing. When will we learn?
We joined the throngs headed down towards what we figured must be where the party was. We really didn't have much choice in the matter. Once you made the move onto the sidewalk it was like you had boarded an express train. There was no stopping, no turning around, no exit. It was perhaps even less annoying that we had no idea where we were, since we didn't have much of a choice in direction as we shuffled along with the crowd on the sidewalk, cum sardine can. We ended up at the harbour and then were whisked across a footbridge that afforded spectacular views of the Singapore skyline and it's sparkly reflection in the night harbour. Good work Pedestrian Express Train. We got off at the 'stop' that would have been named 'Mall' for a healthy dose of air-conditioning. I can safely say that this is the first New Years Eve I have spent sans-winter coat...and winter. Where were the hot chocolates and toques? We stepped through the immaculate, fingerprintless sliding doors 
and into the mall and into the cold winter weather we were missing back home. It was 10pm and all the shops were open. In fact, the mall was packed like it was 8am on Boxing Day. And people weren't just milling about: they were actually shopping! Judging by the number of malls in Singapore, and by the number of floors in these malls, it seems that Singaporeans really enjoy their shopping. As if to prove her point, one girl on the subway carried a bulging cloth bag that read:' I see it! I want it! I'm buying it!' We wandered around, contemplating which of the five floors we should check out first. All the big brand names were represented. We could have been any where in the world, really. Apparently the North Face store agreed. Their maniquens were all suited up in the latest winter gear. Maybe they got confused and sent the Siberian maniquins to Singapore and the more realistic bikini clad ones to the Arctic? I don't know what happened, but I do know that, seeing as it was 30 degrees, plus humidity outside those shiny glass doors at 10pm, that the only place anyone in this city was going to sport that fluffy goose-down jacket was strolling around the mall.
seconds of 2010 and people hooted and hollered their way into 2011. Something that was missing, however, was the one thing single Westerners spend all New Years stressing about: the New Years kiss. There was no kissing going on. Not that the cheering wasn't enthusiastic enough or anything. The first firework exploded right on cue and the show continued on for a very very long time. So long, in fact, that it seemed as though no one had taken into account the massive amount of smoke that all these fireworks would create, and by the end, the smoke completely obscured the fireworks from sight (although not sound). Happy New Year!!! It was a perfect way to welcome 2011 - our year of travel! (That's right- It' official! We just snagged a great price on our flight home, for Dec 22nd 2011.. from Iceland!)
about fifteen minutes. We were greeted at the door by a young looking, very welcoming Muslim woman. She had a wide smile and chatted excitedly with us about couchsurfing. At first we assumed that this was Wan's wife, but when she brought out a cute little photo book of Wan's wedding, with a different bride, we got a little confused. She made us tea, and brought out delicious homemade desserts and candies. So generous! Things weren't really making sense to us as we talked to the woman who was from Indonesia and had a fifteen year old son. She had only been in Singapore for three years... We thought Wan had two small children.. and that he and his wife were from Singapore. It was pretty comical for Jonathan and myself when we finally (we're slow sometimes) came to the realization that this bubbly, gracious woman was Wan's family maid. 'Ohh, maybe Wan did mention that the maid would be here when we arrived when I talked to him on the phone earlier... ' Jonathan said. Men. Can't live with them...
stuffing ourselves with his homemade goodies. Wan and his wife were so friendly, welcoming and thoughtful. We really enjoyed their company and found their opinions about Singapore and it's politics fascinating. Their family is Muslim and when Jonathan's study of Theology came up we had a wonderfully honest, open discussion about religion with them. We chatted like old friends, taking up much of their Saturday morning. They were just so easy and interesting to talk to. In addition to the great conversation, we were also treated to a superbly delicious breakfast both mornings we were there. 'I'm not that good of a cook,' Wan's wife humbly said to me as she expertly tossed veggies, noodles and sauces into a wok one morning. After I had devoured a heaping bowl of said noodles, I wondered how much better the noodles could possibly taste, if she was a good cook? I can't imagine many things that could be tastier. Singapore is known for it's food, I wasn't surprised to read.
wouldn't have been near as fantastic without the infusion of spending time with real, open, knowledgable locals. And, having the honour of being Wan's family's first Canadian couchsurfers, we would like to believe that their weekend wouldn't have been quite as interesting without a little bit of Canuck infusion.
