Dogs that eat Cows and Festivals that turn People into Baked Goods.

Here in Northern India we have been exploring various hill towns, with sweeping views of glorious mountain ranges, steep green valleys and endless stretches of plains. Quite the variety. Our first stop was Dalhousie, a town at 2115 metres, favoured by the British Raj for its cool climate, relaxing atmosphere and rambuncious monkey clans.. ok maybe not so much the monkeys, but we thought they were quite entertaining. Dharmashala, or more specifically McLeod Gange, is the home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile. When it wasn't raining, which wasn't often, being the second rainiest place in India, McLeod Gange, too provided us with spectacular views of the surrounding mountains and plains. Plus, they had some great deals on silk scarves... Then, after an excruciating 12 hour bus ride up, over, down and around the mountains, we arrived at our current, and favourite hill station, Nagger. Nagger is a tiny one road town nestled on a perch deep in the Kullu Valley, where soaring green mountains provide the perfect balcony scenery, and apple orchards offering the perfect balcony snack.

Its monsoon up here in Northern India, but there has been little evidence of that for us. There are clouds in the morning, maybe it rains at night, but most of the days are filled with cool summer breezes and blue skies. We have been in Nagger for five days now, and have o idea how. There is really nothing to do here, after you have walked up the town's one, steep, winding road and have had tea at the local roadside tea shack. The forest here is stocked with thick, towering pines. In the morning a atmospheric mist hangs low in the trees until the sun finds its way through the cracks and chases it away. It is wonderful for walks. Luckily for us, the town has a healthy population of friendly, surprisingly nice looking street dogs available for borrow, who like to take us for walks down the various paths. Two or three pups, every morning, wait for us to finish our breakfast at the tea shack (and I use the word shack liberally) and they follow us down the path, swerving between our legs, running ahead and then waiting for us to catch up.

The last time we took random dogs for a walk was in Greece and the dogs ended up attacking someones chickens, resulting in us running for our lives from an angry stick-wielding Greek. We couldn't help but have flashes of terror when the one german sheperard-ish dog that we named 'Funny' suddenly lunged, seemingly for fun, at a passing cow. Right at the cow's neck! The cow, inconveniently walking along the edge of a gutter did some fancy dance with it's uncoordinated hooves, lost its footing and stumbled through the mud and gunk a bit before finding it legs. We watched the whole thing in slow motion. How was this happening? Why was this happening? What kind of dog attacks a cow? Isn't there enough garbage around to eat? Duh, Funny, cows are sacred here! You can't take nibbles from their necks! The dog was startled by the cow, five times his size, teetering above him and jumped away. Funny ran to hide behind us, scared of the cow that he had just, unsuccessfully attempted to eat. Sigh. Oh, Funny. He looked up at us with his shiny black doggie eyes and panted, tongue fully hanging out to the left, in that innocent, smiley dog way. 'What, me?' We shook our heads.The cow's keeper, a lady with a menacing looking stick turned our way and raised her eyebrows. Oh Jeez. Here we go again. 'Um, sorry?' we ventured. She scowled, turned on her heels, gave the cow a smack with the stick, and on they went... in search of greener pastures. Funny just smiled, tried to lick our toes and circled around us, as if saying, 'ok, ok the shows over, get a move on, already!' haha

Our tea shack ladies, our popscicle man and a couple taxi drivers had all mentioned that there was a festival going on in the next town, a couple kilometres down a small forest road. 'You should go,' they all said. We figured that they were probably right. Either we are very lucky to come across so many festivals, or Asia just has a whole bunch more celebrations than we do in Canada. We are thinking its the later. We had seen many people walking down the road towards the festival, all dressed in their best, bedazzled suits. Everyone looked so nice, colourful and festive. Hey, I could do that too, I thought excitedly! For the occasion, I would wear my beautiful white embroidered suit that Raj bought me back in Punjab! How great! I would totally blend in! (hahah, right.) I changed quickly and we were on our way down the road. We could see the big yellow tent and hear the festive Indian music long before we acutally arrived in town. The road was muddy from the nights rain. No one seemed to mind. There were shiny streamers hanging and plenty of stalls frying up sticky Indian desserts. Under the big tent was man belting out long, upbeat Indian tunes and three women dancing enthusiastically, albeit completely un-choreographed, to the beat.We wandered through the crowd, past the stalls, took in the dancing and admired the decorations. It was a nice festival and everyone seemed to be having a good time. A little while later we decided it was time for us to start our walk back to town. We were strategically tip-toeing across the mud when loud drumming and cheering erupted from a mountain path above us. Sounded like a party. Sure enough, there was a sizeable party in the form of a parade winding down the path to the main road. They were drumming and dancing and singing. Bringing up the rear were three ornately decorated thrones supported on thick sticks and being carried by groups of men. No one sat in the thrones, but they looked relatively heavy nonetheless. In front of the parade there were some teenagers that looked to be throwing dirt at each other. Kids, always messing around. 'Don't go that way', I told Jonathan,'It looks like they are throwing dirt and I don't want to get my white suit all dirty.' It as a nice, new, white suit.... anyone could see that. They wouldn't throw dirt at me! Right? Jon agreed that I was probably, maybe safe, but we tried to cross over to the other side of the road anwyas, just to be sure. Have I mentioned that I was wearing my new, white suit? As it goes, we didn't pass unnoticed. A group of young men gave us mischievous looks, smiled, and reached into the little sacs that they were carrying, grabbing handfuls of the substance and tossing it at us. Darn! White shirt! White shirt! I paniced. Except it wasn't dirt. It was a powdery, flour type something. It smelt ok, like you could eat it, if you mixed it with water or something (and maybe some sugar). Not that the powder being edible made it any more ok tohave all over my beloved suit. We made it to the other side of the road with only minimal powder damage. I saw a large, shaky, randomly place concrete slab, the purpose of which was unclear. But it was elevated out of the mud, big enough for the two of us to stand on, and would give us a great front row view of the passing parade. As the drumming drew closer the crowds moved from the festival grounds to balconies and porches above the street to watch. No one came down the the street though. 'Wow! We have a greatI view down here! We are so lucky!' I thought. Not once did it cross my mind that maybe there was a reason that everyone was keeping their distance. All of the sudden, the parade, all men, was upon us. They were jumping and singing, and very enthusiastic. Particularily about covering everyone and everything in powder from their secret little pouches. Everyone, of course, included us. Especialy us. Woosh! As if on que, powder was flying everywhere. You couldn't even see across the street through the thick, powder-filled air! 'Wooooohoooo' they called. 'Yeah!' Turns out, I didn't blend in quite as well as I thought, wearing my Indian clothes. It also turns out that I am not mature enough yet, to own white clothes. Maybe when I'm older... but probably not. They had these num-chuck looking things, rather phallic looking, if you ask me. Between powder baths, the numchucks would come out. They were held with both hands, above the head and clunk the two pieces of wood together that were on each end of the rope. Very, very, phallic looking. The head numchuck guy saw us standing there, covered in white, elevated oh-so inconspicuously on our concrete platform and brought the numchucks to us. He wasn't leaving until we were dancing around with the numchucks flailing above our heads. That was for sure. What the heck? Jonathan's red beard was white, our bags were white, my camera was white, every smidgeon of our skin was freshly powdered, I could have rung my precious new shirt of enough flour to bake a cake.. might as well wave some penis' above our heads too. Why not? Everyone else was doing it..... Jonathen tentatively rasied the numchucks above his head. Another powder shower. The crowd cheered. Phew. We were a hit. After an appropriate amount of num-chuck waving and cheering, we were allowed to move on our merry way. The parade had other places to be, anyways. Maybe, just maybe, this explains we were the only ones taking advantage of the 'great front row' view? Man, its fun to be a dumb foreigner. 'Don't add water to your hair,' my Gramma warned when I talked to her that night. ' You might turn all that flour into dough!' hahaha! Isn't she the cutest? One big, happy festival for the village, one step closer to being a baked good for us. The day was a success.

