Changi International Airport Wonderland

A seven-hour layover from 11 pm to 6 am? Worst thing ever? Wrong. Welcome to Changi International Airport Wonderland in Singapore. I have never had more fun pulling an all nighter. I’m not sure where exactly where Singapore got all the money for this airport, but I’m pretty sure if they sold entrance tickets, people would buy them. I know I definitely would. Let me tell you why. First of all, Changi has eight gardens: Butterfly Garden, Fern Garden, Orchid Garden, Garden, Cactus Garden, Piazza Garden, Sculpture Tree Garden and Lily Pad Garden.



This made my inner hippie extremely happy, and any airport that needs a separate map for it’s gardens get like a million green stars in my book. And in case you are a bit sore from traveling on trains and sleeping on ferries for three weeks, there are free foot massages in every single hallway. You couldn’t avoid them even if you had severe foot massage phobia.

The shopping felt like you were in NYC, but I didn’t care about that at all, especially since I have three flights coming up where I was trying to not only check a bag at least 5 kg overweight, but also board with three carry-ons (Thanks Malin! Your method of stuffing several bags in a trash bag and counting it as one carry on really worked! Although I did get some funny looks from fancy Singaporean ladies). Anyways, after a dinner where we literally had our choice of at least twenty types of cuisine, a lovely stroll in the sunflower garden and several foot massages, Marco and I headed to the movie theater for a free movie. Because of course airports have free movie theaters. Come on DTW, get it together! I’m not even sure how it’s possible to not have enough time on a 7 hour layover, but Marco and I were having so much fun we almost missed our flight. And we didn’t even get to try out the video game station (not that I would ever do this), send free e-postcards or go for a dip in the pool. #firstworldproblems

Jakarta: 50 Cents Saved My Life

After we finally reached land, our Romanian friend Alex made it his personal mission to find a taxi that would charge us a fair price. Easier said than done at midnight in Jakarta. He used his Eastern European strong-arming skills to get us a taxi for only double the normal price (usually it’s about 4 x local price for tourists). This was fine for Alex and Lauren who had a handy map to track where the taxi was taking us, and less fine for Marco and me who were stuck with a mad taxi driver after they got dropped off.

Jakarta is not a friendly city late at night, and prostitutes lines the streets as our taxi drove us through questionable and scary neighborhoods. Our hearts stopped as our driver started speeding down a road in the wrong direction after what seemed like at least ten minutes longer than the ride was supposed to take. My phone was completely out of money, but that didn’t stop me from making an angry and assertive fake phone call, rattling off the taxis ID number and whatever street signs I could make out. I prayed to Allah, Buddha and all the Hindu gods I could remember from the Asian cultural museum since I wasn’t exactly sure whose district we were in. The driver ignored our pleas to stop the car or call our couchsurfing host and we’re still not sure if he was hard of hearing or was planning on turning us in for tourist prize money. Marco finally violently tapped him on the arm and he stopped the car and begrudgingly called our host to get better directions. I held my breath for the next ten minutes and grabbed Marco’s hand tightly—especially when he stopped in a dark alley and left the car for what seemed like eternity without any explanation. It turns out he was calling our host Ira, who appeared in her nightgown and white headscarf like a goddess sent to save us. We gave the driver his fare and then gave him an extra 5000 rupiah (50 cents). We said thank you, but our faces said “this tip is for not killing us or giving up when we got lost and dropping us in a dark alley”.

Even though we only stayed at Ira’s for one night, she was the most warm and kind host you can imagine. Even though it was 1 am, she stayed up and fed us Indonesian layer cake and hot ginger milk. We went to bed exhausted but happy to have survived the ferry and the taxi. We would have liked to spend more time with Ira in her quaint traditional Muslim neighborhood, but the next morning we were on the go again, this time to Java’s popular city of Yogyakarta.

Ira's Neighborhood (Scary at night, lovely in the daytime) 

Pulau Batam and The Ferry: Hygiene Optional

Despite everyone’s advice to fly from Singapore to Java, we decided to take the Ferry for the “experience”. The Ferry did not disappoint. It was definitely an experience. For starters, the Ferry terminal was a swelteringly hot old warehouse packed with close to a thousand people and their luggage (including giant boxes containing refrigerators, wares of all sorts and probably illegal immigrants). Of those thousand people there were four Caucasians and one Indonesian looking Peruvian. We quickly made our acquaintances with Alex and Lauren (two Romanian bankers who decided to quit their jobs and travel for a year, and Neil, an English biker who is biking around the world in four years (here is his facebook in case you don’t believe that this is a real person).

