Monkey Bites and Paris Hilton (My Odd Introduction to Bali)

Gloria and I left Vietnam on a late flight and touched down in Singapore in the wee hours of the morning.  Our flight to Bali wasn't until the morning, so we settled the best that we could into some chairs and attempted to sleep.  I think she succeeded better than I did, but I was able to sleep a little on the flight to Bali.  I woke up in time to see some spectacular aerial views of Java, but I unfortunately didn't think to take any photos.  Sorry, guys.

I had arranged for the place we were staying at to send a driver to the airport.  After paying the $35 for an Indonesian visa, Gloria and I were on our way to the central Balinese city of Ubud, recently popularized by the filming of Eat Pray Love. 

Our accommodations were quite comfortable and affordable: I had booked a room in Nick's Pension for $34/night.  Considering this price also included breakfast, it was a steal.  After we checked into our room, we went out to the Monkey Forest.

The only time I have interacted with monkeys was on the Rock of Gibraltar this past spring.  There, Torrie, Kelly, and I were vehemently warned against touching or feeding the monkeys.  (Our guide, however, referred the the Barbary macaques as "my family" and explained that she had earned the privilege to touch and feed them).  Bali, on the other hand, had no rules against touching the monkeys.  In fact, people were selling bananas to tourists, to feed the monkeys.  I saw a number of banana sellers encouraging tourists to pick up monkeys.  I was wary of this; I'd read that the monkeys in Ubud's monkey forest are at high-risk for obesity due to the unlimited supply of food.  I'd also read about monkeys biting tourists, and I didn't want to be that girl, the one who was bit by a Balinese monkey.

Readers, I am that girl.

I had barely entered the monkey forest and refused the offer to buy bananas when I noticed some especially cute little monkeys.  There was a mama and baby monkey duo scampering around the path.  I noticed some tourists posing with the monkeys while their companions snapped pictures.  I didn't want to touch a monkey, (I thought touching a baby monkey would be especially foolish... I was warned so many times as a child in the north woods of Minnesota to never play with bear cubs that I automatically apply this logic onto any species of wild animal) but Gloria suggested that if I sat on a ledge near the paved path, that I might be able to get close enough for a picture with the monkeys.

Aw, the little one wanted to make friends!  Notice how calm my demeanor is, and how I'm not trying to scoop up either one?  I don't think I deserved what happened next.

Mere seconds after the photo above was captured, A third monkey approached me on my left side (the right side of the photo).  It immediately grabbed at my shawl and I carefully tried to pull away without damaging the fabric or becoming entangled with the monkey.  (Actually, I borrowed that shawl from a friend... 8 years ago.  Sorry I never gave it back, Cathy!  It's just so pretty!).  Unfortunately, the monkey must have been influenced by the same mindset that kept me from returning my friend's wrap to her in a timely manner... because it wouldn't let go.  After a moment of squabbling, the monkey decided to sink its little teeth into my elbow.

I was in a state of shock before I aggressively shook the vicious creature away from me.  Fortunately, the bite hadn't drawn blood and the banana-sellers pointed me to the first aid station, assuring me that the monkeys are "all clean" and carry "not disease."  The guy at the first aid station applied some antiseptic to my mildly broken skin before covering it with a bandage, and telling me that the monkeys in the forest are routinely tested by an Australian veterinarian for any diseases.  He pointed to a certificate on the desk for a Dr. Fuentes... (a later internet confirmed that the doctor has indeed conducted tests and research regarding monkeys in Ubud, but just how often he visits the forest was unclear).  Still, I wasn't very worried about the bite since it hadn't drawn any blood, and since the monkey appeared to be aggressive for a reason rather than being rabid.

I returned to the forest, where Gloria had been waiting for me, with a stronger sense of caution.  I was in the process of photographing some monkeys under a pavilion when I noticed a blonde woman in a long yellow dress.  Part of me wanted to warn her about monkeys who might bite in a territorial dispute over flowy fabric, but she seemed to be enjoying herself as her companion took photos so I carried on my merry way.  A minute later, Gloria came up to me and whispered, "Rosa, don't you think she looks like Paris Hilton?"  Who, the blonde?  I've found that Koreans tend to tell westerners "You look just like so-and-so!" so I brushed off Gloria's celebrity sight.  "Actually, she seems prettier than Paris Hilton."  I was about the leave the pavilion when Gloria insisted, "Rosa, that's really Paris Hilton!"  Finally, I took a closer look at the woman in the yellow dress.  Yes, it was Paris Hilton.  A small crowd had formed and people were taking out their cameras and phones to catch a glimpse of her.  I was ready to continue in the opposite direction, but Gloria really wanted to be in a photo with Paris Hilton.  I relented, but I was mildly ashamed to be acting like the paparazzi.  To her credit, Paris was graceful in ignoring the starstruck crowd and seemed to be enjoying herself with the monkeys.  Still. I felt a little sorry for her; it felt like she had become the tourist attraction that everyone was mad to photograph.

