Even without a major catastrophe and threat of death, Rinjani was a real asshole. I found the going slow, the pace grueling. Although the volcano is described as such in the tourist literature, I had hoped to fare better. The reviews are often written with the lowest common denominator in mind. I aspired to be farther along on the bell curve. Nuh-uh. My ego likes to think I wasn’t at a hundred percent. It began with a fever which I’d hope to quell with 800mg of ibuprofen. Nuh-uh. Fatigue set in early on, at a much lower… 

Destination? Democracy, bitches. I experienced polling station ping pong as I was ferried from one voting depot to another (eight in all). My celebrity status mushroomed, almost atomically one might say. I wasn’t just the center of attention, I was a major distraction, much to the chagrin of polling agents. Pretty sure I made official government-types nervous. Snapping a shitload of photos didn’t help. Voters, on the other hand, were loving it—saying hello, smiling incessantly, demanding I include them. And yet…

The view from the caldera’s edge was spectacular. Sulfur vents billowing fumes beside a turquoise lake as wind wisped smoke above the water, skimming the surface. It was not time to linger. Not then. Not there. Miners were busy carrying sulfur from the hill bottom near the water and tourists were trickling up. I hastened toward the crater’s western border and left everyone behind. I reckoned the farther I went along the rim, the less likely anyone would follow. I was right.

There was a chill from the wind lapping at my face, but this only invigorated me and was little match for the warming sun rays bombarding the scene.

We had a delightful discussion on the proper context and usage of “Kiss my ass!” I felt a special responsibility not to corrupt Indonesia’s youth, but they were already throwing it around with reckless abandon. Guidance was my only gift and came in the form of explicit instructions for use among trusted cohorts. I tried to impart the prudence of not getting carried away. My benevolence knows no boundaries.

One boy, Bryan, asked if sex is free in America. That threw me for a loop until I realized he wanted to know if sex before marriage was customary in the good ole US of A. I told him we fuck like rabbits. No, I didn’t, but I validated the whore-like status of Americans. Pre-martial sex? Definitely a thing. Where did I stand on the issue?

What the hell is it? Temple? Stupa? Shrine? Mountain? It don’t know what the hell it is. Mostly Buddhist. Distinctly Indonesian. Hindu flaring in between. What does the name “Borobudur” signify? Who the hell knows? When was it built? Who the hell knows? Best guess? Around 800 C.E… probably. Why was it built? Who the hell knows? Why was it abandoned from 1000 C.E onwards only to be rediscovered in 1814? Who the hell knows? I like mystery in my meat.

Ideally, I would engage a flux capacitor (it’s what makes time travel possible) and travel back thirty or forty years , before Borobudur’s fame, and wander the site for days with an expert guide or enough knowledge to soak the majesty and grandeur out of it. I had to settle for a morning trot through the…

Seeing Baby Krak requires a boat. My hostel arranged one. Low season. Solo tourist. It’s never cheap to do things alone, so the “tour” set me back sixty dollars. Normally, you’d frolic with a group. Normally, I’d be thrilled to have my own private vessel, guide included. Normally, I’m down with “normally.” Buuuut one client equals small boat. You don't want the small boat. Really, you don’t. (Boat? More like watercraft as in “arts” and “crafts.”)

Come the morning, I drove to the home of el capitan and waited patiently as preparations for our voyage ensued. I sat outside a small shop sipping coffee with my guide and three unknown Sumatrans listening to what I can only describe as Indonesian prom music from a high school “Enchantment Under the Volcano” dance…

Before dinner En, in his Ugarte fashion, inquired, “Ummm, sorry, Richard, do you want to play with fire?” Who wouldn’t? Let’s burn shit, I say. Smokey the Bear can suck it. “Play with fire” was his English device for “start a fire.” He was merely asking if it would be okay for him to kindle a flame for dinner. Not sure if this was a regulatory issue or a courtesy in case I had a phobia. It was difficult to know as En asked permission before doing anything. My effusion of laughter required clarification so as not to offend. An English lesson on the connotation of “play with fire” ensued.

Early to bed. Early to rise. We rose at 2:15 am and began the climb around three. Our camp was just below the tree line where vegetation falls away, replaced by exposed rocks and scree…

En had a knack for the lyrical. After leaving the second “crime” scene, we encountered flower blossoms “snowing” in the jungle. White flower petals fell to the ground in sputtering gasps, taking on the aura of large snowflakes. En pointed to this and said he’d only seen it once before under similar circumstances (i.e. in the presence of slain tiger prey). He compared the blossoms to jungle tears, a land mourning the loss of life. Simple. Evocative. Profound. Well done, En. Well done.