ps. The Happiest Day of the Year is soon approaching... HAPPY BIRTHDAY SARAH!!!

More Thai Bits & Bites

A few more random Tall Thai Tales (hahaha!)

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Bus Ride

The air-conditioned mini bus that I insisted we book for our journey to Pai was already an hour late. 'It will be here at 9am, our front desk lady told us, 'Thai time.' So really, that narrowed our departure time to anytime between 9am and 9pm that day. Or perhaps at some point on the following day. It's only one hundred or so kilometers from Chiang Mai to Pai. But somehow, the road manages to take in 762 curves in that distance and takes about four hours, depending, of course, on how late your driver is to fetch you, and how many times you need to pull over for someone to throw up out the window. How do I know that there are precisely 762 curves, you may ask. Well, because that's what the T-shirts in the market say, and so therefore, it must be true. I don't know what kind of sick masochist actually kept their eyes open the entire swerve-a-thon, taking time to notate each and every nightmarish curve, but whoever it was then proceeded to construct big white pillars along the side of the highway and adorn them with the curve number you are on, followed by how many more kilometers you are still destined to endure. I didn't find it that helpful. Ohhhhh curve 235! Only 527 to go! Hurray! Anyways, in the defense of Pai, because it's a fantastic place and I wouldn't want to scare anyone from visiting there, the highest numbered column I managed to catch was only like 187 or something.

Although, considering the state I was in on our way to Pai, our van certainly did feel like it spun in circles at least 762 times. Maybe even 763. The trip would have been a test of your inner stomach muscles to begin with, but considering I thought it a good idea to have a very fun night the evening before with a gaggle of new found friends, made the four hour journey just barely survivable. The event of which I speak was held at a posh hotel in Chiang Mai. We were led (after a few wrong turns... its a very big, very posh hotel with a lot of hallways, you know) to an amazingly atmospheric outdoor lounge where huge black leather comfy chairs were arranged in a cozy circle, palm trees were lit up with soft yellow light and a group of friendly farangs (fellow travellers) were chatting away in the warm summer air. Our personal waiters added a couple more chairs to the circle and brought us some ice cold drinks. I say personal waiters because the twenty or so of us where the only people in the bar. The night went into flash forward, as time when one is having fun. One minute I was chatting with and Irishman about the state of world affairs and the next I was waving goodbye to Jonathan from the back seat of a motorbike, being driven by my new Thai friend, Ving. 'Boys!' she exclaimed as we sped off. Then there was a heart to heart with an infamous Thai Lady Boy, some giggling at the plethora of gorgeous young Thai women on the arms of old wrinkly white men, a dance storm to the tune of the quintessential reggae song, No Woman, No Cry, at the Reggae themed bar, a pit stop at the oasis-like 7-11 to stock pile chocolate bars, and finally, a stern looking husband. Then somehow, at approximately curve 98, I came to the stark realization that my fantastically fun night had somehow morphed into a 'terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.' 'Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time!' I whined at curve 103 to a bright-eyed, bushy tailed, eye rolling Jonathan whilst clutching a very large, very ready, plastic bag. He rolled his eyes again, because he could.

Sweet as Pai

Pai was a place that was made for lingering. We found a perfect $6 bungalow about a fifteen minute walk from town that came with a balcony and comfy nylon hammock overlooking the valley and mountains. There was a bamboo-constructed open air lounge with even more spectacular views, made even better with comfy places to sit, hot water for tea, and wifi. Sigh. Most days I really can't believe that this is our life.

We rented a scooter (and two helmets) to explore the glorious countryside. We made a plan to hit up a couple waterfalls, a canyon near a Chinese village and then take a dip in the hot springs. We were between waterfalls when we heard some interesting music. I glanced down the alley as we motored past and saw a whoie bunch of people decked out in their traditional wear dancing around in a circle while the musician strummed an instrument I didn't recognize in the middle. 'Turn around! We're going to investigate!' I yelled in Jonathan's ear. We found a place to park our scooter among the rows of motorbikes and scooters already parked alongside the narrow road and edged our way in to the courtyard. Everyone looked fantastic. Their clothes were velvety and colourful. Some people had a vest of jingling silver pieces that complimented the music as they moved in sync with the pied piper. Others wore bright headpieces adorned with long red or yellow strings almost all the way around. They were Lisu people, it turned out. Members of one of Thailand's several Hill Tribes. The circle moved in perfect harmony with the musician, everyone's steps in perfect precision. It was beautiful. The community lingered around, drinking 'Chai-in' (Thai ice tea, which is orange-y in colour and mixed with milk and sugar) and pop, laughing and enjoying the dance and music show.
Kids fiddled with their outfits, admiring the sparkling silver and trying to acquire as many different drinks as they possibly could from different relatives that they would then mix all together into a potion that only a kid would dare taste. People smiled and waved at us and the kids loved my camera. Teenagers tapped away on their cells, looking like they were counting the seconds until they were free from their family responsibilities. We were just settling in with our strawberry Fanta pop's when one of the men in the dance circle turned towards us and started waving frantically in our direction. I looked to my right. To my left. Behind me. The man kept waving, and then pointing. Me? Couldn't be! Then who? 'Hold my camera, Moon, I'm going dancing!' I exclaimed to Jonathan as I ran off to join the circle. The music kept on and everyone knew instintively which beat to move which foot on. I fumbled along in between two tribesmen bumping this way and that, trying desperately to follow along, encouraged by their enthusiastic nodding everytime I happened to put a foot in the right place. Those who have attempted to teach me a line dance can imagine my two left feet tripping all over each other. Must have been pretty entertaining. 'Happy New Year!' called the younger man in the middle of the circle with the video camera. 'Happy New Year!?' I cheered back. Good times. Good times.