I cropped Gloria out of the picture because she wants to keep the trip under wraps.  Still, here's my shameless pseudo-paparazzi shot of Paris Hilton and her monkey friend.

After we finished out trek through the monkey forest, the travel exhaustion began to set in.  Gloria and I agreed to return to the pension, rest, and later attend a traditional Balinese Legong dance performance which was just a short walk from the pension.  I enjoyed the show, though by the end I was waiting for the curtain call so I could get back to the room and sleep.

I will write about the rest of my time Bali in another entry.  Now, I have to go teach class.  I'm rather proud to have written this long entry in one sitting.  (That bodes well for this blog!).

In Socialist Vietnam, Motorbikes Swerve for You

I finished my stint at winter camp on a Tuesday.  MT and I accompanied the students to the English language library in Mugeodong before eating a lavish meal and finishing the afternoon at a noraebang.  Most of these students, even the most eager to learn English, seemed a little shy and reserved in class.  Singing karaoke at a noraebang, however?  I got to hear them belt out song after song, and my quietest boy even rapped.  I was floored. 

I met with Jun in Samsandong later that evening and picked up a few last minute necessities for my trip.  As it turns out, finding any kind of suncream less than SPF50 in South Korea is a difficult task.  I personally wanted to skip the sunblock and let myself fry in the tropical sun, but merely mentioning that to my Korean boyfriend brought on a vehement lecture on the importance of healthy skin and the dangers of equatorial sun exposure.  Eventually, I bought the suncream, deciding that it was better to err on the side of caution.  (Also: I've been experiencing a lot of "skin trouble," as several Koreans have pointed out to me on more than one occasion.  I don't know if it's pollution or bad tap water or something else, but I've had a lot of breakouts since moving here.  In the past month, I've seen a huge improvement, and I think I owe this to abstaining from tap water and from the skin serum that Jun's mom made for me.  I have no idea what she put in it, but it works.  In conclusion, I decided I'd rather have pale, clear skin than burned, troubled skin). 

I didn't want to say goodbye to Jun, but I was getting exhausted and I knew I needed to run a bunch of errands and pack the next morning so I got on the bus around 10:00 and went straight to bed in Daundong.  The following morning, I torpedoed through my to-do list, printing the correct size passport photo for my Vietnamese visa, shipping off a package of Korean goods and Japanese souvenirs to my family in Minnesota, cleaning out my fridge, packing everything into my new suitcase, taking out the trash, etc.  Finally, around noon I donned my backpack and dragged my suitcase all the way to school, where I had agreed to meet Gloria. 

We took a shuttle to the airport in Busan and arrived before the check in desk even opened.  With loads of time to kill, we had a leisurely meal and settled into a free wifi zone.  About an hour later, we checked in for our flight and were informed that there was a slight delay; our flight to Shanghai would board at 6:45 instead of departing at 5:30.  I didn't like waiting around at the airport; I think I was experiencing the pre-flight blues: that terrible feeling you get when you think too much about who or what you don't want to leave behind, and how your mortality becomes that much more tangible when you step onto an airplane.  At any rate, around 6:20 I suggested to Gloria that we go through security and get to our gate.  As we were on the escalator leading towards the security checkpoint, her ears perked up at an announcement, "I think it just said my name."
"But how many Kims are there in Korea?  We have another 25 minutes before we board."
"Yes," she admitted, "and the announcement said Gate 8, not 5."  (Our tickets instructed us to report to Gate 5 at 6:45).  Shrugging it off, we continued to the security check.  Out of nowhere, a Korean flight attendant ran up to Gloria, speaking rapidly in Korean.  "We need to go, now, Rosa, Gate 8!"  Gloria sped through security and ran towards the far end of the terminal.  I followed after her, breaking the keychain on my backpack in the process.  When I reached the gate, the flight attendants urged me inside.  We found out seats on the plane (which was quite empty) and looked at each other in confusion.  The handsome Chinese flight attendant came over to our seats and asked if there was a problem.  "Why are we leaving now?  Our tickets say we don't board until 6:45."  He could offer us no explanation, and simply suggested that we relax and "take a rest."

