The Ageing Traveler

I think I’m getting old. It’s something I never thought would happen.

There comes a time in every traveler’s life, the decision to take that leap of faith into the great beyond to find out what’s out there. This experience is different for everyone and regardless of the circumstances leading up to it, is a life changing experience.

I think my turning point was the day I stood on the front lawn of my house in suburbia, admiring with gleaming pride, the fabulous job I’d done at not only having neatly mown it, but having beveled the edges with my weed wacker. It was truly a lush, green, manicured sight to behold and envied by my neighbours. It was but a moment later, that the realization of how completely fucked up that was, hit me like a freight train. It was at that same time I came to understand that Martha Stewart is the devil incarnate. As I stood there, trying to digest this epiphany, my ex (fiancé at the time) came out: “Nice job. It’s the nicest in the neighbourhood!” I suddenly had a vision – right there on my front lawn. I saw myself, 40 years into the future and I knew exactly how the rest of my life was to be played out. I saw it plain as day, as well as everyday leading up to it. Sufficed to say, my bags were packed and I was headed east on a one-way ticket to Bangkok shortly thereafter.

After I had decided that living vicariously through the Discovery channel was not the path to self-fulfillment, I did what most people do when they make a life change. I made a toast to new beginnings, I welcomed the unknown and decided that age was just a state of mind. This was of particular relevance to me as I got a late start on my new beginning. I justified my agelessness by way of considering the 7 ½ years I spent with the ex, a stunted growth period. Besides, you’re only as old as you feel and, as I was to embark upon a journey of discovery not knowing what awaited me, I was just a babe in the woods.

With agelessness, comes a sense of immortality, of invincibility, and justifiably so. When you realize that you can, and you have decided to be the master of your own destiny, it’s a high one cannot put into words. THIS is what life is supposed to be about! Of course, at the time you have no idea what ‘this’ is, but that’s what you plan on finding out. It’s a great notion with its only fallacy being of Mother Nature not having been taken into account.

When I first got out there, the travel experience was a complete sensory overload. Everything was different; the tastes, the smells, the people, the culture, and even me. I was just along for the ride, trying to take everything in, trying to experience everything. The realization that a society can function on a completely different set of ideals and methods from which I was brought up to believe as absolutes, I found to be a fascinating, mind-opening experience. I found that I was able to tolerate, even welcome things I never would have stood for in the past, in the name of life experience.

Now I’ve done my fair share of traveling and shall continue to do so whenever I am able. The difference is that I don’t travel the same way as I used to. They say, with age comes wisdom. That’s how I console myself now that I’ve had to accept that I’m getting older. Things are not as they used to be. Actually, I’m not as I used to be. Mother Nature has a peculiar way of sneaking up on you, both mentally and biologically.

Gone are the days of sitting on overturned milk crates in alleyways, partaking in the local company and the local brew and drinking everyone else under the table. Well, at least the drinking, anyway. Nowadays, I’m already feeling it after a beer. Of course then again, gone are the days I decide to forgo a meal the next day for the sake of one more beer the night before at the local bar to keep the buzz going. Though it could be looked at as a definite sign of getting older, and thus my waning invincibility, with age also comes maturity and my electing to embrace my new found status of ‘cheap drunk’.

Regardless of who you are or where you go, your idiosyncrasies have a way of magnifying themselves as you get older. You become less tolerant and not so willing to accept illogic and chalk everything up to cultural differences. I always used the saying ‘when in Rome…’ as my mantra as a means of trying to gain a better understanding and to reserve judgment. It’s got to the point where I cannot turn a blind eye to someone sneezing, wiping their hand on a dirty rag and then using that same hand to put the food on my plate. And why should I? I know I have let that same scenario, and others similar to it, go in the past and it hasn’t killed me yet, but things tend to gross me out a bit more nowadays. I tend to request drinks without ice as it often happens that the ice, although made with clean water, was grabbed with dirty hands, thus leaving a slick on the surface of my beverage. Sleep sheet or no, I’m not staying in a room with bed bugs.