Pirates in the Andaman Ocean

We were looking for a lazy, laid back Thai Island when my friend Daryl suggested the little Island of Ko Jum. 'There's not much to do but read and swim,' we heard. Sounded perfect. Being the busy season we emailed off a reservation. When we didn't hear back, we Skype called to confirm our arrival. It was all going so well. We booked our ferry ticket and hotel pickup in Krabi and were sitting out on the hotel patio at 10am sharp the following morning, awaiting our shuttle. The boat was supposed to leave at 11am, so we had plenty of time. 'Don't worry if they are a bit late.. its Thai time! The boat won't leave without you,' the American guy who sold us our ferry ticket assured us. 'Mai ben lie!' (No worries!). Plenty of pickup trucks, their bed's overpacked with backpackers and their gear drove by us merrily on their way to the port. People were picked up at the hotel beside us, behind us... but no one came for us. 'Stop worrying!' Jonathan scolded. 'You're going to have to get used to this 'Thai Time thing, or you'll be stressed out every day!' He was right. I tried to distract myself from the fact that it was now 10:39 and, still, no sign of our ride. At 11:00 am I begged him to run down to the agency where we bought our ticket and just make sure everything was dandy. Ten minutes later he was running back up the hill. 'They are sending someone right now!' he called breathlessly. 'So they forgot about us?!' I gasped. 'I think so,' he admitted. Sure enough, the same silver truck that had driven past us about five times about an hour earlier came squealing around the corner. The driver looked guilty as he hurried us into the back an tossed our bags in on top of us and thrust two ferry tickets in our direction. He sped to the port and ushered us inside. It was 11:13. The building was practically empty. For sure we had missed the ferry. The ticket man was there, though, leaning against the wall, looking bored. He took our ticket and ripped it. He was in no particular rush. That was reassuring... or just really mean. We ran out along the pier to the waiting ferry. Phew. It really did wait for us! And considering almost every person on the ferry already had a cold beer in hand, they didn't even look that annoyed with us. We literally ran onto the boat, just in case, after waiting around all this time, it would try to pull away as we were half way across the plank. We sat down on the steps to catch our breath and turned down the beer, ice cream, doughnuts and juice that everyone was desperately trying to sell us. Fresh meat, I guess. Now I know why everyone already had a beer. They probably just got sick of saying 'no' while they waited for us tardies. When our boat still hadn't set off ten minutes later I started to feel a little less-bad about being late. Another ten minutes passed before a couple, weighed down under backpacks the size of the Eiffel Tower, sauntered around the corner and slowly made their way to the awaitng ferry. Well, the least they could do was break into a gallop, or, jeez, walk quickly! We ran like it was the hundred meter dash! Some people. Their body-bags were barely over the ferry's railing when the boat's motor started spouting out black smoke and we pulled away from the pier. Woohooo! Next stop: relaxation!
Not so fast. Clearly the hotel touts had other plans for our boat ride. Daryl had warned us about the touts on the boat trying their darndest to convince you to go to their resort as opposed to the one you had already booked. The guy with the coin in his ear took his mission very seriously. He didn't just have a coin behind his ear, like Grandpa, but the coin was actually jammed into his ear so it sat flat, blocking his eardrum. This annoyed me to begin with. And then he opened his mouth. The worst part about these touts is that they act all friendly, like they are trying to help you, when in fact, they are really just lying to your face' 'Hey, brother, where are you staying?' he asked Jonathan. 'AoSi Bungalows,' Jonathan answered. 'Ahhh. No good. You don't want to stay there. Come stay at my place!' And he thrust a binder of pictures from his resort into our hands. 'Very nice, but no thanks. We have reservations,' we told him. 'Ok, well if they don't come pick you up, you come stay with me. AoSi always forgets to pick up their guests.' We came to the first stop. 'See, no AoSi! Come with me!' The coin-eared tout told us, making a move for our bags. 'AoSi is the next stop,' a member of the boat crew mumbled to us. 'No Thanks!' we said again. Now he was annoyed. He had spent a good few minutes trying to befriend us and we weren't even going to fall for his ploy?! What a waste of time. He huffed and puffed some more, but eventually he and his 10 Baht coin got off the boat. How many people fall for his lies, I wonder?

The ferry to Ko Jum goes something like this. It's actually the Krabi-Ko Lanta (a larger island, further south) ferry in disguise. If you want to get off at Ko Jum you still have to buy the ticket all the way to Ko Lanta, but then, as the ferry is passing by Ko Jum long tail boats jet out from their moorings and meet you at the ferry. It is just how I would imagine being attacked by pirates in longtail boats would be. One minute, the ferry is cruising along and the next minute a dozen long tail boats start aparating along side it. They fly in noisily, out of no where and start roping themselves to the ferry on both sides, and each other forming a big, floating convoy. On each side I counted at least five long tails tied together. Each boat belongs to a different resort and they are all vying for the closest position. When you hear the name of your resort being called out, you jostle your way to the front of the crowd and heave your luggage over the side. Unlike your typical pirate attack though, everyone was willingly walking the plank to join the pirates on their boats, destined for the deserted island. You hop (or jump, fall, roll, get up, jump, fall..and so on) from boat to boat until you tumble into the correct one while your bag is being passed along the assembly line after you. The first time we experienced this we were totally overwhelmed. It seemed like complete and utter chaos. Everyone was yelling and pointing, bags were flying, boxes of supplies from the mainland were being ripped open and their contents dumped into rice sacks... Would we ever see our luggage again? As quickly as it all began, it was over and we were motoring away from the ferry in our own private longtail boat. Ahhhh serenity. And then. 'Are you sure you have a reservation?' The friendly Thai man running AoSi asked us again. AoSi Bungalows is a beautiful resort with bamboo bungalows perfectly situated on the side of a cliff at the far end of a practically deserted beach with stunning views down the island. We were so excited when Daryl recommended it to us. The Resort is owned by a Scottish man, but he must have been on vacation (where do you go on vacation when you live on an island?) and wasn't around. 'Yes, we have a reservation for three nights. We talked on the phone to an actual person and confirmed.' The man's English wasn't fantastic and our Thai was even more useless. I got the impression that they weren't exactly expecting us. Who we had talked to on the phone remains a mystery. They only had the best of the best bungalows left. The most expensive, naturally. After much 'discussion' we ended up landing one of the 700 Baht bungalows for 500 Baht, and all was well. Until the clan of crazy monkeys started clambering all over our tin roof, screeching and competing for the Ultimate Fighting Championship (the monkey version) on our balcony at 6am the following morning. It was a barrel of monkeys...but not as fun as I remember the game to be...But, really, who can be mad at monkeys. Apparently people who have to put up with their antics every day can. 'The monkey jumped down from the tree, ran behind the bar, stole the big jar of sugar and took off with it!' a British couple informed us with glee when we went down to the patio for breakfast. 'That's the third jar this week,' the waiter grumbled.

