still around

(…) how you find yourself face-to-face with your narcissist, self-sufficing, autonomic, followed by your only companion, on traveling by your own, travel beside your own, finding answers to looping questions – what I want to do, turn, left, right, stay, leave, trust or just, escape. Your decision, with full force gonna hit you, by force just on you, and less force of habit, maybe decreasing, a less traveled road, maybe every step combines a new one, posing one more question, one more and you know the answer already, do what you want, but don´t trust your narcissist, this pooch, always begging for a bite. But how? Does it mean freedom if I break his neck, kick him roadside? I am not sure if I follow him or me is guided.
Cultural narcissism.
The levels are moving, the decks, the categories, the underground, the dungeons, vanishing points, exits, exit strategies, the doors, gates, rearranging, its mirrors and marks on them, of my forehead, searching for a way in, inside. Realeasing final frontiers. I don´t know this person, not quite sure. Or was this the person I always loved, to be and to hate. It feels like looking through a spy-glas, excited, watching the nearness, the close. But it, it´s still not there, not arrived, yet, maybe.
The pooch is turning around and pokes his tongue out at me, his minion. (…)

After nearly 6 months my scrapbook has hit its last page. Whatever that means. – No, not half time, maybe a time-out. Siem Reap. Get back behind the teacher´s desk.


And the polar lights of the shores illuminate the eclipsing daylight. With Lymp Bizkit jumping like a flat stone over the calm volcanic sea – not even such in a romantic way as it might sound, and on top, lets me more feel western, in a western world. Lake Toba, if you just dazzle the details, looks like a sea in the alps. With its closely by forest greened hills surrounding, what is actually the caldera. With its churches, crosses, Jesus and Maria everywhere. – “Of course I am catholic, I smoke weed, man!” Names like Johann, Theresia and other saints – they call me fireman now. And it is for sure the most clean place I have been in Asia. No littering at all.
Dawn is drowning dawn, half shaded by light, unearthly. Humidity similar to europe, after a heavy sunday afternoon rain, I kind of miss that nights… and for the first time on the road I miss home, I miss my friends, looking at the seat next to me, on the bench, next to the sea, a bottle of water, not the best companion for such a beautiful spot. I miss sharing, sharing my thoughts. It´s all there, I mean no sex, but, yeah kind of rock´n´roll and… what was the third element… forgot. The music sounds damn loud. Another progressive metal shitstorm track. The bar and homestay, where I moved into for the next six days, is located in the center of this beauty of a sleepy bay, home of a small village, so an orgasm of a sight and place to live. And the young manager of the bar keeps on playing his hitlist. I am not even in the bar, its behind me, about 50 m. The bar is open! No customer at all, just me, no other guests at the homestay, just me. Just for me. I am feeling disturbed by the fact, that he just does that because of me. Every day. But no one cares, no neighbours show up and complain, no annoyed gazes, they keep on working, washing their clothes, showering, fishing for dinner or cleaning their motorbikes. So I don´t care, more try to, or convincing him that maybe it is more beautiful if there is no Linkin Park at all, not loud nor less, just silence. His english is like my bahasa, so, I picked up my iPod, making him curious, but black metal didn´t affect the neighbourhood or him as well – and no churches start to burn. But it is more sufferable, even this place, this bay doesn´t need to be orchestered, maybe by harmony itself. Sitting at Lake Toba, black metal, beer, smoking homegrown, what a strange place. – Oh no, not again this song… so Linkin Park again…

Six days Lake Toba, one day sober. Inspired by the amazing scenery, I relax, calm me down. Watch the fishermen´s work day by day, watching ferries arrive and depart, the children fooling around in the lake, waiting for the afternoon rain. Maybe that´s how Bali was decades ago. I don´t even feel like on a lake, more an island without sandy beaches, but who cares about sand if you are on the biggest volcano lake on earth. Days of off. In the evening getting drunken with locals and jungle juice, not as best like in Myanmar, but did the job. Running in strange people like Oscar from Finland, one of the top mini golf players in the world, 21. Roy, the pimp, admin of the jungle juice, with his two wives, switching frequently, tomorrow both will be single again, offering me a wife, “Stay here!”. Weird guy, not an honest one, telling me stories didn´t fix at all, but still in a proper range. A drunken german lady talking about her break out, “I decided I have to change my life after the death of my mother, last year”, and introducing her upcoming husband, “He is a very good guy, the other always try to push him in some trouble”, he is one of maybe amateurish still whatever bumming so called criminals on the island. Lake Toba is my german Berlin so far, living here would be a head-vein-whereever-you-wanna-have-it-shot, but it reminded me… Koh Phangan… I miss this kind of island living, it feels so different, you are and not vanish in a world full of experiences waiting for you. You just be there, if there is or not, it is.