The plane took up by 6:40 and we shrugged it off, feeling relieved that we'd made our flight.  It was just a short trip to Shanghai, and I slept for most of the very cold layover.  Our flight to Ho Chi Minh City arrived around 1:30 Thursday morning, 3:30 in Korea.  Obtaining my entry visa took over an hour, so by the time Gloria and I reached our hotel (which her friend S had kindly reserved for us), we were both exhausted.

Unsurprisingly, my annoyingly consistent body clock woke me hours before I wanted to get up.  Eventually, I rolled out of bed and looked around.  This was a luxurious hotel room.  I hadn't noticed when we arrived, but in the morning light I realized that Vietnam offers a lot more bang for the buck.  Nice.

Around noon, (after I indulged in a delicious--free--breakfast and a nice conversation with the Australian concierge), Gloria's best friend S, (who is Korean but lives in Vietnam with her Chinese husband and toddler son), came to pick us up from the hotel, as we would be staying with her for our visit to Vietnam.  By this time, it was time for lunch, so S brought us to eat beef pho: a noodle soup whose flavor is greatly enhanced by lime juice.

My mouth is watering as I type this and remember... I need to find a Vietnamese restaurant in Ulsan, stat.

I immediately liked S; she struck me as naturally kind and nurturing, and it was fun to see Gloria interact with her best friend.  They've known each other since middle school and, apparently, spent more time during their teenage years in the company of one another than with their families.  After lunch we went to a Vietnamese coffee shop until it was time for S to pick up her son from preschool. (In retrospect, this initial trip to the coffee shop marked the beginning of Gloria's love affair with Vietnamese coffee).  The area of HCMC where S lives is an upscale, largely expatriate community, and her building complex housed not only her son's preschool, but also a number of salons, spas, and massage parlors.  S suggested that Gloria and I get massages and we happily agreed.  I'd never had a professional massage before (though the massages Torrie, Kelly, and I traded in Europe were probably as good as professional) so it was a new and relaxing experience for me.  In fact, it was a perfect post-travel day activity.

That evening, S brought her son, Gloria, and me to District 1 in HCMC (the downtown area) for dinner.  We took a taxi to get there... I can honestly say that I have never seen so many motorbikes in my life.  According to the tour guide I met a few days later, only the very, very rich in Vietnam own cars.  For average folks, the tax required for cars is simply too high.  The vehicle of choice, then, is the motorbike.

A word on crossing the street: While researching Vietnam, I came across this advice on Trip Advisor: “It is a skill and somehow only for the brave. Just walk steadily with confidence toward the other side. The drivers will know how to avoid you, do not try to avoid them and even confuse them about your direction.”  That didn't sound appealing to me and I didn't even recall that snippet until I was directly faced with mortobike traffic.  Despite near certainty that I would lose my life, I quickly learned that this method is standard procedure and followed suit.

Gloria and I insisted on paying for dinner, even though S protested.  It was the least we could do for her, considering that she was hosting the two of us while caring for her son.  (Her husband was in Hong Kong for a business trip).  S led the way as we walked from the restaurant to a tourist agency, which proved to be a chaotic excursion with a toddler, stroller, and the nighttime motorbike traffic.  Still, I managed to snap several good photos and we all made it to our destination in one piece.  Gloria and I selected a two day, one night tour to the Mekong River Delta, with an overnight stay in a 4 star hotel.  Altogether, the whole thing cost less than $50.  (Again, Vietnam offers a whole lotta bang for your buck!).  The trip left early the next morning, so after booking we all piled into a taxi and returned to S's apartment to pack and sleep.

I think the Mekong River Delta trip merits its own post, so I will publish this now and continue with the saga of my vacation in further entries.

Monument to Thich Quang Duc, the Vietnamese monk who publically lit himself on fire and burned to death in 1963 to protest the persecution of Buddhists by the South Vietnamese government.  As he was burning, he never broke his seated lotus position.  His body was re-cremated twice, but his heart would not burn.  He is venerated among Buddhists for his sacrifice.