Less poetic were the leeches relentlessly assaulting our ankles, an assault that would continue for the duration. Anticoagulant-secreting bastards with an insatiable appetite for blood. Not a fan. Tear ‘em off and bleed. And bleed some more. And then keep bleeding. Delicious…

And yet, I was drawn to his mysterious nature and reciprocal curiosity. Wanna see a tiger, you say? Well, he knew a guy. Of course he did. Not just any guy, but a tiger whisperer, if you will… or would. For the right price and a fair amount of patience, we might succeed in “summoning” a striped crusader. This tiger “shaman” (my word, not his) lived just outside the town’s center. According to Pria, Mr. Whisperer, with the aid of a spirit man, had the power to compel tiger attendance. Difference between his guy and a spirit man? Dunno. Shit got confusing and stayed there well before the actual meeting. If the spirit guide was the one doing the calling, then what was the purpose of the man we were going to meet?

On my world trip, I took a little “trip”. And it was fucking glorious. Absolutely magnificent, kind sir… or ma’am. Drugs in Indonesia are a big fat no-no. Illegit. Too illegit to quit. Shrooms technically fall into this category, but no one seems to care. They are sold openly in Bali, the Gili Islands, and the Lake Toba region. It’s so blatant, I was sure they were legal, or at least not illegal. Nope. I guess it’s on the books, but the books are out of print. And that was fine with me. 

What does “openly” really mean? More than one Toba restaurant had mushroom omelette on the menu. Ideal, as I love breakfast and tripping my balls off. A winning combo indeed, so gimme a “P” for paradise, eh gov’nah?…

I’ve heard the “off-putting personal personality theory” before and since. On the road, I can say it was somewhat of a construct. I tried to balance the line between friendly and unapproachable in a doomed effort to attract the cream and discourage the miscreants. Still, I’d be lying if I said this aura didn’t attach in situations where hindrance outweighed benefit. I loathe to admit it, but my unapproachable nature has often put up a social defense shield. And though I was (am) acutely aware of my social shortcomings, something about hearing it from Chari and Chandana hit home. I shudder to think how many interludes I’ve missed along the way on account of my gruff aura. I resolved to substitute less “Grrrrrr” for a little more “Purrrrrr”

Something about standing next to a thousand-year-old ruin…

Day One was an easy float to our first campsite, Night One an inauspicious drunk fest fueled by not-so-premium liquor. Darkness fell. Mayhem ensued. I had zero wish to start hungover, so I forbore after a few drinks, retiring to the sand for a snooze beneath a spectacular night sky peppered with stars, painted by the Milky Way. The outfit provided tents, but I slept al fresco. Initially, I had company, but Ashrak the kayaker coaxed Kirstin to his tent. Ah, well, all’s fair in love and war on the waterfront. No smoochie-grabass por moi.

The events following my dismissal were the subject of vigorous debate. No one had all the pieces. The Brothers England and Sonkor deemed shit-faced skinny dipping a worthy pursuit…

Wrestling (or is it steering?) was an issue. I couldn’t do it. It pulled to one side. It had a bit of a pulling problem. Rotate pedals. Sheer left… hard. Struggle. Swear. Repeat. One rotation sent me to the curb where I narrowly missed knocking over a parked motorcycle. Nepali word for “douchebag,” anyone? Steering was hard. Breaking was harder. I couldn’t do that either. People stared. Horns honked. Heart pounded. My co-pilot kept a palm on the handlebars and one on the break, forestalling tragedy.

After too much adrenaline and too many close calls, I relented. My respect for the craft ballooned exponentially. I took my rightful place in the rear… for about twenty seconds. My struggle ended where his began—at a slight incline…

I remember skies so goddamn blue, it’s like an amateur filmmaker went hog-wild with the color grading, though I suspect altitude plus landscape-contrast heightened the effect. Without the dynamic range of the human eye, no camera could do it justice. I was in awe and, looking back, compare it to a psilocybin flashback. I wanted to stare into the firmament until going blind, appreciate the shit out of everything without letting it slip through my fingers… but it always does.