Waiting for the boat was nothing compared to boarding. We inched forward, one giant huddled mass, with suitcases on peoples heads and personal space a far-off western myth.

When Chris and I took the Trans-Siberian last summer, he referred to “platskart” (third class sleeper), as a refugee camp. The sleeping conditions on this boat brought that reference to a whole new level. The filthy, stinking boat was filled to the brim with passengers and trash, food and bugs littered the remaining corners and crevices. We quickly found out that we had bought our tickets too late to receive a bed, and were forced to scramble for floor or deck space, along with the other three hundred third class passengers who were overflow. We found a fantastic spot. And by fantastic I mean a cockroach-infested stairwell with a dirty hard floor to sleep on. And yet we felt like kings because we weren’t being rained on like the people on the deck, we had a tiny space in the wall that leaked air conditioning from the first class restaurant and were inhaling a bearable 6^th deck stench rather than the nauseating cloud of awfulness that emanated from the 4^th and 5^th deck bathrooms into the stairwells.

"Camp"

The Romanians joined us, which created quite the spectacle for the other passengers on the boat. They were both confused as to why we weren’t in first class and curious about where we came from and where we were traveling. Three adorable kids followed Marco all the way back to our “camp” and enthusiastically practiced their English and kept us entertained for hours with silliness and card games. They called us “Miss” and “Mister” and patiently helped us translated our questions into Indonesian using Marco’s translator app.

Exploring the huge boat was lots of fun as soon as I got used to the stares and smiles from everyone on board. I think I was the first Caucasian many of these people had seen. The boat came furnished with a cheesy Karaoke “bar”, a Mosque on the top deck, and a kitchen that served terrible food (rice, cabbage and a fish head for three meals in a row makes ramen seem amazing). Even though barely anyone spoke a word of English, people made a huge effort to help me get back to the “camp” when I got lost in the huge maize of stairwells and hallways and asked around for the best way to get back to the city.

Tastes even worse than it looks

Coffee in a can

The boat ride as a whole was probably one of the most disgusting experiences in my life. You know it’s bad when people go to the bathroom to pee and throw up instead because of the smell (TMI?). I’m not sure we would have made it without the China Oel (thanks Mom!). You also know it’s bad when you can have a cockroach smashing competition in your sleeping quarters. But so far, this was also the most inspiring and humbling experience of our trip. The people we shared 3^rd class with were the kindest, most genuine people I’ve ever met in my life. We sat around drinking coffee out of tin cans, communicating with smiles and laughter even though we had not common language and passing the unbearable thirty hours as best we could.  I’m not sure I’d do it again because of certain…ahem…hygiene issues, but long after the stench has faded we are left with a lot of wonderful memories with our new Indonesian friends. I’m even considering teaching English after Fulbright now. For the first time in my life, I truly understand why it’s important and how much education can change people’s lives.

Singapore: Food Tourism Galore

Thosai for Breakfast

As soon as we arrived in Singapore everyone got off the train and started sprinting toward the exit as if the lion from the Singapore night Safari got loose or whoever reached the exit first got to import gum. Welcome to Singapore. We were baffled by the sight of three hundred people sprinting at once and and well...when in Singapore do as the Singaporeans do. It turns that the only prize at the end of the race was getting a slightly shorter wait in the line at immigration. Except if you forget to fill out the right form because it's your first time to Singapore. Then the sprint is just a pre-workout for all the food you're about to eat.

Our Amazing hosts!

First time I ever drank Barley...it was surprisingly good!

Other than it’s fascinating mix of Chinese, Malay and Indian cultures, the main reason to go to Singapore is to eat. Just go to the food stalls with the longest line or ask a Singaporean to choose the dishes for you (see below). We simply didn't have enough to try everything, but we tried by eating as many dishes as possible during each meal.

Singapore truly is a food tourist’s dream. I'm looking at you Chris and Moira :) We stayed at Hotel Li Hui (aka my friend’s apartment) and were completely spoiled by a night safari in the jungle, dinner with a view of the Singapore skyline and a relaxing walk in Singapore’s beautiful botanical garden.