'Adam Lombok.' The village formerly known as 'Kuta Lombok' is on the south coast of Lombok, and therefore was previously aptly named.. that is until the appearance of THE 'Adam.' Adam, luckily for me (since I'm assuming having an Indonesian village named after you has some perks) is my cousin. He travelled around Indonesia for several weeks in the Spring of 2010, and this is how, many months later, we found ourselves on a bumpy minivan ride from the very northern tip of Lombok, straight across to the absolute south of the island.
any rooms left?' We asked the tiny young mother on the steps of the dining room. 'For how many nights?' She asked. 'Three?' I asked. She shook her head. 'No. We have one room left and it is only available for 2 nights.' 'Ok,' we agreed. 'Sounds good.' We dropped our bags onto the bed, happy to be rid of their weight... again. The young woman and her mother were playing with the child in the courtyard when we came back out. 'My cousin Adam stayed here back in June,' I said. 'He was here with a couple other guys. From Canada? He really liked it here and recommended we stay as well.' I smiled trying to convince them that I was, indeed, paying a compliment. It took a moment for the words to translate in the young woman's head from her second (or likely third) language. I could almost see the wheels turning. Her blank stare turned into an (almost) sly grin. She said something to her mother in Sasak and they both turned to Jonathan and I with huge smiles like I had just confided a personal message from the Queen. 'I remember!' she exclaimed. 'Three boys! Motorbikes! They stayed in that room!' She told us proudly, pointing to the room next to ours as it had been previously occupied by Elvis Presley. She turned to her mother again and they both shook their heads and laughed. From that moment on, we were honoured guests. 'So, you want to stay three nights? It's 
ok! You stay!' she announced to us almost immediately after our 'true identities' (aka: of close relation to Adam) had been revealed. Regardless of reservations, it turned out, that we, relatives of Adam, would be given priority. Of all the people who passed through this inn, they remembered Adam and his friends.... what exactly had they done to be so memorable? I began to wonder.
into our food and droning 'you wanna bracelet, buy a bracelet, good price, cheap for you, special lunchtime price...' in one long continuous sentence. Over and over again. More children lurked around the entrance of the open air restaurant, just in case we bought up all the bracelets these three were touting and were on the lookout for more. Who knows, maybe we have a whole bunch of friends at home that would just love if we bought them a wonderfully local Lombok souvenir. Nothing says 'I was thinking about you while on vacation' like a cheap tacky hemp and shell bracelet. Maybe you will ALL be getting a bracelet next Christmas. Don't get your hopes up. This was the first time we had seen children selling things, and it was at first, shocking, and then just really sad. Each kid had a piece of cardboard that folded into three. Slits were cut at the top and bottom of the board so that the bracelets could be stretched from end to end, displaying their quality. 'Did you make the bracelets?' we asked. 'No,' the kid would reply, '20,000Rp.' 'Where did you get them?' we asked. 'Ok, for you, 15,000Rp,' would be the response. Boy they learn how to charm early here.
'Just ask for Ani who has a stall on the beach selling sarongs and Lombok blankets.' Sounded like a breeze. 'She will be the only one not harassing you from the entrance of their shop.' Well that should be easy, considering we had only just begun to stroll past the shops and had already been instructed about ten times to 'Look lady!' at every single stall selling the exact same imported-from-China sarongs and sundresses. We started asking all the nice sarong shop owners where Ani's shop was. This was not well received. It would go something like this:
tell. 'No, what does Ani look like?' she asked. Seeing as I had never met Ani, and at this point, wasn't even entirely sure she existed, I found this question a tad challenging. 'Is she really skinny?' The lady asked. I sucked in my breath and tried in vain to remember the one picture I had ever, in my life, seen of Ani. It was about 3 months ago and Adam had shown us the photo on the screen of his cell phone. Was she skinny? There hadn't been many Indonesians who weren't skinny, so it would be a good guess.. I strained my memory. She had been sitting in the photo...a girl.. with black hair and chocolate-y skin... that sure narrowed it down. 'Umm, well she has a sarong shop and a little boy, I think.' This was exasperating. First no one knows who she is and now this lady wants to play twenty questions with me. 'No.' The sarong seller determined. 'The only Ani I know has a daughter, not a son, and she works in the cafe next door.' I was determined to at least meet someone (anyone) named Ani at this point, so I followed close behind apparently the only other person in Kuta (besides Adam) who had ever met anyone in Kuta named Ani. The lady yelled into the cafe and a truly tiny girl came to the short bamboo fence that bordered the cafe patio. She smiled, friendly but confused. Well, I certainly hadn't thought this out. We had been all over town trying to find Ani and I had never thought about what to actually say to her until she stood, looking quizzically at Jonathan and myself. 'Soo.. umm you don't know me..' (Obviously). No, that sounded dumb. 'I was sent here by this guy...' Sigh. Creepy. 'So, are you THE Ani?'