Strangers in the Night

Knowing that it was the busy season down in the islands we reserved and then confirmed and then confirmed again our cheap sea view bungalow at Haad Graud Resort on Ko Phangan. We wanted to make sure that when we arrived at our second and final Thai Island that they would actually be expecting us. We saw our transport holding up the 'HAAD GRAUD' sign almost immediately after disembarking the ferry and sighed in relief. Our resort was at the other end of the Island, about ten kilometers away and we didn't fancy a five hour walk. We happily piled ourselves into the songtheaw and set off to our hammock clad balcony. The sun was low in the sky and the silhouetted palm trees were beginning to stand out against the purple and orange sky. We hadn't gone far when I spotted a tall, Polish looking guy on the side of the road. He looked familiar, but it was hard to tell in the low light. He looked up and caught my eye. We looked at each other for a fleeting moment before we both realized that we knew each other and his face broke out into the biggest smile I had seen in weeks. It was Banana, our Polish friend that we had met in the Cameron Highlands at out One Hundred Days celebration! It was Banana with a haircut, which explains why it took me a minute to realize who he was. He started waving frantically. I get overly excited when I see someone I know, just because it happens so seldomly. Plus, it made me feel super cool to be on a random island in Thailand and know somebody. Who am I? Jonathan? Anyways, another two guys stepped out of a store next to Banana and started waving at us as well. Was that Taylor too? Wow! Cool! We wanted to stop and find out where they were staying so we could meet up later, but how could we? Our driver was in the front of the truck, separated by a glass window, and he couldn't speak English anyways. Banana took a few strides towards the bus (He's really tall. A few strides got him quite far). 'Cheap?' he yelled. It was traveller code. He wanted to know if the place we were being shuttled to was cheap, and if they could come with us. I nodded enthusiastically and waved them over while Jonathan banged on the window, trying to get the driver to stop. The guys took off into a full run to catch up to where the truck finally pulled over. The driver got out, confused. We were jumping around all excited to have found each other, which made communicating more confusing for the poor driver, who I think at this point had started to fear for his safety. We asked if there were more cheap bungalows available. He quickly nodded and smiled, which in hindsight, he probably only did so that he could escape to the safety of his drivers seat and lock all us crazies in the truck bed. Of course, when we arrived at the resort a good twenty minutes later, in the dark, there weren't any cheap bungalows left for the guys at Haad Graud. But there was a room next door, so all was well again. After we had all claimed our respective beds we spent the evening catching up where we had left off in Malaysia. Banana, and Taylor had been travelling together since we had all met in the Highlands. There were a great number of tales between there and here. They had even picked up a third muskateer, Daniel, who is a Catalin photographer from Barcelona. The three of them were hilarious together. Banana and Taylor would be heading home soon, to Poland and the States, respectively, but it certainly wasn't stopping them from making the most out of their remaining days. It's not that interesting of a story, I know, but its a perfect example of life on the road. New people enter and impact your life everyday. You talk, share, laugh, learn. Sometimes, like in this case, you feel instantly connected. Sometimes you see them again, and sometimes you know you never will.

Flower Power

After our trek in the hills surrounding Chiang Mai we decided to hang around the city for a few days until the feeling returned to our calves, and to catch the flower festival that was scheduled for the weekend. It was hard to decipher exactly what the flower festival was celebrating, other than the sheer beauty of flowers, but heck, if flowers aren't reason enough to celebrate, what is? Information surrounding the festival was vague. We knew there would be a parade of sorts, which would probably somehow be flower-focused and that afterwards all the floats would be parked down in a park within the old walls for all to admire, and a bunch of food stalls, of course, to feed the masses. Flowers? Food? Sounded good. We walked towards the main street around 9am and found it lined with people. We figured that it was a good chance that we had found the parade route. Sure enough, a short while later we could see the parade approaching from a distance down the main street. 'It takes a long time for the parade to get from the river in the one end of town to the old town,' Our Irish guesthouse owner had warned us. 'Mostly because tourists are always jumping in front of the floats, stopping the parade to take photos.' Tourists! No way. I found that hard to believe. What kind of dumb, rude person would actually hold up the whole parade just for a photo? As the floats slowly made their way towards us, the answer became clear. Pretty much any tourist who could fight their way on to the road, did. And then they would stand there. Right in front of a float and snap away. Or, they would shove their child out onto the street, at the mercy of the moving float so that they could capture the 'kodak moment' when their little one was very nearly pummeled by a pretty flower float. Ahhh. How cute. Remember that time.. There was one mother who sent her child out in front of every SINGLE float. She didn't miss one. Really. What are you going to DO with fifty-seven photos of your ten year old self in front (or smushed under the wheels of) fifty-seven flower floats? Then there were the 'real' photographers who would run out into the street and literally shove the lens of their SLR into the faces of the traditionally dressed Thai people who were in the parade. The Thais took it all very graciously. They didn't even slap one person (that I saw).

Ridiculous toursits aside, the parade was actually quite impressive. Every centimeter of every float was covered in flowers. A florist could probably retire if they sold the number of orchids that were arranged on just one of these massive floats. The designs were so perfect and the colours so bright that I wouldn't have believed that everything was made out of real flowers if I hadn't seen the floats close up later that day. Every float was topped with beautiful Thai women waving and throwing flower petals, or ornately dressed couples, or, my favourite, a flower photo of the Thai king. A photo made of flowers, its true. They sure do love their king. There were flower bunnies (its the Chinese Year of the Rabbit), white flower elephants, flower pillars, flower geese, flowers in everyone's hair. Flowers, flowers flowers! Near the end of the parade young, beautiful Thai women holding baskets of flowers and with a few hundred dollars worth of orchids in their hair strolled down the middle of the street under umbrellas that were held by their doting partners. A hush fell over the crowd as they passed. Their presence was undeniably distracting. It demanded attention. They were slender but womanly, with sparkling eyes and bright smiles. They were feminine, graceful and absolutely stunning. Like Sarah on her Wedding Day. That's right. Now that I think about it, they probably took lessons from Sarah! Smart. Rows and rows of men lining the street blushed when they smiled in their direction. Wow. Good work, Mrs. Towle.