Ah! And I don´t wanna miss that, had my worst motorbike excursion till now. Lost, on an island, in the middle of the jungle, the heart of the island on Lake Toba. It was powering cats, dogs, elephants, roads were no more roads… the bridges, ha! I crossed one, driving up steep on big rocks against a muddy stream, the bike was yelling, the bridge constructed by maybe farmers, whoever cares up here… on the right a cliff, on the left, green abyss, “Just don´t, never, stop, don´t think, you can, drive! HELL!!! HATI-HATI!!! – I was sure still to drive around, Jalan-Jalan, on the island, so felt safe in a way, because every islands has shores and its not that huge, but fuck, the road and rain, on and on… saw me lying under the bike, bleeding, running crazy in the jungle, eating insects, mushrooms or what I will find in the dark, saw me during I kept on accelerating… I wanted an adventure, so it is rainy season… here I am, in the middle of nowhere… and then there was light, a road, a proper, flooded but a road, I spat out the insects, brushed the bleeding aside and let the machine howl, sit up and beg for a rest, hahaha.
And the eagles… snakes, steamrolled, like frogs, and whatever that was… the BBQ, the fish, never bit into such a steak of a fish, the locals, the guitar playing, the chorus, the silence, the Lake, Toba…

It´s all Batak style and I love it.

– Pictures? Just one, that´s all, disturbed by rain or sidetracked by intoxication.

Tomorrow I take the ride back to Medan… a city like all the others and I would fall in love with the noise and dirt again, but honestly, I am done, 134 Mails in my mail account, my head is full of full… sometimes you just wanna stay on your room, chips, water and HBO… just for days, weeks will follow again, on the road, because I live on it.

In Medan…

Four hours bus trip AC Mini-Bus to Lake Toba: 110.000 RP
Lunch (a YUMMY one) with hot more yummy sweet tea: 4.500 RP
Black coffee, one donut, small water at Dunkin Donuts: 41.500 RP
Breakfast buffet all inclusive: 70.000 RP (had food-poisoning after)

After three days woe in Medan I will leave Indonesia, to Malaysia, to travel up north, Thailand, Bangkok, take the bus to Siem Reap… I come back, Indonesia, promised. Selamat Malam.


Jakarta. Definitely. A metropolitan of a city. Monsterious, swallowing culture, mall by mall, lane by lane, superiour deluxe penthousing mega upperlustre classified. And the construction claws its sites, still. Even though the new governor stopped all investments in modern development, intend to support the street stall, old styled charming alleys selling souvenirs surrounded by history and street life. It actually exists already, all kinds of old, in different stages and varieties, but more a quarter of decadence.
Get heavily drunken for one night, not drunken enough to switch off the moral boy, minding the prostitutes, for whatever for. Hell. Worked for 5 days on the windowless room, with AC, giving the cell the puzzling temperature. TV with Fox, poisoning my last standing minds. Running crazy up and down the question, what for? Creating a world in a world outside reality. Fucked me up. First time during my stay on the road, that I had to deal with all consequences of my vision, a digital normad life, that is how they call it, the traveling community, whoever that is. It´s tough, even if I am for the most of you guys, at home, in paradise, and not in the position to moan, gotta tell you this, “Fuck that!” It´s work, not paradise, it´s a travel, not a stay at heaven´s gate. So, fuck you, I am freaking out in that cell, with invisible bars, you can´t bow them, no plans about the cell´s set up, no break out masterplan. That is my break out and I love it, I just have to start dealing with that situation, these days, it´s not like, one day working, one week holiday. You are under the same pressure like at home, I suppose, even more, because you have to say no, to the other world, just next behind that fucking hotel room door. You don´t have to book, you don´t have to find excuses for why you have to stay in your boring daily life, you don´t have to kill your dreams and sacrifice the prisoner´s escape – “I can´t, because…”, “I might, but…”, “If I would be in your situation, would have done the same, but…” Never wanna hear that again, or gonna call you… just… looser, lost his dreams, even worst than killing them and stay satisfied with who you are and what you scoop, create day by day. Not everyone has to do this. A road can be a dead end, a wall with one door, your heaven´s gate, just because of tourism and its marketing, don´t do that, just don´t, your ass gonna get dirty here and don´t waste the world´s time. Haters gonna hate that, but loosers will always hate their dreams, knowing that they don´t wanna fullfill them by heart. Whatever. It´s an interesting move what my travel demands in Jakarta. Learned a lot. Learned in particular, I am not on holiday here, so, I have to take it easy, easy with missing, missing more than you always miss, never get the whole picture, but, a room without a view just spots on one, working. And I have to admit, missed to create something, something different, by the influence of a graphic disaster and … ah, forget about that, don´t wanna judge about the advertisement, it´s a need of, but will never be a part of. So, back to work, appreciate, keeps me on licking the road´s sweetness.

In Jakarta…

… waited for the bus 43 minutes. Stucked sweating in a sticky crowd. No one was complaining, not between, not in a silent curse, not by gesture, not by anything, they just waited. So I did, starring at the 24 hours traffic in front of the gate, switching to the fans, restarring at me, with their lame and crippling wings. The governor promised a change, buidling a kind of a skytrain. He knows, who knows. Who is this mysterious governor?

