a visa run around

There was a plan and it was good. Then there was a most unexpected incident and the itinerary went spiralling into oblivion, washed away by my tears. I had to dig very deep to accept the reality of the present and release my attachment to the outcome I had envisaged. Our highly anticipated trip to Yunnan province in China was foiled by a single sentence from the smiling immigration secretary at the Chinese embassy in Jakarta.

Do you have your KITAS? (a working visa for Indonesia). 

With a surprised stare we answered no. No KITAS, no Chinese visa. Next please.

The embassy had recently changed the rule, and we were going by the email I had received earlier when a passport and driver's license was all one required. No visa, no China, do not pass go…

In shock, we laughed, I cried and we regrouped with a strong coffee and discussed our options. We had to leave Indonesia the following day as our visa stipulated, so would take the booked flight to Kuala Lumpur. From there we had no plan.

Our Air Asia flights to China were non-rerouteable and non-refundable, a generous donation to their profit, and to book a last minute flight from KL to Bali was cost prohibitive. We are both averse to cities, traffic and noise - the very essence of our time in Jakarta - so were not about to immerse ourselves in the agony of central KL. I had visited Melaka, in the south-west of Malaysia, as a backpacker in 1997 and remembered it fondly. The old town has been UNESCO World Heritage Listed,and with a direct bus link from the airport, we had ourselves a destination.  With a large Chinese population, traditional shophouse architecture and green tea, we could squint and pretend we were in Yunnan, minus the mountains, yaks and snow, but with the added bonus of authentic and ridiculously cheap Indian food. 

One week after leaving our island home we were back, our unused thermals still in the bottom of the bag. We both picked up a horrid flu from excessive exposure to open mouthed coughs and snorts on every mode of transport. My birthday was spent in bed rather than at the foot of a glacier in a Tibetan home stay, and my surprise dinner postponed. Aquaman took it all in his gentle stride, proving he is just that little bit more enlightened than most (or at least me).

Yunnan, you will keep. I have a well thought out itinerary for anyone interested. Wherever you go, there you are.

goodbye pizza, hello papaya

After a six week stint of macchiato, vegan pizza and art study in Italy, I am back on the beach with my toes wiggling happily in the sand and my arms rejoicing the daily lagoon swims.  If you don't already, you can follow my Italian journey, and other off-island activities on my Treacle blog here.  Good for those times when you are overcome with my palm tree gazing activities or Aquaman's barrel riding prestige. 

It was a long haul from Madrid via Hong Kong and Jakarta to the City of Dreams, where I was able to catch a few horizontal hours sleep before the ferry ride home to my hubby. What a blissful moment.  He was very patient with my first three days of travel stories and nightly slide shows. Now I'm back in the groove of the simple life with updates to share from the latest island activities, so blend up a green smoothie or pack the moka pot, it's blog time. 

the city of dreams

I'll be honest, Kupang is one of my least favourite destinations, and certainly one I aim to pass through with haste. It is the sandpaper for patience and tolerance that bookends my simple island existence. As if knowing how eager I am to get home to our beach shack and the arms of Aquaman, the universe has conspired to grant me 48 hours in the City of Dreams. 

Awoken at 4am by the ululating call to prayer (a rather inconsiderate notion in this predominantly Christian city), I snatched a few minutes sleep before the alarm at 5am.  I had news that the ferry was cancelled due to rough seas, so I took the chance of standby on the 7am flight. I wasn't alone in this mission, and by 8am, 31 names were on the list, and we had amassed quite the party in the small airline office. Ideas of chartering an oversized canoe, twin prop plane or helicopter were bandied around as we waited for news of a possible second flight (after it was established by all how unfortunate I am to not have children).  Four hours later my heart sank with the news there would be no flight, canoe or magic carpet and I returned to room 303.  The Sasando International Hotel was once a luxurious abode in this city of overpriced, worn and totally shit accommodation (and is still one of the better options). The citizens do not embrace maintenance, and the scene evokes a war weary city, with the only redeeming quality being the nightly food market.

I took the risk of death by chlorination and snot in the hotel pool, and was relieved my bather clad self did not elicit whistles, screams and photos, as happens when I walk alone through town. It was quite pleasant sunning on the broken pavers with a magazine, however I baulked from a second swim after witnessing the amount of deep throat mucus exhumed into the water.

To end on a more positive vibe, the hotel has free wi-fi, expansive ocean views and the staff kindly allow me to sit in the deserted dining room with my papaya and laptop. Should I be overcome with a need to fold in prayer (or despair?) toward Mecca, they have thoughtfully spray painted the directional arrow on the ceiling of my room. 

One more sleep and season 2012 begins. 

Are you ready?

If you are hankering for more photos of this captivating capital, have a look at this post from last year. 

the last leg

The cost of our hotel room includes breakfast. 

They fry up the eggs and leave them on the table for the flies to investigate.

Even if I ate eggs, I would have to pass up these cold, fried, rubbery numbers. 

Our days of hauling gear onto the ferry in a stance again exorbitant porter fees are over.  For years we refused to pay the sharks and would negotiate the narrow gang plank with boxes, boards and packs, fighting against the crowd and getting duly frustrated in the process.  This time we swallowed the price and watched from the shade as our gear was loaded into the belly of the ferry. 

 

After a smooth hour crossing the Straits of Death we step onto the dock and start about haggling a price for our gear to be unloaded.  Each trip we swear we will travel light next time, but in hindsight  having ten kilos of dates, five kilos of rolled oats and the luxury of lentils is worth the portage.  Two more hours and we are home.  What will be awaiting us after the wettest season in years?

paris of the east

The capital of East Nusa Tengarra is not even remotely like Paris, unless perhaps you are on acid and imagining Europe during the bombing raids.  It is a noisy, grotty, weathered city, and unavoidable on our journey home.  The irony of the enforced overnight stay is that it goes a way toward keeping our island home that little bit further from the world of Bintang singlets.

The taxi driver is not impressed with the extra stop at cargo to pick up our blinds, but another folded blue note lifts his spirits.  Waiting for the Garuda flight to arrive, we have a lunch of rice, green beans and iced tea.  In four hours I've gone from a soy latte and sourdough toast at Sea Circus, to a warung in a tin shed surrounded by a barbed wire fence. Mine is nothing less than a life of contrasts.

There is the odd expat male that likes the city, and I'll be frank here, it does have cheap women, cold beer and fresh seafood.  I dread arriving and anticipate leaving, spending most of the time in a slightly detached state of being, trying not to analyze too much, look too closely, or dream of Paris.  Cracked tiled walls, sheetless beds with rugs that have a questionable washing history, and mustard polyester curtains do little for a fragile female libido, and in ten years, the hit rate of success in a Kupang hotel is zero.  

The city's main redeeming feature and a must-do on every visit, is dinner at the night markets.  They are the heart any south-east Asian experience, where you pull up a plastic stool under a cold fluorescent light and devour a plate of gado-gado, or grilled tempeh with rice and firey chilli for less than $1.

The shopping strip hits fever pitch on sundown, and music thumps from the bemos as they lap the streets competing for coolest wagon on the beat. This is a mostly Christian city, and it is ironic that it is the Muslim women peddling underwear on the footpath. While Tom fancied the Superman jocks, we passed by in search of a battery charger and part for the blender.