Whitening

It was bound to happen sooner or later. We ran out of sunscreen. Not only is sunscreen crazy expensive in relation to everything else in Thailand, but there are also only minimal flavour selection. Choices include: whitening or whitening. Yes, it's true that I don't want to get all red and sunburnt, but I also wasn't hoping to get even more pastey white! I went into beauty supply store in Chiang Mai and was absolutely overwhelmed by the number of products and unnaturally pale cardboard cutout women that accompanied them, that promised to strip your skin of any natural pigment and leave you nice and translucent. Of course, this is not how its advertised. 'White is beautiful!' Every product had 'white' on it somewhere, which led me to wonder how many of the bottles actually contained something that would whiten your skin or if it had become more like how they write 'lite' on all the food products in the US. But really. People spend money on this.

We were at a canyon in Pai a few days later. It was scorching. We hiked up the steep hill to get to the top and were greeted by a tiny Thai woman wearing jeans, a hoodie, a BALAKLAVA(!) and the huge bug eye sunglasses that would rival those in Hollywood. I don't think a single I looked at myself in a sundress and sweating. 'Aren't you hot?' I asked her. 'Well, kinda. But I own a beauty store and if I don't cover up, no one will buy my products, because they won't believe that they work.' Fair enough. But nuts. Just like how they, no doubt, think we are off our rockers lying out in the blazing heat roasting like peanuts. Just an observation.


Your Mini Thai Language Lesson

Try out these simple phrases next time you are at your favourite Thai restaurant. I bet the Thai staff would love it! Out of politeness, you finish most phrases with 'kaaaa' if you are a woman and 'kab' if you are a man. The kaaa is dragged out, as the number of a's suggests. Of course these may not be exactly how someone fluent in Thai would spell it out, but it's what has worked for us this month.

Try it! It's fun!

Hello: Sa-wat-dee kaa/kab Pronounced: Sa wat deeeee kaaaaaa/kab
Thank You: Korp Kune kaa/kab Pronouned: the same as it looks
Very delicious!: Alloy Mac! (alloy is the delicious and mac is the very)
Beautiful: Sue-oi
Spicy: Pedd
Not Spicey: mai Pedd
Delicious Thai Iced Tea: Chai yin
Yes: Chai
No: Mai Chai

And just for fun: Rice is 'cow', Chicken is 'guy' and pork is 'moo'

Behind the Scenes Bali

Lovina, the town in Northern Bali we were staying in turned out to be a great choice. Although the beach wasn't that spectacular, consisting of black volcanic sand, garbage and a plethora of locals pushing sarongs and bracelets, the surrounding region was perfect for biking, and the pool at our hotel, convenient for relaxing. Plus, we had found a great travel companion in Sandra, and a lively market filled with exotic fruit to sample.

The highlight of Lovina, though, had to be the Galungan Festival that we had the pleasure of witnessing, and dare I say, taking part in. We had just come from the market on the Saturday and our backpacks were overflowing with rambertants, bananas, snake fruit, mango, avocado, mandarins and temple cake (I didn't know what 'temple cake' was, but the name had the word 'cake' in it, so obviously I had to give it a taste... for blog purposes, of course). We were headed back to relax in the pool when we heard the sweet sound of live Balinese music. Being the inquisitive type, we followed the chimes down an ally to a carved stone entrance of a private home (more like compound though, with many rooms and different outdoor spaces). We lurked at the entrance surreptitiously, peering around the stone at the scene. The music was indeed coming from a huge Balinese orchestra. At least 20 xylophone-type instruments were set up, along with large bongos and chimes. Behind each instrument was a man, all of different ages, in a bright red outfit and coordinated headdress. They were very talented and it sounded wonderfully festive. Women mingled about in gorgeous, detailed dress shirts and silky sarongs and beautiful children ran a muck. The teenagers fiddled with their cell phones, the only indication that we were experiencing a traditional ceremony in a painfully modern world. In the back of the compound we could see a family temple filled with so much fancy food for offerings the lot of them could have eaten for a month. Bright yellow umbrellas were set up to shade various seats and statues. Yellow was the liturgical colour of the festival. The Hindu priest was in the temple chanting over the loud speaker and swaying incense over the offerings in a complicated, time consuming ritual. The smell of incense filled our nostrils. And then, the most amazing thing happened. They smiled and waved us into their home! They invited us creepy lurkers into their family festival! We bowed our heads and snuck past the band to chairs the men who weren't occupied by instruments set up for us. Almost immediately an absolutely stunning young woman approached and asked if we wanted tea, coffee or water. Not wanting to be more intrusive than we already were, we declined. She sat down to talk to us, the nosy tourists. Not that she said that. She, and the rest of her family, particularly her father seemed to be pretty excited about our arrival. Her name is Yani. Yani spoke perfect English. She had returned less than a month ago from Club Med in the Maldives where she worked in the spa. She was gracious and generous. She explained that we had stepped into her family's celebration of one of the most important Festivals in Bali. Like Christmas or Thanksgiving, the whole extended family, along with neighbours, and family friends gather for this day-long celebration that includes music, offerings, a procession to the beach, dancing and, the crowd favourite, eating. Her aunts had been preparing food for days, Yani explained. Sound familiar? There was even a professional looking poster on the wall outlining the day's schedule!