… bad drunken, already reported, meet luckily two nice french guys. Not all of them are a BILD headline on my road.

… saw some really wicked looking black guys at a hip hop club, where the played not hip hop at all, more I don´t know how you call that kind of music. Felt like being in the States. Prejudices welcome.

Custom against drugs – a guy wearing a Metallica-Shirt, dragged down by two policemen, nice TV spot.


Going for a piss, open my shorts and what the hell?! A mosquito, leaving – well, there is not much blood to suck in the last days… or weeks?


It´s fuckin beautiful. Terraces of ricefields above and below. Scarified valleys. Steep. Overtaking thicket. Opening the surprise of a brigth view again. Some of them look more like an unsuccessful hair transplantation, thin and clear, some thick and intensively, want to stretch out my arm, out of the train´s window, digg it deep into the fields, to feel the luscious wet of fertility. Brown and green pattern, outlined camouflage. Monitored by transmittering towers, breaking in red and white. White bridges, bonded grey. Between small villages. Its beggars and poorest bumming around the metals. I want to jump off the train, just, to go straight, down, and up, swerving the hills and green carpeted rocks – after the volcanos my knees are ruined, so maybe more floating down rivers, on a Go-Go-Gadget-o backpack, lying on my back, with a bamboo rudder leaning on, a kretek between my lips, tasting the sweet of the land. Escape.
It´s fuckin beautiful.
How wonderful movement is.
Passing field workers with their tight machetes. Seem to be like sooooo satisfied with their basic humble life, working with nature, in this beautiful surrounding. Of course, not. Just accepting the how-it-is, maybe the how-it-is-so-far. Because there is surely no way out. Remaining afterlife.
Kids playing soccer. “It´s hit the post!” How many soccer fields there are, every village not less then a lot of. How popular an activity gets, by marketing, call it sports, but this is dreaming of a career in a global acting company.
Kids throwing stones at the train, for fun, illustrating why there are so many cracked windows on the train.
Locals taking their evening after work bath in a littered stream of a waters run. Small cabines, built on stakes, covered with advertisement canvas, connected by bambooed bridges to their basic home, serving as a toilet, straight down the stream. Passing head by head, kneeing, relaxing, reading newspaper, amazing! – Some events seem to be a really adventure to follow, because it is here, not at home, in the culture you grown up. Commenting my minds with a head-wag.
All the houses the train passes are fronted to to railroad. Selling local products, like food and handcrafts. Children playing on the metals with their kites, footballs or stones, grands sitting on a bench, maybe thinking of the change of life, or maybe just sitting there. It´s appears to me western, that we always think we think, people think, men thinks. Maybe it is not possible that men don´t think, but it is a impossibly task to think all the time, reflect, create, recreate, discuss, crazy fuzz of a vision´s ignorance. I do it anyway.
Thinking about their minds, what is crossing them now. A “Look at this stupid crazy white guy” or “What the fuck is he doing here” or “What the fuck is he doing here, get back to the mainroad”. Maybe. But maybe they are only friendly, not less. Sometimes it appears that they would offer their last bite, which they actually and literally already do, facing me as a white european. Maybe a little bit striking, disregarding the brokers called governments, governments shading the industry and their own small capitalism named democratic development and all the other parameters and criteria, but most of the time I feel like this, because I am white, a european with a fall back plan, if I want or not, a tourist, and I can´t help everyone, even I enjoy to stay, wander, meet and greet by heart. I enjoy my life here, what I never did back home. Leaving me in these days cultureless, reverberated on myself. I is a vanishing me, arriving at myself. My inside is a mirror, in which the ouside taken its set. It feels like I don´t think, but… I is a ticking bomb. Have to get heavily drunken soon.

Impression: She looks at my facebook-profile, spotting a picture of me with my beloved and missed beard. “Ha! You look loke Osama!” Same said my mother, years ago. Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, marketing of a prejudices is working fine and we all believe in the power of being reigned by hope.

Just because of this train trip from Bandung to Jakarta it was worth to make the stop-over, at a city, which reminds me to Athens, from upstairs of my accommodation. Widen, embraced by hilltops. No skyscrapers, rusty reflecting rooftops. Leaving the 24 hours jammed mainroads, entering the towns of districts in a city of millions, loosing myself again, literally, in a labyrinth of narrow corridors, short cornered walks, passing the frontdoors of the charming neighbourhood feels more like walking through their living rooms, not a district, jsut a huge living room. Sometimes feeling unsafe, without orientation, no maps working, no english speaking, but there are always smiles and invitation, greeting you from the far of a trash-dump. It´s dirty again, exhaling pollution, open-door designed garages, greasing the busy sidewalks, repairing preparing all different kinds of vehicles, constructions or whatever that is.
My feet are still a blistering raw mess. I wouldn´t mind a foot massage now, even I hate that intense touching, try to discover the structure and disstructure. Walking the daylight busting my pace, looking forward to have some relaxing days in Jakarta, 8 days, should be enough to catch the excitement in my heart, for an every day corner and look, maybe getting close to a daily life, just close, don´t wanna have it, no thanks.