Imagine a northern Arizona Grand Canyon-ish scenario, throw in a Himalayan backdrop, add the crisp coolness of an upstate New York autumn, sprinkle in sporadic donkey bells…

Nine days without a wash left me marinating in my own juice. And then there was Ghami village—the promised land. When I learned gas-powered hot water was available at the guesthouse, I considered smooching the women in charge. Sublime. That’s how I’d describe my shower experience. I nearly dissolved.

On day nine, I confronted Mustang’s version of a traffic jam. Herds of sheep, pack horses, and seasonal migrants hindered progress on a narrow stretch of uphill climb. Speed wasn’t the issue, it was the clouds of dust that left those in its wake subject to mild asphyxiation. And the incessant whistling and grunting of shepherds can needle one psychologically after about hour three…

Magnificence multiplied with elevation. The trees disappeared, revealing a rocky, shrub-strewn expanse spotted with snow and ice. By the time I reached Laurebina La Pass (4610 m, 15213 ft), I was e2—exhausted and exhilarated. The wind bit my face, the moonscape watered my eyes. I was cold, tired, and dreaming of lemon tea and dal bhat. And yet, I lingered. No more ascent. Thank ya, Jee-sus. The Gosainkund region is known for its frozen lakes and desolate allure. It does not disappoint. The short time I stood on the pass made it impossible to regret…

I arrived in Dhaka a week before meeting my safari pal, Alex. I had but one mission: find a boat and book passage to and throughout the Sundarbans with an emphasis on tiger tracking. There were obstacles. The first was a lack of robust tourist infrastructure. I mentioned previously a poster in the embassy in Kathmandu that read, “Come to Bangladesh before the tourists do.” Well, I beat them there. Now what?

The archetypical outing for tourists and ex-pats alike was a 12-40 person/4-day boat excursion with a set itinerary…

The Bangladesh Forest Department has neither the will nor the ability to thwart operations. As they are understaffed, underpaid, and ill-equipped, they find themselves at the mercy of Raju and his band of misfits. The group is too big to nail, and if Mr. Forid was correct, members sought refuge at ranger stations throughout the park. If you can’t beat ‘em or join ‘em, accept the “supplemental” salary.

He spoke of a tacit agreement between pirates and government. Keep it reasonable, don’t get greedy, and avoid extreme behavior…

The boatman's oar lapping at the water was the only constant. Heeeeere, kitty, kitty, kitty. Nice kitty, kitty. We ducked beneath protruding vegetation. The channel narrowed. The tension accrued. Animal tracks decorated the mud banks, especially those of spotted deer and wild boar. Game trails crisscrossed the swamp, weaving between trees and through the underbrush. Every time we rounded a bend, the brush cleared, or the grass parted, I held my breath.

Heeeeere, kitty, kitty, kitty. Nice kitty, kitty. Five tigers were reputed to live on the small island, including a mother and three cubs. Yes, we wanted to see the family, but how close…

Still, there’s something about wandering a city or small town with my head up my confused ass while trying to navigate a foreign culture that adds spice and variety to the experience. I can’t deny the pros may well outweigh the cons, especially in a pinch, but I will mourn the loss of bemusing ambiguity.

So, guesthouse it was. First hurdle surmounted. After agreeing on a label, I had to discuss availability. More confusion. A man called a relevant somebody. I was led to believe (or was I?) a decision-maker would turn up, then invited to secure my pack in an office for safekeeping and provided a chair outside. I sat. I waited. I waited some more…

I had a better chance of seeing Pegasus than I did a tiger. Were they bored? Annoyed? Scared? All the above? A local I spoke with the day before speculated the threat of pirates might explain my permission difficulties, though nobody I dealt with said anything. After repeated entreaties to turn around, I relented.

On the way back, we stopped at a forest station, which boasted a nature trail into the mangrove. I assumed (emphasis on ass) a jungle walk would ensue. Nope. Too dangerous. A tiger was afoot. Tiger, you say? Too dangerous? According to the resident ranger…

We made a pit stop for food and potty at 3:30 a.m. What I saw in the bathroom left me awestruck—men at every sink primping like contestants on the Dating Game. Not a hair out of place. The efforts were almost surgical. Did I mention it was 3:30 a.m.? And me with my single pair of black pants, dusty hiking shoes, and generalized untidy disheveledness. People often sized me up and down as if I were wearing a spacesuit. I could never tell if it was curiosity, mild contempt, or both.

I loitered in the restaurant where a barefoot waiter offered to bring me something. I went with coffee. It soon followed with my receipt…

At the river, I was speechless. Men and boys paraded frantically from small ships to weight scales with baskets of white grainy material atop their heads. I soon realized this was salt and that this patch of riverfront was where it was unloaded, weighed, and initially processed. Nobody was screwing around. It was like watching leaf-cutter ants moving with military speed, discipline, and precision. I had to watch my step to avoid being trampled.