Yani welcomed us to take photos. We didn't need to be asked twice. Yani's father sure didn't waste time taking pictures of us pastie, sweaty Westerners fumbling about awkwardly amidst his family. With a bright pink neon Canon, I might add, which I can only assume is Yani's. (This is the first camera I have seen, not around the neck of a tourist). 'The procession is starting' Yani told us, 'You will get better photos from
the Temple entrance.' We, of course, couldn't enter the temple without a sarong, but we were welcome to get as close as we wanted. And this is how we found ourselves smack dab in the middle of one of the most amazing travel experiences we have ever had. Everyone wanted to talk to us. Regardless of how little English they spoke and how non-existent our Indonesian was. They smiled graciously as we photographed them exiting the temple with exquisitely arranged fruit towers on their heads, baskets overflowing with offerings and piles of neon coloured temple cakes. Its hard to say but I can't imagine too many Canadian families welcoming a Nikon touting Japanese family in for Christmas dinner. 'Ya, sure come on in! Hey, here's an idea! Why don't you snap some photos of me stuffing my face with mashed potatoes! I'll be sure to dribble some gravy down my chin to make your photo a little more interesting to your friends back home in Tokyo! The kids lurked shyly around our cameras, not quite understanding how the magic worked. I would ask them if I could take their photo and they would nod and then smile apprehensively as I brought the camera to my face. Then, I would show them the photo on the LCD and they would giggle, point and talk excitedly in Indonesian to one another. The atmosphere was magical. The music chimed away, the incense burned sweet and the priest chanted. I look around absolutely flabbergasted.' THIS is what it is all about, was all I can think. This, right here, is WHY we travel. To experience other people, learn about other cultures, and like in this instance, when we are lucky enough to be invited in. When the musicians took a break to eat, the young boys took to the instruments. They smiled like kids on Christmas morning as they hammered away on the keys and banged furiously at the drums. 'This is how they learn,' explains Yani's dad, 'Now, come eat!' At first, we declined the offer, but Yani comes around and is persistent. 'We make all this food for everyone. Please.' Yani is someone who, I can imagine, could sell ice to Eskimos, or some other equivalent saying. Honestly, she is too beautiful to deny. Once we realized that saying 'no, thanks, really, we just ate' isn't an option anymore, we followed Yani into a courtyard where a huge buffet table had been setup, and is overflowing with food. Unfortunately for us, the theme of the meal was pork. Since everyone had pretty much already eaten, the vegetables left were sparse. We almost wish we ate pork, because they had so generously offered it to us. Plus, everything smelled divine. I scooped some rice onto my plate and spooned the only green thing on the table on top of the rice. Yani's eyes widened as piled on the second heaping tablespoon of the veggies. 'Ohhhhh those are pure chillis!! She said! They are very hot! You only need one!' I looked down at my practically equal portions of white and green. 'Oh,' I said as my face turned red and everyone around laughed good naturedly at me. You just can't take me anywhere. Afterward everyone was very concerned that I make sure I wash well after eating all those chillis with my hands. I had scooped most of them off, but my mouth was still on fire. Anyone who has touched chilis and then touched their eyes or nose knows that this is a painful idea. Sandra said that the pork dishes were fantastically delicious, for all you pork fanatics out there.

The family's welcome was overwhelmingly warm. Everyone wanted to know where we came from, where we were going and if we liked Bali. They wanted to know if we like Balinese food, which Indonesian words we could speak, why I wasn't pregnant (since we were married and all) and if we, along with our yet-to-be conceived 'son' would be coming back to Bali next year.

After a beautifully organized procession out of the temple, set to lively music, the whole crew, in a surprisingly orderly fashion, was headed down to the beach. And so were we. This was probably one of the most interesting parts of the whole event. Watching as these people, not armed with any weapons, managed to take over an entire half of the chaotic city street and continue to process down in place of the traffic, with little resistance from the endless motorbikes, taxis and SUVs. We had had problems simply trying to cross the street, let alone blocking an entire lane. We picked our chins off the floor, after a moment in awe of the impressiveness of this feat and scampered to catch up. Knowing our only chance of survival was to stay in the pack, we kept close.

When we got to the beach the musicians played a more simple version of their songs with smaller, mobile instruments as the offerings were organized on the beach. This was followed by more chanting and incense. It looked exhausting, both physically and mentally. The large group listened carefully to the priest for his cues and would then bring their hands to their foreheads in prayer. 'We are very tired,' Yani told us when we caught up with her afterwards to say our thank-yous. 'We will go back to the house, the children will dance and then we will relax until the big ceremony in the community temple tonight.' So all this was just the pre-ceremony ceremony! These people know how to have a festival!

Being a guest is tiring, so we decided we deserved a break too. As did our cameras. We headed back to our hotel for some pool time. We had big plans that night as well that we wanted to be rested up for. Saturday night and the air is getting hot... Saturday night! Saturday night! Like in Dance Mix 1990? Sorry, anyways. We had been chatting with Komang, our super friendly breakfast/all day waitress the previous evening while sipping Bintang (Indonesian Beer) at the swim-up bar. Rough, I know. She had been telling us all about this festival and invited us to go to her neighbourhood temple that night for the 'big' celebration. This festival seems, big, bigger and biggest. I may have to invest in a thesaurus to describe the levels of 'big' around here. Komang made a list and counted it out on her fingers to us. 1. 'You need sarong, so you can go in temple: I will get for you, good local price. I will bring to you.' 2. 'You need shirt' (proper Balinese dress shirt) 'and...' she motioned around her waist (sash, she meant). You can borrow mine. I will tell my husband to bring them!' Turns out husbands are commissioned, without even having to be present, let alone agree, to do their wive's bidding 'round the world. See, Jonathan, its not just me! Comforting. 3. 'You come here (the pool) at 6 and my husband will take you there one by one on our motorbike. Don't late! You see dancing!' She smiled, satisfied with her plan. I hoped her husband was as keen as Komang was. Komang delivered our hand-picked sarongs to our rooms a few hours later along with a pile of her own dress shirts and scarves to choose from. I felt like Cinderella and my fairy godmother Komang had come to the rescue and made sure we were properly gussied up for the ball. When Sandra and I finally had our dress shirts done up, and arranged around our sarongs, Komang helped tie the sashes around our waists in the just the right place with just the right knot. Komang fussed around us like a mother whose daughters were going to prom. 'There! Now you look like Balinese women! she finally exclaimed proudly when every detail had been tended to. 'Come! Come!' Komang hurried us out the back door of the hotel and along the beach, over a bridge and past a deserted, overgrown lot to a massive rusted iron gate that led back on the main road. We couldn't use the front door for some reason. I guess maybe the hotel owner doesn't want staff whisking the guests away...kinda like this? It turned out that Komang's husband, Ketut, was the gardener at the hotel. Ketut wasn't a man of many words, unlike his wife, but he had a great smile and made an effort to be very friendly despite his lack of English vocabulary. 'Mitta Jonaton! You're number one'! Komang commanded. 'You go now, one by one.' So, my husband, Mitta Jonaton, hopped on the back of the motorbike with Ketut, without a helmet, and with a worried grimace from Jonathan they drove off down the road. A fleeting moment of terror seized me, as it usually does when we are doing something so far out of our comfort zone. Are we crazy to just trust this lady and man, whom we've known for about 12 hours and 23 seconds, respectively? What if we are those dumb people in those horror movies who are just about to open that door into the dark room, where you know a killer is awaiting them, and you are thinking: 'You are SO dumb! Obviously you are going to die! It is SO clear!! Dumb! Go Back!' But they stupidly go in anyways... I panic (on the inside) for a second or two. Where is my husband really going? Will he be ok? Why are we hiding just off the main road, behind a gate, just out of view of everyone on the main street? Worst case scenarios flash through my head. Then I get a grip. Good thing too, because Ketut is now back for me, designated 'number two' by Komang.