Note: Have some bad writing and shooting days, too much work to do. Whether I want or not, the work keeps me on the road. Thank you, my beloved customers.

Tomorrow I will get some more tattoos, to keep menkind afraid, straight in your face, even though after a sign of smile in this part of the world, the frightened turn into friendly and curious people, ashaming me sometimes with their overwhelming hospitality. Some of them of them just keep on starring at me, appreciate their freezed categorizing do-not-know-what-to-do-or-how-to-react-and-why-the-hell-is-he-smiling loss. Makes me feel black again, human, let up the leashes, meeting my good old companion – “I am not a bloody Disneyland of hapiness and smiles!”

For me as a foreigners, I could have been tattooed all over my body – am I?, they wouldn´t look at me like a criminal. Being tattooed and local, similar to Europe, prejudices taking place. So I think, even if I don´t ike the idea, but my outside and the phobia is sometimes protecting me, a suit of armour. Not to bad at all.

“I love Indonesia.”
What a stupid good question.
“Describing differences… there they eat more sausages, more spicy food, there more soups or they deep-fry all kinds of creatures. This spot on the map has cooler areas… more humid climate, most beautiful beaches, rough or rocky, blooming or rainy… differences are global and all over.
So, it depends on. And you can find assholes everywhere. Haven´t found one yet.”