still had the shop, only two doors down, but it is mostly run by her mother. Her mother only speaks Sasak, the traditional language of Lombok, and therefore is not one of the pushy stall owning sarong sellers. Whenever a tourist wants to buy something, Indir, Ani's mom sends someone over to the cafe to fetch Ani who runs back to the shop to help out. Well, at least it all makes sense now! Indir got wind of the presence of 'friends-of-Adam' and rushed over to the bamboo fence to wave and smile a wide, toothless smile at us. 'She wants you to come over for coffee...if you have time,' Ani translated. Aww! She's so cute! Ani chatted with us in between taking orders and delivering the food. The cafe, whose name translates to 'Cheap, Cheap Food' (haha) has a beautiful 'panorama' (as Ani calls it) view over the beach and distant picture-esque cliffs along with good, cheap food. A combination of these factors means that the little open-air cafe is constantly packed. Indir peeked around the corner every few minutes to make sure we didn't forget about her coffee invite and give us another one of her adorable toothless smiles. Indir is toothless, we learned, because she chews betlenut. 
in between her running about at the whim of the constant flow of diners. There was one particular young girl, maybe ten years old, whose elbow marks were practically worn into the chest-level bamboo fence directly in front of our favourite table. It was, perhaps the saddest thing I have ever seen. She stood there, hanging onto the fence, trying to catch a tourist's eye. I told her a million times, politely, that I didn't want one of her bracelets. This was the biggest waste of my breath. Once she thought she had your attention, she would drone, in the most ridiculous of monotones...Miss, Miss, Lady... buy a bracelet... come on...20,000...(no response from me) ok, 15,000 (still no response) ok 10,000 (not even a glance) ok, 5,000. She had successfully bar
took a large woven mat from the back and spread it out on the floor, motioning for us to sit down while she made the coffee. It was like we were old friends that had stopped by for a visit.
The shop itself is tiny. All the shops that line the (practically) dirt main road are the exact same. They have three shabby walls and a slanted roof, all constructed from bamboo. The front of the shop is open to the street. All three of the walls are lined with sarongs and blankets, all perfectly folded, and draped over bamboo poles creating a wallpaper effect. The shop is probably about 2.5 meters by 3.5 meters (8'x12', for those who have held out on adopting the metric system). In the back corner is a door short enough that I had to duck to pass through, that leads to the living quarters. The space is just wide enough to have bamboo stalks stretched across the length a half meter off the floor, forming the bed. Under the bed is storage of pretty much everything Ani owns. From lying in the bed, you could reach out into the 'kitchen' which is really just a collection of pots and pans piled onto the floor and a spot to set fire to some kindling for cooking. At night, Ani just pulls a board across the front of the shop. 'Then we're closed,' she explained, showing us how the 'door' worked. Ani and Rini live in the hut and most nights Indir stays with them, as opposed to taking the bumpy bus ride back to her place in the village. What amazes me about Ani the most is how absolutely, unfailingly, happy she is. She smiles constantly. Even the patrons in the restaurant comment on Ani's beautiful, consistent smile. Ani knows she will probably never leave Lombok. She works every day at the cafe, from the moment it opens until every tourist is plump full without a single day off and helps run the sarong shop at the same time. She is open and 
honest about her life, experiences, culture and happiness. Ani is just happy to 'be' all the time. Her happiness is contagious. I guess I find her so inspirational because I am not-so-happy all the time, but have all the same reasons to be happy that Ani has. I get annoyed when I get too hot, when the bus is late, when mosquitos bite my ankles, when my toast isn't hot... you get the idea. Ani is happy because she is healthy and alive. We could probably all use a little dose of Ani.