Most women, the sophisticated kind, sit gracefully on the back of the motorbikes with their legs both hanging over one side, crossed at the ankles, perfectly balanced, not holding on to anything, and usually balancing something, like a baby or basket in their arms. This is most women. Not me. I am a klutz with zero balance. Attempting to be lady like in a time like this will most certainly result in one of those creative 'worst case scenarios' I had just banished from my head. First, there are no helmets. I would not dream of getting on a motorbike at home without a helmet! It's unheard of! I fall off bicycles that are stopped and end up bleeding from every limb. And so, against my better judgment, I swing a leg over the bike, despite the fact that I am wearing a sarong, slide up close to my chauffeur and wrap my arms tightly around a man I don't know, wearing a maroon 'Harvard University' t-shirt. Isn't that how all adventures start anyhow?

'Is this first time in Bali?' he yells over the street noise. 'Its my first time on a motorbike!' I yell in response. He turns his head around, taking his eyes off the oncoming traffic. 'Really!?' he laughs. The world is flying by now, only I can't see it, because my eyes are squeezed shut. This is technically a lie. I was on a motorcycle once with my good friend Aaron. However, I don't think that counts, under these circumstances. First, we were in Canada, wearing helmets, there are rules on the road in Canada and most people at least attempt to stay in their own lanes. I could actually communicate, in English, with Aaron and he is fully aware that I am a klutzy, so he went pretty slow. Plus, I trust Aaron. When I finally worked up the courage to open my eyes, I was pleasantly surprised to realize that a. I was still alive, b. the rice fields and passing landscape were beautiful and c. it maybe wasn't as terrifying as I had imagined. Ketut delivered me safe and sound to Jonathan and soon, Sandra was dropped off at the step of the temple with us. We wandered onto the grounds of the temple and were greeted warmly by the community. They loved that we were dressed traditionally. We stood outside the short stone wall and watched from a distance. Directly in front of us was the band, even larger than the band at Yani's family temple. The men were playing when we arrived, but the children and then women would all take turns providing the music. The grounds of the open air temple were full of people. It was a sea of white, with a splash of bright colours. The colour of the festival was yellow, and that was prominent. The entire event was outdoors. It looked as though people entered the actual service through a side room. When the space surrounding the actual temple was full, the priest would start chanting and the people would follow along making their offerings at appropriate intervals, bowing their heads when called and then finally being sprinkled with water and having their foreheads marked with rice. When that particular service was complete the people would file out to the open grounds where there was a carnival-feel gathering (minus the rides, of course) and more people would file in the side entrance for the service to repeat again. The temple itself was absolutely piled with offerings. Layer after layer of palm bowls overflowing with rice, cakes, cookies and flowers. Once we got the hang of the order we allowed ourselves to be led to the side entrance of the temple. I was a little nervous. Was it actually ok to just walk in there? Would people think we were being rude or offensive? We walked up the steps and through the narrow stone passage into the side room. There was a group of men standing there. They happily shouted greetings and welcomed us into the temple by splashing water on our heads with a palm leaf. 'Go in! Go in!' They said. So we did. The grass surrounding the temple was pretty much full when we arrived. Everyone was sitting on the ground chatting away
enthusiastically. It felt as though a hush fell over all 1,000 people when we started to work our way through the crowd in search of somewhere to sit. I'm sure that isn't really how it went, but most certainly the chatter would stop as we walked by and everyone would stare after us. I give the people credit though, when we smiled and said 'Hello,' they recovered super quick and smiled back genuinely. I think it was just a little surprising to see out-of-towners all dressed up in the proper garb. We found a scrap of grass under a tree and sat cross-legged on the damp ground. A group of young boys sitting near by thought that this was great. They started laughing and whispering and practicing their English on us. 'Hello! How are you? What is your name? Where are you going? Do you need a taxi? Cheap price.' haha ok, not the taxi part. I looked around. No one else had sandals on! Where did they put them? Did we miss the sandal drop off at the gate. Great, we had only been in the temple 30 seconds and we already screwed up! A family came in and sat beside us. I watched as they removed their sandals and sat on top of them. Genius! Saves the damp butt! We quickly followed suit. The priest signalled the start of the ceremony with chanting and we looked around, feeling pretty helpless. A beautiful young girl who sat beside me took pity. 'I'm Mega,' she said, moving her palm bowl in between us, 'We can
share.' At the same time, her father turned back towards Jonathan and did the same. The small bowl was full of various flower petals. Mega passed me the appropriate petal at the appropriate time. I held the hydrangea petal between my index fingers, as she did, put my hands together in a prayer-like position and brought my thumbs to my forehead, mirroring Mega'a actions. We followed the same routine with the different petals. In between the moments of silence Mega attempted to teach me some Indonesian phrases. Little did she know she would have had better luck with a deaf donkey. Everything she said, I repeated, and then the words slipped out of my head and were lost forever. She certainly did try her hardest though, poor thing. The priest came by with the holy water. I watched as he poured the water into Mega's awaiting hands, which she immediately brought to her head and smoothed it onto her hair, one, two, three, four times. The final time the priest put water into her hands she brought the water to her mouth instead. Then the priest's assistant took sticky rice from a bowl and used his thumb to press the rice into Mega's bare forehead. He turned to me, grinning from ear to ear and chuckled, 'Ok!' he said, confirming that he would allow me to be entertainment for the surrounding locals as I fumbled through the ritual I had just witnesses Mega conduct with such grace. I held out my hands and he poured water into them, one, two three, four times. I sipped the last of the water from my hands and smiled gaily as my forehead was adorned with the rice. Mega nodded in approval. 'I'm sorry I don't speak more English' Mega said to me, like she had let me down by not brushing up on her skills for our meeting. I laughed. Such an Bali thing to do. To apologize for not speaking your language when you are the one who has come to their country only able to say 'Hello' and 'Thank You.' 'I'm sorry I don't speak more Indonesian,' I replied. 'It's ok,' she said, 'Next time.' That's the other thing about the Balinese. They always want to know when you will be back, because they know you will be.