There’s one surefire way to gum up the works—take out a camera and start firing away. Everyone wanted in, much to the dismay of those on a tight schedule. Men hauling salt. Men weighing salt. Men bathing in the filthiest water you could imagine…

I stood in the mire trying to digest this alternate reality. Any way you slice it, the scene was a constant tragedy unfolding. Children without a childhood? Men without a choice? A government without a conscience? No, that's too easy. Nothing is black and white. Nothing is ever that simple. Child labor is horrible, but what other options are there? Take away their jobs, and where does that leave them? Their families? Is dangerous work better than no work at all? Increase oversight. Increase safety standards. Lower profits. Lower wages. Choices. Terrible, terrible choices. You could blame the government, I suppose, but before pulling that trigger, delve into the history of this star-crossed nation…

Enter Mindfuck 101. Am I sweating? Yes, I’m sweating. Did my heart just skip a beat? Two beats? Would I win a Darwin Award for this? Am I dizzy or just hungry? Do I have an ulcer? Canker sore? Am I a moron? Yes, I’m a moron. No, no, I’m outstanding. Super cool… the coolest dead tourist in Bangladesh. Mama, I’m coming home.

Before then, I would’ve deemed swallowing snake venom suicidal. Expert reassurance and logic propelled me into the breach. There were children present. They wouldn’t slay Johnny Adventure in front of the kids, would they? I let myself believe the village elders wouldn’t invite the shitstorm that might result from a negligent tourist death… um, right…

People celebrate by dousing one another with water and plastering friends and strangers alike with a shitload of colored powders, especially red—a massive water fight in Technicolor. It lasts for a night and a day, beginning on the last full moon during the Hindu calendar’s lunar month at winter’s end. Thamel’s streets were jovial chaos on the 1st of March.

I had no clue and hadn’t bothered to check for upcoming festivals. I only learned of the impending celebrations after a bag of water narrowly missed my noggin on a casual stroll the evening before everything kicked off. The assassins attacked from a nearby balcony. I was not amused…

A funny thing happened en route to Tengboche, something difficult to describe. I think it only happens when you’re alone and somewhat unguarded. Per usual, I took a less-traveled route, which led back to the Hotel Everest View and then along a ridge that was more of a yak trail than a trekking path. I was struck by an odd awareness, a presence that gripped hold and wouldn’t let go.

It’s safe to say there’s an underlying energy or force pervading the universe and everything in it. The source. The terminus. The beginning. The end. It has a thousand different names ascribed by a thousand different peoples…

Back at my lodge, I experienced what was to become a familiar sentiment from guides along the trail. There’s an undercurrent of resentment toward lone wolves hitting the trail without a guide who choose to carry their belongings. They view it as depriving a Nepali guide or porter of much-needed income while leeching off the well-tread paths established by years of Sherpa diligence. There’s merit to this, which is why I made every effort to hire a guide before leaving Kathmandu, visiting a dizzying number of trekking agencies.

No one would consider my needs, damn it. (Therapy, anyone?) They were all hell-bent on standard itineraries with zero room…

Back at the guesthouse, the sunroom was overrun by mature Irish tourists who looked as if someone had just mowed them down with a submachine gun. They were shattered. All appeared to be passed out. First time in the Himalayas? The day before, it was a Japanese entourage enjoying the valley views from the sun room’s relative comfort. When they departed, I noticed a man being carried on the back of the Japanese liaison/guide they'd brought from Japan. Yes, stereotypes are offensive, but for the love of everything holy! That’s so “Japanese tourist” trope, it’s almost beyond belief. Almost.

What dreams may come? Mine were bonkerballs bananas…

I can’t deny it. Going it alone made me nervous. It also adrenalized the shit out of me. Would I get lost? Be eaten by a yeti? Hit by a meteorite? Those were the obvious risks, but my trepidation centered on the mundane—altitude sickness, broken ankle, cuts, scrapes, tooth decay, painful gas, etc. In tandem with a fellow adventurer, the risk was mitigated, but alone, a minor obstacle could turn deadly, especially if I were the only person to cross that day. It’s wise to bring a buddy. Really. I had no buddy. Me, myself, and I. Would I prefer a compadre and/or guide? You bet your ass. But we work with what we have…