The endless supply of hot showers, cappuccinos and a working laundry machine wasn’t bad either. Traveling in Southeast Asia will make you appreciate those things like never before. I remember when my sister Sara traveled to India she wrote us a postcard that said if a genie granted her three wishes she would wish for three showers. I've never understood that until this trip. So thank you Singapore for your modern amenities, for not fining us even though we jay walked all over the place and for a rejuvenating and literal breath of fresh air that allowed us to rest up for the thirty hour ferry journey to Indonesia (which none of our friends in Singapore believed to be legal and/or exist).

                                                   

Kuala Lumpur: The Laughing Taxi Driver

Kuala Lumpur, or K.L. was a shiny, modern culture shock. After three days on the train, we looked like dirty hobos compared to KL’s squeaky clean streets and flushable toilets. Luggage lockers allowed us to have a few arm-swingingly free hours to explore the city with it’s many Mosques, ethnic neighborhoods and delicious fried bread called “Roti”. It’s always fun to order something random on the menu. Fried dough with delicious melted cheese in the center? Could have definitely been worse. Our splurge for this trip was staying in a hotel on the water (not on the beach, but literally tiny houses on posts in the ocean itself-see my cover picture on Facebook for a visual reference). I guess we must have really looked disheveled from our three days on the train, because the previously silent taxi driver not only assertively tried to drop us off at two cheaper place first, but laughed uncontrollably when we insisted on being dropped of at the Golden Palm Resort. It’s not everyday that two broke looking college students with a Marshalls bag for luggage ask to be dropped at a fancy hotel.

I assumed the place would be swarming with American and European tourists, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Again we were the 1%, this time surrounded by wealthy Chinese families. I guess all the profits from China’s economic progress have to go somewhere. Feeling completely pampered we slept on actual pillows rather than folded up sweatshirts and even took two showers in one day. Craziness. Leisurely strolls along the beach, endless Chinese hot pot for dinner and a pool under the stars with live singers in the background wasn’t bad either. And yes, “Party in the USA” and “Call me Maybe” really can get worse. Oh Asian hotel singers, you have done the impossible. Of course we also made the most of our stay by sneaking ramen into our room to avoid the expensive dining and stretching the all you can eat buffet breakfast to both lunch AND dinner. Hey, don’t judge. We have Singapore to save for (apparently almost as expensive as the US). We’ve been preparing ourselves for the sticker shock after street snacks by the dime in Thailand and three-dollar shoes in Malaysia (Another note to self: even though the outside of your backpack has two perfectly sized pockets for your flip-flops, this doesn’t help you when you board the train and realize that only one flip flop has survived the day. I guess that’s your tip Ganesan. Thanks for an excellent taxi ride!).

Butterworth: Marco is secretly Malaysian

The bus from Hat Yai dumped us at the side of the highway, leaving us wondering if we were even in the right country much less the right city. Luckily, we were just a few minutes from the train station. And tickets to Kuala Lumpur for the same day were still available! Score! However, that didn’t make us feel much better about spending the next 14 hours in Butterworth, just a stones throw away from the Island of Georgetown which “retains more of its cultural history than virtually anywhere else in the country, with a host of beautiful colonial buildings to admire”. But we weren’t about to risk the three-hour Ferry queue making us late for our train. Especially since we had snatched a few of the last high-commodity night train tickets. The Australians with their three huge suitcases were not so lucky. Less is more. I hope they brought a gallon of hand sanitizer, a huge gaming desktop, a rollaway bed or something else useful that made lugging around 50 kg worth it.  Anyways, we were stuck in the industrial town of Butterworth, despite people shaking their heads in dismay when we asked them what we could see or do there. Exploring was made significantly more difficult by the fact that we only had Thai currency on a day when all the money exchange kiosks were closed. Time to get really excited about two-person card games. Or go on a monumental quest for an ATM so we could eat lunch. Totally worth it. Malaysian food is a wonderful blend of Indian, Chinese and Malay cuisine. Ann Arbor: please open a Malaysian restaurant so that Marco and I can eat all the things on our Malay food bucket list that we didn’t have time to try.