We had strict instructions from Komang to meet her at the beach in front of the temple at 8pm sharp. She was getting off work at the hotel at 7 and was going to go home and change before meeting up with us. We found a small stage by the beach where young girls, all decked out in brilliantly coloured costumes were performing traditional Balinese dances. They were so little, but moved with such precision and grace. Balinese dance focuses on small, precise movements. Their fingers pulse with the beat and their eyes look side to side sharply. It is unlike any dance I have seen before and is completely consuming for the onlookers. Komang found us standing at the edge of the stage, entranced. How did she find us among the hundreds of other people there? She just started asking random people where the 'ones from far away' were and every single person was able to point her in our direction. I guess our presence didn't go unnoticed. Maybe we stood out a little bit? 'Lets go back to my place for dinner. I sent Ketut out to pick up food.' Umm what? Now she was gong to feed us? It felt like too much. We protested. 'Food is a gift from the gods,' she said, 'We share.' End of discussion.

We made our way back to Komang and Ketut's house in an entertaining combination of walking and taking turns on the back of various motorbikes belonging to various helpful neighbours. We sat outside on the raised platform of an open-air gazebo. Komang brought out a heaping bowl of rice and multiple paper wrapped packages containing delicious vegetarian dishes and fried chicken. The grease seeped through the edges of the packets hinting at the bad-for-you-but-oh-so-tastey food inside. We ate, sitting crosslegged on the cool bamboo, using our hands as shovels. It was absolutely scrumptious. Turns out Balinese ceremonies make you hungry. Komang and Ketut were so so generous, especially considering how little they had. Komang and Ketut are around 40 years old (between both of them we were given a total of four different ages that they thought they were). They have four children; three boys and a girl. The two oldest boys live in Denpasar with her sister-in-law. Ketut's sister was unable to have children, so Komang gave her and her husband two of their boys. A young boy, about 4 and a teenage daughter still live at home. Komang makes about $60CDN a month (she is the highest paid waitress at the hotel) and Ketut makes about $40. They work between six and seven days a week. Komang is usually at the hotel at 7am. She goes home around noon and returns at 3pm staying until she is no longer needed, sometimes as late as 10 or 11pm. It costs about $10CDN a month for the kids to go to school. Life isn't super easy, as you can imagine, but they are happy. It started to rain as Komang insisted that she drive us 'one by one' back to the hotel on the scooter. It was only about 2km, but felt like longer with the rain shooting like pins into my face as we sped down the street. It was about 10pm by the time we were all safe and sound back at the hotel. By the time we wandered to the restaurant the next morning around 8am, Komang was already there, ready, waiting and willing to serve us our breakfast with a smile. It was rather overwhelming. In a surreal way. A type of generosity which I had never really experienced before. Almost too much without wanting anything in return. It felt a little weird. We had already planned to give Komang some money for all she had done for us, in particular to cover the money she'd spent, but it still seemed as if
we were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

We really do feel as though we met amazing, resilient and incredibly generous people in Lovina, especially in Komang and Ketut. I fully believe that their generosity was genuine and fueled by real kindness and without expectation. At the end of the day, however, Komang and Ketut are poor. At breakfast the next morning, Komang said that, we didn't have to, but if we wanted to help her, her family would really appreciate if we
donated money to them. She wrote the amount that us and Sandra could give her on a piece of paper and left it with us. She said her 'water machine' had just broken and she could use the money to fix it. She was sick and wanted to go to the doctor to get some medication. She said she felt bad asking for money, and wished she didn't have to. She said she wouldn't, if they didn't need it. In total she asked for nearly the half of what her and Ketut would net in one month of working.

The whole thing was really distressing for Jonathan and myself. It wasn't the money itself: what she asked for wasn't exactly our life savings. The essence of travel is about sharing. You share cultures, customs and languages: yourself. It's about opening yourself up and striving to create an economy of generosity and sharing between yourself and the people you meet, travelers and locals alike. Its a delicate give and take relationship between traveler and traveler and traveler and local. At the same time, it is unfair to all parties involved to ignore that crossing the subtle yet real line from responsible traveller, aware and honest with yourself that the decisions you make as a traveller do actually have consequences--not always foreseeable ones--with real people living real lives, to short sighted foreigner, unconcerned that frivolity and, ultimately, the refusing to view the framework of the other person's life with seriousness has the potential to create damaging long term effects and unnecessary troubles, social and otherwise, down the road. Of course, the very openendedness and even the vulnerability inherent to acts of kindness and generosity leave ample room for gross misinterpretation and manipulative response. That can't be avoided. But while you don't want to set or nurture an unhealthy and unhelpful precedent, you still trust and hope that the interest and kindness you exchange with one another flows out of a genuine and reciprocated desire to relate and not out of some masked expectation for anything other than friendship. It's hard. You may be reading this thinking how ridiculous it even was for us to have a second thought about donating such a minuscule amount to someone who could obviously use it. It's more complicated, though. The money she asked for, wasn't a small amount for her. Relatively, it wasn't even a small amount for us: it was more than the cost of two nights accommodation for us in Bali. It's not fair to Komang or future travellers to fuel the already rampant idea that foreigners are all rich and hand out money willingly, and for nothing. Also there is the idea that because foreign visitors have 'overflowing wallets' they therefore have a responsibility to give their money to the locals. Everyone can't be expected to give their money to every local, and every local can't rely on hand-outs because it would have a dreadfully negative effect on their society. Where is the line? Believe me, it's hard not to be the bleeding heart when you see people who look like they need so much, especially when really, you have so much you can give. Is money what they really need? Yes, no, maybe, money and....? In the end, after much discussion, right or wrong, we gave Komang less money than she had asked for, but a bit more than the sum we were originally thinking of giving in thanks. We wanted to make sure that we fully covered any money that Komang and Ketut had spent on us with the food and fuel. And we really did appreciate what they had done for us. But then, were we paying for their company? The whole situation still leaves an awkward taste in my mouth. I certainly don't want to leave the impression that Komang was only nice because she was motivated by money. I also don't want to leave the impression that we are cold to the needs of those less fortunate and so stingy that we don't see the benefit of giving money to people who have so little, when we have so much. Man, the world is complicated.

Indonesian Fact: Bali is the only one of Indonesia`s Islands on which the majority of the people are Hindu. The rest of the islands have a Muslim majority.

Comment on Comments: We absolutely LOVE your comments. It`s the first thing we check when we get a hold of some internet. Comments remind us that people actually read our blog. This is nice to know. Feel free to add questions, comments, concerns or requests and we can respond to them in our next entry. Comment on!