them. The girls looked exactly like many women in the West wish they looked. Tiny feminine figures, flawless tanned skin and long shiny hair. 'But we all want to be fat and white!' Ani told us. Umm what? I offered Ani fifteen or so of my pounds, completely free of charge. Ani told us that many of her friends buy special skin whitener and bleach their faces to be lighter. 'They all have lines right here,' she said, drawing a line along her chin. Their face is lighter than their neck. Ani herself loves swimming (and lucky her, lives about two steps from a breathtaking beach) but hardly ever goes down to the water because she doesn't want the sun to make her skin darker. These concepts are completely foreign to me, coming from a land where weight-loss gimics and diet fads make billions of dollars every year, probably only slightly more profitable than tanning beds and self tanning creams. I would love to be as petite as Ani with perfect chocolatey skin. It's funny, in a non-funny way, how everyone wants what they can't have.
been waiting until we got to Ani's shop (and it had been painful in the blazing heat) to get some new tropics-friendly clothing. I tried on pretty much every sundress at the shop and performed a little fashion show for all the women who were passing the hours with us on the shop's porch, so they could vote on their favourite dress. Good thing too, because Jonathan was doing the useless 'Whatever you want, honey. They all look nice' boy thing ('a happy wife is a happy life'). Sensing tension, as I huffed and puffed at Jonathan's less-than-interested response, Ani ran to the next shop to borrow a mirror. 'They won't mind. We share everything here,' Ani told us, referring to her neighbours in the close-knit shops on her street. 'No one ever goes hungry, because if I have something, I share with them, and they share with me. If someone has chili's, everyone has chilis. We are like family.' I looked around at all the smiling faces and nodding heads. I would be happy if I got to hang out with Ani all the time too.
about the prospect than he was. Unfortunately Ani didn't sell rice hats (hurray), but, her neighbour did (darn). And this is how Jimmy entered our lives. Jimmy is the rice hat's name. 'Jimmy the Rice Hat,' is the name on the adoption papers, if you want to get specific. That's right, folks, this hat is so large, it has it's own personality and name. Jimmy practically needs his own seat on the bus. He was handmade by the father of the shop owner from bamboo. After Jonathan had forked over the small amount of cash to buy Jimmy, the woman sat with us on Ani's porch and weaved a chin strap for him. Jonathan loves Jimmy. As do all the locals we pass on the street who smile, giggle and yell 'Hey, Farmer!' as we walk by. Maybe they're onto something! Maybe we could arrange a day in the fields for dear old Farmer Jon and he could see how Jimmy would live up to the challenge... He also picked out one of Indir's hand woven Lombok sarongs. It really is a piece of art. You should wear it 'Lombok style' Ani encouraged him, showing him how to properly tie it around his waist. No doubt, ever since we had visited a sarong-clad Adam in Squamish, Jonathan had been dreaming of this moment. His smile reached his ears as he happily paraded around in his new hat and skirt. My smile resembled something of a grimace.
and they certainly looked that way. The detailed design on the one Indir picked out for me weaves blues, pinks, greens and golds together in a stunning pattern. The gold strings practically glittered in the soft light of the shop. I was so excited, and so honoured to have been given such an exquisite, handmade scarf. Indir is very very talented. 'Make sure you tell Adam that I gave you a scarf!' Indir instructed me with one of her huge toothless smiles.
out long enough, surely a meal time will pass. The shuttle staff are usually so friendly and the other travellers so chill-axed and chatty, that really the whole ordeal is more entertaining than annoying.
created Man,' the voice continued, 'And he saw that it was good.' Jonathan looked around confused. Were other people hearing this as well? 'On the Third Day, God created Music- and he saw that this was good.' The story started to take a surprising turn... 'And on the Fourth Day, God created the Club- And all the Good people- Got Down.' I burst out laughing. Boom Boom Boom, went the bass. Pound Pound Pound went my headache. I looked at our watch-it was 8:13am. How long was this bus ride again? The booming other-worldly voice wasn't through with it's suggestions yet though. 'This should be played at a high volume!' It instructed. OH. MY. I watched the driver's hand on the wheel. Was he going to obey this demanding 'voice'? He didn't make a move for the volume. Small victories. 'SOS' the voice bellowed. At least we were on the same page now...
enjoyed the music occasionally slowing to a complete stop only to be eased back to life with the 'broken record effect' given courtesy of Mitta DJ. It has been a real struggle (and a challenge that likely even has flopped) to paint a delightfully accurate musical performance of our ride. If somehow you can imagine all these parts layered together, though, you just might be able to find stardom in Indonesia! And yes, the bus ride was that long...