I also no longer feel the need to prove myself worthy in the eyes of the travel gods by having to have endured some sort of travel hardship. When you’ve traveled as much as I have, you eventually get to the point where you recognize that just because you’ve opted for the 3-hour public bus ride for the equivalent of 50 cents to get to the next village and not hitched a ride with the 6 other people and four goats in the back of the pick up truck that took you 14 hours to make the same journey just because it was free, doesn’t make you any less of a legitimate traveler. That wearing the same shirt for 14 days in a row doesn’t earn you any merit badges. And that Nike sport sandals don’t necessarily cut it for every occasion.

I’ve mellowed, I’ve become less tolerant, and dare I say, I see my mother in me. Yes – I am getting older. I’ve come out of the closet to say that it’s OK and that although your approach to traveling may change, it doesn’t diminish in any way, the pure joy of the travel experience.

Cultural Understanding by way of the Latrine

Anthropologists have studied the ceremonies, rituals and customs of civilizations for centuries in an attempt to understand, document and unravel the mystery as to what makes them tick. Quite frankly, I think they’ve been barking up the wrong tree. One needs to look no further than the toilet. The virtual crystal ‘bowl’ that offers more insight and enlightenment than any wedding custom or cremation ceremony ever could. I truly believe that no other single aspect paints a more accurate reflection of the society in which you find it than the toilet and its accompanying practices.

Take for example modern western society. Does the bathroom, in its full automation, flush toilets, Jacuzzi bath and shower massage not mirror the hectic, modern life of the average North American? Being fully decorated, and adorned with plants, aromatherapy candles, mood lighting, select reading material, foam bath and essential oils in an attempt to create a virtual oasis, it’s perhaps the only room in the house one can get a little peace and quiet. Calgon – take me away!

And how about the French? They have often been given a bad rap for being (pardon the pun) hoity-toity. You may not think your sh*t stinks either (to borrow a popular expression), if part of your daily rituals were jet cleaning your derriere with a bidet.

The Chinese have a completely different mindset toward society and their place in it – a mindset which can be linked to toilet practices. A long history of communism has instilled within the general population a notion of working toward the greater good, as opposed to selfless gain at the expense of their fellow countrymen. There is strength in numbers and together, great things can be accomplished. Individualism is not something that is encouraged. It kind of reminds be of the “Borg” in Star Trek the next Generation and their perpetual loyalty to the ‘collective’. Collective, being the operative word as ‘trough’ toilets are exactly as they sound. A long trough along the wall at which people line up, side by side and do their business and it’s then all hosed down a drain. Whereas in western countries, where using the toilet and your waste is considered to be a private affair, in China, it’s treated for what it is - waste. When approximately one in every 5 people on the planet is Chinese, the amount of waste produced by this population has to be dealt with in an efficient, detached manner without the strange preoccupation that western society seems to have with it. One only has to look at the sheer number of English euphemisms for the toilet and the things we do in it, to attest to that.

Throughout my time spent living and traveling abroad, I’ve had the opportunity, or due to emergency, had no choice but to ‘go local’ and partake in the toilet rituals of quite a few different countries. Indonesia, for example, has quite a different perspective on the toilet and its place in society as well. The toilet or kamar kecil is a place of business. It’s pretty much do-what-you’ve-got-to-do and get out. It’s not an environment conducive to pondering over crossword puzzles. Your typical Indonesian bathroom comes standard with a mandi. The mandi is a large concrete or tiled basin which has a tap and holds water. The water in the basin is used to shower with the help of a small, handled bucket. There are no water-saving shower heads here, but it takes much less time getting clean, so it works out to be a much more efficient method. You won’t find a sink, a tub or any distinction between a wet/dry area. You shower in the middle of the floor. All floors are concrete or tiled and come equipped with a drain to catch shower run-off, soap, toothpaste, etc. Because of this, toilet seats in Indonesian bathrooms (if there is one) are always wet. It’s another one of those things that reminds you that the faster you get in and get it over with, the faster you can leave.