Yogyakarta, well, my first mission and most important things-to-do, there might be a lot of things to do, things, what an expression for experiences, inspirations, adventures, presents, life! – poor dear, Lonely Planet… have to admit, bought one, if you are traveling in a country like Indonesia, randomly covered with internet access and WIFI success – suckcess, if it is more than a modem connection or even equal, a travel guide is not that bad, just don´t trust it, take the recommandations as an advice, so you are not bored after, ending up at a place, adviced to be the opposite or there, not vanished like buildings, places or roads do, here in Asia. Still thanks for the adventure, Lonely Planet.
So, to keep on the phrasing, in Yogykarta my mission was not getting-around, my visa will be extended on the next day. Poor dear, Traveler, what is wrong, behave like it´s your first trip on the road. By the fact, that it´s not, maybe that´s the professionell way, not to get nervous, I will be fine, don´t worry, there is always another road to go, run or escape. By the way, you shouldn´t mess up with authorities in a country like Indonesia, I guess, sure about. Realizing that, too late, at the immigration office, at the entrance, a sign telling me NOT to enter with flip-flops, t-shirt or in shorts, looking down on me, asking myself, “Why? Why the hell I could be on that sign as a perfect example how not to show up at this place, headlined with EVEN NOT FOREIGNERS!. Stupid me. The officials at the entrance desk examine me from the bottom up, starring at an arrogant but questioning, apologizing and hope-gesturing face – like a cheeky dog, knowing exactly he is not allowed to shit in front of the door, but still maybe get the sausage – and pleading they gonna judge me as one of this “Stupid foreigners”. And act different. And they did. Unfriendly. Felt so ashamed, not rebelious at all or indifferent – Yes, I am a foreigner, so treat me as your guest with hospitality. If you want to get permission of authorities, you have to respect them like authorities, if you love the country or not. My best looking dog-face worked. Even though I didn´t print a evidence of my departure, cause I haven´t booked a flight yet. But they still handled my case, me and my stupid foreigner actor in a respectful manner. Tomorrow I will pick up my extension, hopefully, presenting my flight ticket. Means, I had to organize, plan my further trip, my next 30 days in Indonesia. Wasn´t happy about that, on an island like Java, huge, surprisable at every corner, with such a wide range of different places, characters and variety of choices you can make, it´s not a disadventure to stay independent, in your decisions.
So it was pretty clear, that I have to stay in Yogyakarta for at least 6 days. My longest stay until now on my travel through Java, from east to west. And I went prompt lazy, knowing, that this place can´t offer me a schedule for 5 days left. So what you gonna day with your laziness, or relaxation time, to call it in a more friendly way, after all that night trekking days. Surprisingly I got drunken the second night. Wobbling between a Classic Rock-Night – covering all kinds of rock classics and metal, and a Rock-Night, covers by a band called “Rescue – Trio Rockabilly”. First, after a couple of beers, I left the Rockabilly-Night, can´t stand that sound anymore, even the indonesian members of the band appeared quite likeable. But, didn´t want to miss the Classic-Rock, missing concerts, live metal acts, even if it´s classic rock, don´t mind, just give me some heavy! Lucifer´s is a tiny bar at the end of the popular backpacker road here in Yogyakarta, the Classic-Rock more popular for locals. And it was a jukebox, two fat books like bibles stored on a music stand. On tiny blue papers the band received the wishes of the audience, from Queen to Motörhead, no breaks between the songs at all, they just kept on blasting the bar. Me, sitting at the bar, of course, smiling. – Why all bartenders in Asia look like hookers? What a mindblow. Three foreigners enjoyed the stage. Three men. Looking like customers. Whatever. Age between mid-thirties and retirement. The retired one, hoary but still in a good shape, entered the bar like the main act. Fortunately he was not. Shaking hands of the band members, disturbing their show. They shaked back, friendly, but beyond you could spot an idea of shaking his arrogant appearance bloody. He turned to the audience and waved his arms, like a kingdom´s fool. No waving in return, just bored glances. He passed, hugged and greeted, “Thank you. Thanks, man.” Hahaha, what??? What a needy jackass, turned around, away, hoping that he is not searching for my company, for whatever his plan was. He kept on his show, talking indonesian and english, maybe for my attendance on his performance. “No english rock songs, we are in Indonesia, play indonesian songs!” – not wrong I admit, gesturing emphatic with his whole body, bashing the bar desk. An old version of Glenn Danzig. Two songs later his friend showed up. In a general way. So Glenn was supplied with his one-man fan club. Younger, blond, his appearance crushed by laziness, by the laziness of an abroad living pre-looser. The third one was more a classy. Suited in black, no golden necklace, the golden watch I suppose was enough indication. A mix of Frank Sinatra and an east-european criminal, who learned his lessons on the streets and now teaches. A smart smile, but not friendly by heart. With two pretty girls in his tow. Breaking the law. Best cover I heard so far. My first one. But the best part of the Lucifer´s night was, just as the band took his half-time, only the mumble of the drunken audience and the thanksgiving of beer bottles clearing the smoky shading, a women with a baby, carrying to her chest, entered the bar straight to the fan club and shouting on him in indonesian, in an obvious and not amused way. He was on stage now, Glenn took place behind a curtain, figuratively. Maybe he knew, just one wrong move and the audience would turn into a furious host. So he left, following his wife. Me, even more smiling. The rest of the night I hardly remember, drinking with the members of Rescue, tattoo artists and a manager you kept asking me if I really enjoyed the live act, because this kind of music is rare and not very popular in Indonesia.
Bad hang over day.
Choped down under the fan at sunrise, woke up at noon. Decided, still drunken, feared of wasting my time with one more night at the bars, to book the trekk on Mount Merapi. My second reason I came here for. Realizing, after the last drop of beer left my conciousness and the hang over was raming against, that was a worst decision, but I gotta go. Taping my blisters, drinking liters of water, soyamilk and coffee. Taking naps. And doing my work-out, a powerless try to sweat out the bill. At 10 p.m. the driver picked me up, three hours later the trekk started. I don´t know how, but I reached the top for sunrise, sober. Climbing up at night has one advantage, you never see how far you have to go, just keep on going, up, up and up, step by step. Volcano number four presenting at ascend no differences in comparison. Tough work, ashy, cursing the messy ashtray of the last night, especially at the end, the last part, on sandy boulders, sinking, taking two steps for one. On the top you always get the reward. Cold, windy, freezing wet of sweat. Impressed. Sunrise, well yes, its a sunrise, like sunsets at the beach, getting used of it. But sitting on the edge of a crater, of an active volcano, forecasted to erupt again in the next two years, sulphuric air, again, clouds being whiped by the altitude´s rough reign, feels just fucking amazing. Not small, not humble, but weak, weak and fractured, like the crater´s edge. Feeling strong inside.
As I returned to the guesthouse, sleep was my day. And the next day. Missing the city of Yogyakarta, the corners and backyards, the temples and royality. It´s a kingdom´s setup, so, I take that for an excuse to take days off. I got a pool in the backyard, great food and a view on a church. – Ask why I need an excuse, haven´t found an answer yet. Don´t need to. Just do what I want to.
Charging energy.
The volcanos are my addiction in Indonesia. Number four is not the last one. The night climbs are a solace. Never felt so lonely, it´s a lonely planet, rolling down the road.