Although most people in Malaysia speak English, I felt like more of an outsider that I ever have before. It probably didn’t help that we were completely outside the tourists areas. Conversations fell silent and heads turned as I walked by, which led to some really weird thoughts forming in my head “Do I have a really obvious wedgie?”, “Does my hair really look as greasy as it feels?”, and “Would it be worth it to wear a long sleeved shirt even though it’s 100 degrees so I won’t be the only one showing my arms?” I would have paid good money for a nice light-weight sari. Not that anyone would have accepted my Thai baht. Marco on the other hand fit in like he’d lived there all his life. Apparently his Malaysian friend in Michigan thought he was Malay before they got to know each other. So as long as Marco didn’t surprise people by speaking English without a Malaysian accent, I just looked like the Malaysian dude’s unassimilated American friend. Better than two tourists lost in Butterworth all day.

Bangkok: Our Southeast Asian Adventure Begins

You know those top ten lists that pop up on facebook all the time? I usually ignore them, but recently one caught my eye “Top Ten Places to Travel in your Twenties”. One of them was a traveling through Southeast Asia, eating deliciously cheap street food (tums madatory), opening your mind to the blend of cultures and religion and making new friends through couchsurfing, getting lost and relying on friendly locals, and striking up a conversation with the other foreigners who also had no idea all the trains were booked because of a big Muslim holiday. So here we are, recent and almost graduates, broke and exhausted from the long, caffeine induced nights of undergrad and ready for an adventure filled with hours of reflection on rickety trains, comical misunderstandings involving innovative sign language and inspiring encounters with locals, fellow travelers and each other.

Bangkok marked the starting point of our three-week adventure through Southeast Asia. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so lost and uneducated in my life. I realized after a few hours that this is the very first time I’ve traveled somewhere without understanding the script or any part of the language of the place I am visiting. When I moved to Sweden I at least knew how to say “fish” and “thank you” (really the only two words that matter in Scandinavia). According to Marco, my sentences are much too complicated to be understood by non-native English speakers. It’s been a steep learning curve, but now instead of asking “At what time in the evening do you start your last Thai massage?”, I use Marco’s version: “Close. Night. When.” (Add bold sign language for less confusion). Engineers. Why are they so good at everything?!?

Another thing Marco and I learned is not to underestimate is the difficulty and need for extreme flexibility while traveling during Muslim holidays. Our BNB host insists that every weekend people are celebrating some sort of Buddhist, Muslim or Hindu holiday. Perks of living in a country with many faiths. The more faiths, the more vacation! The importance of this particularly holiday was quite apparent by the lack of train tickets to Butterworth, Malaysia for an entire week (we still don’t really know what the holiday is, although we’ve asked at least five people and received different versions depending on the religion and occupation of the person. Taxi drivers pick the longer version of the holiday in order to charge higher fares for the whole week, whereas the train conductor assured us it was already basically over and that we’d have no problems purchasing tickets at the next station). Even though Bangkok is filled with fun water taxis and beautiful Buddhist Temples, we decided to take a train south to Hat Yai and try our luck there. Our travel book gave Hat Yai glowing reviews such as “especially out of bounds due to political unrest and threat of terrorism” and a “no-go zone” and “not recommended for travel because of violent attacks happening almost on a daily basis” (Note to self: next time read travel book BEFORE buying train tickets and NOT at the beginning of the 17-hour train ride that gives you 16 hours to come up with possible terrifying scenarios of what could happen in Hat Yai). Marco decided based on the cost and effect equation for terrorist they would attack in the afternoon when more people are out and about. Since we were arriving at 8 am, we decided we’d be fine. Two University of Michigan students travel through a terrorist zone and justify their safety based on terrorists probably wanting to have a leisurely breakfast. The Michigan difference.
P.S. This information will probably make my mother lose many hours of sleep. Especially applicable to those readers who live with her and are her patients. Remember, a sleep deprived Dr. Molly will probably make you drink a Swedish bitters cocktail or do shots of kale essence with her. But all’s well that ends with two tourists being conned into paying way too much for a bus to Butterworth since the train in Hat Yai didn’t realize the holiday was over and was still fully booked. Other than Marco being asked a million questions at the Malaysian border while I basically just walked in. Perks of looking like a totally naive American tourist. ‘MURICA!