Beanland Diary - Bulan Madu

Dear Readers,

A hearty selamat pagi from Paradise, Indonesia. Yes it's true, your faithful correspondent has again head-faked, side-stepped, and rolled right past the real world for some more exploration of exotic lands.

We arrived in Indonesia only days ago and, with the stamps in our passports barely dry and our jet lag still fresh, we plotted a course straight to the Gili islands. The Gilis are three tiny specks of dry land arranged like little tic tacs in the middle of the sprawling Indonesian archipelago. And when I say tiny, I mean tiny. An hour is more than enough time for a leisurely walk around the circumference of the entire island. An hour is also enough time to realize that you should have put on stronger sunblock before the walk. Direct equatorial sun burns quickly, especially after a year of cube-dwelling.

The islands - Gili Meno, Gili Trawangan, and Gili Air – have taken a development trajectory that has made them the perfect place to completely chill out. There are no motor vehicles on the islands, or paved roads for that matter. A refreshing change. Your options for transport on the island are either flip flops or horse-drawn cart, not that you're expected to go anywhere.

The Gilis have, happily, adopted other interdependent technologies crucial to your correspondent's prolonged relaxation. For example, electricity has been installed. Refrigerators have been brought ashore and they are kept running with this electricity. And these refrigerators are stocked with case upon case of ice-cold Bintang beer. This is certainly what Francis Fukuyama means by "sequential strategic development."

An important note, before getting further into the greater Indonesian adventure. You'll notice in this dispatch, and going forward, an occasional change in authorial voice from the familiar "I" to a plural "we". "We" indicates the company of the lovely and frugal Ms. Laurence W, my wife of one week. Wait, is this what I think it is? Yes, dear readers, I have invited you along to share in the (selected) adventures of our honeymoon. I hope you appreciate that.

Laurence is actually known to the non-Francophone of us by her handy nickname, Lou. Feel free to call her Laurence if you want to practice your French accent. Feel free to call her Larry if you want to get kneed in the mangosteens.

Regular Beanland readers should rest assured that Lou is a seasoned traveler and as such will enrich your reading experience. In fact, Lou and I have already traveled together quite a bit during the last few years, although not thus far chronicled in these annals.

A new adventure starts like this: We pick a destination based on dozens of relevant questions. Is it monsoon season in that country? Have we just seen a Discovery Channel special about the curious mammals of that country? Has there recently been a currency crisis making goods and services seem abnormally cheap in that country? It's a complicated and not very scientific selection process, but eventually we agree on our spot.

Then, I begin learning the basic phrases in the local language while Lou flips back-and-forth through the Lonely Planet, making tiny pencil notes in a tiny red notebook. These notes later serve as the "materia prima" for our eventual itinerary, which is never planned further than 48 hours in advance. A few vaccination boosters later, and we're on our way.

Once in-country, she is the negotiator and I am the calculator. She approaches all vendors with the deep suspicion that we are getting ripped off. She is tenacious and can work a seasoned market vendor or a capital city cab driver down to a fraction of their original price. I stand a few paces behind observing the exchange and smiling somewhat uncomfortably. I am responsible only for providing currency conversions.

In the gastronomic realm, Lou is fearless in spite of the unanimous consensus of doctors, guide books, and the CDC on what a Westerner should and should not eat in the developing world. Whether in a bus station in central Turkey or a back alley in Hanoi, she will find some kind of foil-wrapped, grease-laden food of dubious hygienic quality. The purveyors of this haute cuisine are usually barefoot and toothless old women. Returning with her meal and a smile of satisfaction, Lou is unable to actually pronounce the name of the dish or identify the majority of its ingredients. For her, this is part of the fun. I am responsible for bringing the antibiotics.

OK, that's probably enough about Lou or this might not turn out to be a honeymoon after all. Stay tuned for more adventures, but for now it's back to Bintang, back to beach, back to bananas.

Atentamente,
Your correspondent