Surabaya, my place of solace. A show-off.
Black riots of noise, dirt and gear.
Praying. Barking. Dusting.
A sight of construction.
Calls of “Hello, Mister!” – Thumbs up “Good!” – “Photo. Photo.” Not interested in seeing the shoot at all, only about being shooted, smiling at an unknown face, at an unknown place, in a different culture, someday at a that-was-my-travel slide show, inviting the world to see Surabaya and its crazy inhabitants, hanging around on rickshaws, benches or perforated sideways. Maybe.
Sideways? Walk on the road is a better choice, drunken or not. Haven´t seen tourist during my stay. Not a charming, sightseeing city in general.
Busy. There is always a truck, car, rickshaw, bemo or bicycle to get loaded or unloaded.
Dirty. A churned backyard of a hell´s kitchen. My feet looked like the inner of an exhaust. Two days of walking, until the hard skin was a bloody storage of a blister field. Walking on blood, greasy! But who fuckin cares, didn´t wanna a miss the corner, the next and the passed. My head a sun´s high noon. A hardness test for my flip-flops.
Ordinary and unique. Browsing around, getting lost in the narrow
variety of colors, hidden neighbourhoods, inspiring a city of paradises, with its open air kitchens and small gardens, leveled, hanging, roof-shaped.
Inviting. Stopped counting how often I was pleased to join, at one of the hundreds warungs, for kopi, beer, nasi or a smoke. Police men presenting me bottles of water, like on a marathon man´s run, reminding me to moisten the drain of my dry ripped innards. Gaging on pollution. My cambodian scarfs again saved my sweat. My white shirt seems to absorb still the yellow of the sulphur trekk. Weird.
Running into roadworkers, young men, wearing metalshirts and -caps, tried to but “No”, no answer. Maybe Surabaya only brings up metal bands, but has no stage, to praise the lords. No sign of a dark place, pub, club or garage, only facebook profiles, no message, no respond. A dissapointment. Even though after a day of torturing my feet, maybe would have been a short mass. Fixies, Skaters, BMX riders, street dancers… but no english, no melting stage.
No nightlife, no disasters, no mayhem, no angels in black, no noise puking masters. Unfortunately.
Surabaya, I love you!


Man! I can only imagine what a fuck-up it must be, here on top of a volcano´s stage, named Bromo, to be gay, surrounded by farmers, riders, bikers and 4-wheelers, by wide scattered villages, built on rankly ash. Gay and a trekking guide, apperently, fortunately and surprisingly respected by his fellows. After working 2 years in a gay bar in Kuta on Bali as a dancer, he tells me with his voice of an old everlasting smoking and scotch crushing lady – have to admit, steamy, clear, with his bright mushroomed eyes of a sunset.
But, still, why me again? I just arrived, looked in the beauty of the volcano, as he opened his curtains, slowly, during the ride up on the edges of its trenches… come on! Let me fall in love with this woo-place. But no, he was an interesting gay, guy, guide whatever as well, of course, but massaging, kissing my neck with his hand on my cock. Damn! No way! “Not with or without mushrooms, no, my friend!” Not even in a room, with you mush in my touched heart, amazed, again by an hot pore of earth, can´t believe what traveling offers me again, feeling so much gratitude, in place. And please, without a horny lonesome gay in my crutch.
Something might be about my appearance, I don´t know. Just. Leave me alone all of you sexual needs, I-DON´T-NEED! Not women, not man, my lovebomb-tattoo is only a joke, irony, sarcasm, HELL! Is it the mustache? With the beard, women were scared of this biker son of a bitch look, now I am gay, seriously?! I need more tattoos. Can´t wait for that.

Down on the edges again. Twisting roads, fall of grace. Left and right the brink of the earth´s energy. A bunch of racing bikers crucifying them up, what an offical exhausting, without an audience, but flanked by one police motorbike and guided by one police car. It´s sunday, maybe that´s what they do, the police officers, to show sympathy, pluging the holes of corruption. Who knows, me not. Fun at all. One turn later six guys on their three motorbikes following, the guys on the back presenting polished black rifles stamped on their thighs. A men´s hunt. Passing towers of loud speakers, laced, to a celebration´s show-off, rendering music or the speech of a cowardly appearing drunken, bearded, red-eyed guy, hanging around alone on a bench at the street, not the last speech today, for sure! It´s a sunday morning in South East Asia and I fucking could scream, devoted to the craziness, the impact of cultures.

In Probolinggo, the starting point for the trip up to Bromo, I got cheated twice. I am not sure why I have to mention that or write down. You get always cheated, even if it´s only kind of, beside the big cheating of life – don´t, drama queen! I wouldn´t call it cheated, jump on the local transportation for example you often pay more than the locals, getting the worst seat on the bus, or more the same seat like all of them, but it´s just not western sized. So, the bonus you pay is for the must-have-adventure, for using the local´s way and that they stand the curiosity and excitement about their way of life. I paid all in all five euros more than I had to, or not, or expected or whatever local pricing. THe bad part of it, I couldn´t stop thinking about, because I still am not the beat of the road, just a passenger of my way… a blind one, I hate this guy, bumming around and moaning like a home. I never care about overpricing, I am even not pissed if they just lie face to face, telling me, that this is the common price, “For tourists” – “No. Trust me.” Hell, I don´t discus about less than a beer costs. But, the passenger was talking certainly…