Indonesians don’t use toilet paper. This is very important to know if you are going to be traveling here – or most other places in Asia, for that matter. For those of us having been raised using toilet paper, it’s hard to conceive of not using it. In fact, just the mere suggestion of its absence conjures up images of streaky underwear, fingernails encrusted with – well you know what I mean. In a word – gross! Well, let me assure you that it really isn’t. People use the water from the mandi to wash themselves. It’s more of a splashing of water than a wiping kind of thing. I’ve heard Indonesians actually express the opinion that using toilet paper is disgusting. Someone once put it to me this way – if you were riding your bicycle through the countryside and you were suddenly overtaken by a truck that ran over a big pile of cow excrement and sprayed it in your face, would you wash it off or wipe it with a tissue? He had a point.

As for the actual toilets themselves, there are 3 different types, each of which have their own rituals, some of which, if you are not used to them, require practice to master. Despite my living here in Indonesia and my attempts to adapt, the flush toilet and toilet paper combo is still my preference. The flush toilet is found in hotels, upscale establishments and most places that cater to tourists, but is not often found in common households or most other places with public facilities. It’s pretty much a BYOTP affair.

The second type of toilet looks like the automatic flush toilet, except that it’s manual flush. You use the bucket and water from the mandi to flush.

The third, and most prevalent, is the squat toilet. This is where your agility, balance, ability to multi-task, endurance and aim will all be tested. This is my least favourite of the three. When it comes down to it, you use it for one of two reasons. The first of which, or number 1 as it’s commonly referred to, is what I tend to have the most issues with. The main problem for me is that I am female. Far be it from me to admit that my gender would limit me in any way, shape or form, but alas, I have to concede to the squatty. For guys, it’s pretty much point and shoot. Not so easy when you are a woman, as despite pulling down your garments, when you’re squatting, they are still in the way! Removal of at least one pant leg is required so as not to leave the kamar kecil looking like you were too late. This is not as easy as it sounds. With pant legs rolled up prior to entry, due to the fact that Indonesian bathrooms always have wet floors, you must then somehow find a way to remove one shoe and one pant leg without it dragging on the ground, sling it over your shoulder, put your shoe back on all while balancing yourself on one leg. When it comes to using the squatty, after a period of trial and error, I’ve found it’s better to face the wall while using the squatty for this purpose because of what I consider to be a major design flaw and the fact that you don’t have the benefit of the distance or the underside of the toilet seat between you and the bowl to minimize ‘splashback’. Now that you have answered the call of nature, you’ve won half the battle. There has to be some sort of technique that I haven’t yet been privy to as I simply don’t get how you are supposed to use the water in the mandi bucket to rinse. With the loose pant leg held securely in your teeth, you have to somehow make the water defy gravity to get under there without pouring it all over your shoes. After your best efforts, the latrine ballet must once again take place in reverse to put your pants back on. With the absence of toilet paper, even if you are clean, you’re still wet. I don’t know about you, but I find there are few less comfortable feelings than having to get dressed while you’re wet.

I find the squatty not only inconvenient, but a traumatic experience – even more so after I’ve had a few drinks. I have chosen to make my home here. Despite my best efforts to ‘do as the Romans’, by getting used to eating rice every day and my new-found ability to create lavish fruit towers and balance them on my head while walking through the rice paddy, I don’t think I will ever enjoy the squatty experience. But you know, maybe that’s the point.

If my theory is correct, then maybe this is an experience that was never meant to be enjoyed, but merely to be tolerated and got over with. After all, Indonesian society is based on meeting needs rather than catering to whims and desires. People here seem to take things as they come, seem to be generally happier on the whole and seem to be able to appreciate what they have. I guess it’s hard to do that while you’re sitting on the toilet.

Tourist or Traveller?

I once overheard a conversation in a café on the edge of Gunung Leuser National Park in Langkat, North Sumatera that made me laugh out loud. A visitor, who was asked by the café owner how it felt to be a tourist in Indonesia, turned to the owner, indignant and said: “I am not a tourist, I am a traveler!”