– Look out the window, enjoy the unbelievable and inspiring view.
– But there has to be a line you and others don´t cross!
– He is a fuckin good driver. Couldn´t hardly walk up that narrows of a road and in no case managing the two-way traffic. Don´t you fucker annoy me, I want to enjoy!
– I won’t be a party to that.
– That guy will not buy a house because of the three euros, and even then, I would wish him good luck. He maybe buys him a bottle of booze, you should understand that, bad ass.
– That is not the point! I am not greedy!
– No? So what is the point?
– There has to be a line! I have to work everyday for money and moving on, too.
– Yes, I have. I earn three euros in around 10 minutes or less. He earns it in half a day.
– But –
– I know, to afford living here is different.
– Yes!
– But I live here! Can I just stop, I miss all the beautiful part of the ride, for what I would pay a tip at the end as well.
– But this is different!
– Argh. SHUT-UP! It´s three fucking euros!!! I don´t drink a beer tonight so you get it back, ok? You know as we know, that he rips us off.
– But I want to drink! You are the part who always doesn´t want to, stay sober to stay present. That´s not a deal! You are just sneaky to bargain with him in a tough way, with consequences.
– I started and he walked away, he rejected to drive us and I didn´t wanna sit around for the next hours at a bus station, keeping all the hawker´s trays out of my sight and asking myself why I sit now here instead of enjoying that view! Or do I get up to Bromo today or do I have to find a place to sleep at the stinky foot of the mountain area. This doesn´t have something to do with being sneaky, maybe I am lazy, old, or just tired!
– Lazy is not a better excuse.
– Tells me the guy, who wants to get drunken all nights. I don´t need an excuse!
– Fuck you! I am sweating! I paid for the whole bus, for all the fucking smiling locals, hear them thinking and laughing, “Look, that is the stupid foreigner, who paid for all of us.”
– Racist.
– What?
– Argh. Even if they think so, beside that, maybe they just want to be friendly, but, ok, even if, do they look like greedy persons? Like you? With your grim face?
– I am not greedy! You just don´t follow the rules!
– What rules? Written down in a stupidity of a guide book, telling you, “Don´t get busted!” The locals don´t earn it. They only try to make business with tourists. Ha? Ha?!!! How bad behaviour! The poor locals try to make business, want to have a part of the cake, changing their taste of culture, to save their living.
– How you know?
– Oh Christ!
– Don´t say that word!
– Fuck you!
– I know you hate that money talk, but, I have to take care of us or you wanna fly back to germa –
– Don´t you say that word! And it is buffaloshit, I don´t have to because of three or in the end 30 euros monthly lost by getting cheated. Your nights are fucking more expensive and you wanna tell me that we also should stop donating, or what? Where is the difference and we get something in return as well.
– Maybe that´s why you are such a… Great! We arrived, where is the mini-bar!
– Yes, great! Thanks for the pleasure talking to you instead of enjoying the ride. THANKS MYSELF SO MUCH!

science fiction

Leaving Kuta, leaving Bali, leaving that placed called itself home in my shallow desires of an easy life, but home as usual as always caging, choking me, you westernized scumwhole, upsetting me in a lost way, a trip without one deep breath. Unexceptional short, fast honks, nor groaning. So leaving with no welcome at the end, glad to get rid of that long legged beauty shit and try another road, exploring, not licking, figuratively, for sure – that´s the point, man!

So. A six hours ride on the local bus, no AC, no toilet, no toilet stops, with souvenir stalls and waiting, for what or whom ever, waiting, how great, I feel dismissed and right in place, on my uncomfortable, dirty seat of a leather´s circumstance.

Arriving at Banyuwangi felt freeing myself. No tourist information, nobody who took care after drop me off the bus, even was interested about my arrival at the opposite of the bus terminal. Honest hospitality gave me a ride to the hotel. “How much is it?” – “Up to you my friend, I am not a driver. – 20?” The room reminding me of my travel through Myanmar, basically cleaned dirt, no hot shower, no toilet paper, no mini-bar, sadly. Felt still baptist, sacrificing my next steps here in Indonesia.
On 1 a.m. next day, get a pick up, car transportation to the gate of an amazing, the most super-fantastic trekk I did so far, up the Ijen volcano, down the crater, to the acid lake.
No guide, just me, the other tourists, locals and abroads, and the slippery grey covered ashed road up to the caldera – burned hell. Following the spot of my headlamp, leaving the others behind, still can´t pace down, always take the gradient of an upheaval element personal, as a challenge, “You won´t dig me under your greatness, arrogant bitch of an hillside!” Unpatient reviewing the aging days. Welcome goal! Who cares about the way, it´s fucking dark. In the colorless shine of the ascent cheerful dust fluttering like dry flames of crust, pasting earthy humidity. A clear sky, jabed by a myriad of lightning eternity. Passing browsing spots. “See you on the top.” – “Or in hell, haha.” It´s getting colder. I just feel the heat of excitment, reaching the top, descending to the crater. Passing resting areas. Passing incredible views down the trenched darkly green to the resting lights of earth. Just can imagine, the fall, down the drain of hell. I smell the fire. A mix of urine and burned black powder, like the day after new year. As I arrived at the top, the moon was still enlightening the blast beaten fortress of an erupted crust, like a sharp teethed roar of a devil´s yab. Can´t wait to see that after sunrise, I thought while walking on the sheer leaped lips. Searching the way, the path, down to the lake, down the crater. A sign prohibits tourists to go down. Every tourist goes down, that´s you are climbing up for. But I have to admit, for a second I had to put my courage together, watching blue steaming light down there, at a volcano´s place. You don´t jump in to it like in a pool. The smell is getting stronger and more scratchy in my throat. Hell bless my cambodian scarf, bandaging my face, placing my headlamp from the forehead on my mouth to keep the scarf fixed. Stepping down, the stones are polished by the worker´s footsteps, decades of mining. Around 300 workers carrying sulphur the whole day up the crater, down the 2,000 feet, in baskets, two of them, connected with bamboo sticks, on their shoulders, weighing around 70 to 90 kg of hardened yellow sulphur, for around 8 Dollars a day. As a part time job, some of the workers are farmers, working on the coffee plantations, planted on the fertile landscape surrounding the Ijen volcano complex. Others told me, they do it because of tradition, their fathers did it and their fathers and – so kind of family business, or an never ending spiral of poverty. No company runs it or even takes care of health treatment, like at least supporting them with proper masks, glasses, cable car for transportation, whatever. They get income by delivering the sulphur down the volcano, from there it´s transported to a small factory, where it´s packed and send to manufacture. Sulphur is mostly needed for cosmetic products. They need the sulphur. The workers would just have to set up a company and sell it, to their terms and pricing – yes, just like that, without money and, I suppose, supporters in the government. Easy if they have to take care of their own, depended, slaved.
Arriving at the bottom, at the shores of the sulphuric acid lake, the steam, thick toxic clouds whipping around, turning directions of the acid impact windy. It´s remained dark, enlighten eventually by the blue fire, if the steam doesn´t cover the sight, by flashes of the cameras, of arriving and more like leaving people. “I have to get out of here.” “Warte doch mal, nicht so schnell.” – Ich will aber hier raus!” Coughing. Strong. Dry. The scarf helps a shit, but I take all what I get, just something, which protects breathing. The blue fire is explaining me in a straight and unmistakably way where I am. In the yab. Getting closer, impressed, hypnotized. The fucking cloud swallowing me again, the steam is not hot, or warm, it is burning, can´t believe, I was just suprised, not like a boy on christmas – Jesus, my eyes! Like tear gas, like the devil in person spits you in your face. Breathing is hardly possible, but you suck more, feeling like asphyxiating, sucking more in, blowing your lungs, seizing with dryness. HELL!!! It´s pain and an adventurer, so I stay. Me and the first worker finaly. Just felt like I can´t leave him alone here – and maybe I get the perfect picture. I even left after a while, feeling sick. So left the spot, stumbling, out of breath, worrying about my health, my further travel – no, no way, just did get more in panic, captured again and again by the hell´s whip. On the half way up, the sun already rised. Looking back, running into more workers, friendly greeting, descending, I went back again, overwhelmed by that place. Day lightens now the yellow sulphur, hackled looks like a sort of pumpkin. Stayed with the workers. Watching, how they are fighting with the elements, with their own weakness of an element. Breathing. Respiring, rising out of the clouds. Protecting is impossible if you are inside. The acid steam is just everywhere. I feel dizzy, wanna rub my eyes, even I know that doesn´t change anything. Try to see, nothing, just steam, thick, no sun, no daylight, not even a sight. Stumble around, open my hands to protect my eyes, feel my camera leaving my snatch, hear a dull noise. Down on my knees, coughing heavily, Christ, Hell!!! Where am I? Where is the lake, the red yellow crispy source, the frozen devil´s spit, the workers are diging for. Is their anything acid around I could loose my skin, my flesh to? Seconds of minutes are passing, before I can see, munition, cartridges, the parts of pipes they use for mining. A warzone. I gotta go, can´t stand anymore, feared of collapsing, need to drink something, eat or just do something to feel getting healthy again, to ease the throat by producing wetness.
Out of the crater I realize where I am… on the top of a volcano paradise. Fucking amazing. All this pores, widening, opened by the core of nature, by the elements of the earth. A fresh morning sky winding clouds over the caldera´s smoothly rough edge, traversed by the lava, green waves, tending down humble, from the center of, I don´t find another name for, HELL!
Taking the trail down, passing all the tourists, guided up, passing all the workers starting their work, selling small turtles made carved of sulphur, maybe soaps? I not sure, but what I know for sure is, I don´t wanna hold that acid in my hands, even if it´s not… after a couple of hours, back at the hotel, after a beautiful ride back, passing fields of coffee, mango trees, chocolate, vanilla, papaya, chili, cropmand what else more plantations, terraces, multistaging rice fileds, what a wonerful world!!! so bak at the hotel, still struggling… drinking, feeling dry but in a beautiful way explored, by myself, my inside, my road again is talking to me. Thank you, Hell!