Traveling is a wonderful thing, regardless of how one chooses to approach this experience. People travel for different reasons. Whether it’s seen as a chance to break away from the daily grind and treat oneself to a holiday in a resort, sipping cocktails by the pool, or the package tour traveler trying to squeeze in as many countries as possible on a 14-day tour, or the backpacker on a quest to find out what’s out there – they are all equally legitimate. As far as I’m concerned, traveling is more educational than any college or university classroom. It offers you insight into other cultures as well as a better understanding of your own, while opening your mind to different perspectives which is the basis for understanding human nature on the whole.

Of course there are those vacation revelers who don’t seem to take advantage of these benefits and are more concerned with drinking themselves silly or getting the souvenirs and photographs of places to check off their list of countries done, than learning anything about the places they’ve visited – or themselves, for that matter. It seems like such a waste.

This having been said, what I find even more ridiculous are the self-proclaimed ‘world travelers – not tourists’. Oh you know the ones I’m talking about. You’ll see them in the backpacker cafés and hostel bars. They tend to seek each other out, comparing stories, trying to outdo each other’s tales of 18-hour trips in the back of a pick-up they hitched a ride with and shared with 6 other people and 4 goats because it was free, thus making them, presumably, savvy travelers. They wear their experiences of self-flagellation with pride, as if it should merit them some sort of traveler badge of honour instead of the title of village idiot, when for the equivalent of 30 cents, they could have taken a local bus and made the same journey in ‘relative’ comfort in three hours. It’s these same travelers who don a sarong and go into the market on Sunday with the notion that they blend into the landscape.

Should you encounter these savvy sojourners, they will be instantly recognizable by their first words to you in the form of a personal anecdote of their most recent travel hardship they had to overcome, letting you know that you’re dealing with a ‘real’ traveler, not just a tourist. This is usually followed up with an expectation to ‘top that!’ You’ll also notice they wouldn’t be able to tell you the names or anything about any of the passengers they shared that 18-hour trip with as they were too busy trying to impress their captive audience talking about themselves. You may, however be lucky enough to avoid such an encounter should you not look a ‘seasoned’ enough traveler to be worthy of comparison, say – for example, if you’ve had a shower and you’re wearing a clean shirt.

Attempts to ‘go local’ by foreigners probably won’t be met by ridicule or disdain, but our ‘traveler’ often confuses the locals’ peculiar fascination of the novelty of the sarong-wearing tourist, with being accepted as an “International citizen” that belongs nowhere and everywhere at the same time. If you are a visitor from another country, you are a tourist – plain and simple. That’s how you are seen by the local population in the place you are visiting. You may disagree with me about there being no difference between a tourist and a traveler, but make no mistake; you are the only one making the distinction between the two.

There is something, however to be said of acceptance. I have lived in Indonesia for the last five years. Though my situation is a bit different to that of a person traveling through, I never presumed that I would ever really be able to belong in a society I was not born into. My husband is Balinese. I go to temple and to ceremonies in traditional Balinese dress. I do it out of respect and as they say ‘when in Rome…’, not because I think it will make me any more Balinese. I know I look like a bule going to a costume party and I often used to feel a bit ridiculous. I have fair skin and hair and blue eyes. No matter how well I speak the language and despite my new-found ability to ride side-saddle on a motorbike in a sarong, balancing offerings on my head, I’m simply never going to blend in. When I made the decision to make this island my home, I had to come to terms with the fact that I will be 90 years old walking down the street, having lived here for 60 years and I will undoubtedly get a “Hello, toureeest!”, and that nothing I could ever do would make me seen in their eyes as one of their own. Not that I ever wanted to be Balinese, I am Canadian. It’s part of who I am, but no one wants to be seen as an outsider in their own community. Then a funny thing happened…

Due to work obligations, my husband and I moved to Southern Bali. On one of our trips to my husband’s village, our neighbour from across the road asked me “Kapan pulang?”, which means ‘when home?’ I responded: “malam Sabtu”, thinking she was asking when I was leaving. She started laughing and said “Inggak! Kapan pulang?” It was then I realized she was asking me when I got ‘home’ to the village – my village. It was at that moment I understood that acceptance into a community is achievable, not by trying to become something you’re not, but by remaining true to who you are.