Bali: In Search of Harmony

Just about any twenty/thirty-something, single/divorced girl has read it: Eat, Pray, Love – Elizabeth Gilbert’s hopeful narrative about an unsatisfactory marriage followed by the excruciating divorce and subsequent rebound relationship, which all led to her 9-month excursion to the three I’s: Italy, India and Indonesia. Italy for good living. India for spirituality. Indonesia for the balance of the two. For many women in my generation, it is Gilbert’s now famous trip to Bali, Indonesia, that put the island on our radar screen. I’d be too proud to say that it’s the sole reason Rylynn and I chose the purported paradise (too obvious, of course). But I’m sure somewhere – buried not-so-deep in our subconscious – we too believed that a blushingly rich Brazilian ex-pat might sweep us off our feet and rescue our lives from misdirection, uncertainty and love-less-ness. Well, that’s not going to happen. We didn’t meet any Brazilians. But we did meet four gay Malaysians… and Hendry. Hendry, our Balinese tour guide, is the key to unlocking the mystery of Bali’s good vibes.

Back to Hendry in a moment, but first, let’s re-set the scene (that’s called a ‘tease’ in TV news jargon). The three days of hapless traveling to Bali, which included, but is not limited to: a missed flight, a new ticket purchased to Bali, overweight luggage, unpacking in the airport, shipping items to potentially incorrect mailing address in Korea, repacking at the airport, 20-hour Kuala Lumpur layover, purchasing ANOTHER ticket to Bali, and finally – arrival – 58 hours later with about five hours left on my 30th birthday. It is not the way I pictured Bali. Neither did I envision the three days of torrential downpours (it is considered the dry season here). Nor did I expect to come down with the stomach bug you hear about getting from third world drinking water.

Things were not going well in Kuta, a southern Balinese beach town that you might call a mini-Cancun, Mexico. This party village buzzes with a frenetic energy – a cacophony of loud Aussies, reckless motor scooters, and pushy shopkeepers. I liked Kuta. It was the perfect antidote to too-perfect Japan. Unfortunately, I just wasn’t getting any of those famous ‘good vibes’ until we met Hendry. Hendry reminds me of the Indian Ocean version of Lou Diamond Philips (playing singer Ritchie Valens) in La Bamba with his beaming big smile and his hair coiffed in a ‘50s style comb-over. Hendry was taking us a on a day tour of northern Bali, where he grew up. In fact, he’s still so connected to the area that he asked for permission to stop by his cousin’s house to make an offering for the three-month anniversary of his niece’s birth. An unorthodox request, for sure, but we were more than happy to oblige (and to get more personal insight into his culture). Hendry guided us along a nine-hour trek from the southern end of Bali to the north, where we stopped to see a Hindu temple on a lake, a natural hot spring, wild monkeys, a Balinese lunch buffet, a locally famous waterfall, and rice terraces. All worthwhile ventures.

But more than that, Hendry gave us insight into his island’s spiritual core. Contrary to the rest of Muslim-majority Indonesia, most Balinese practice Balinese Hinduism. As a Christian-raised American, I always believed Hinduism was a polytheistic religion, in which the followers worship many gods. Hendry described his religion as monotheistic (Indian Hinduism is different and has several variations - some of which are considered monotheistic). In Bali, there is a supreme god. However, the followers do pray to three other main gods, which are essentially manifestations of the supreme god: Brahma – god of creation; Shiva – god of destruction; Vishnu – god of protection. The burning question in our minds: if they are Hindu, why do we see so many Buddha statues for sale around the island? Is it a mere ploy for tourists? I’ll summarize Hendry’s response: “we really like Buddha too. Buddhism is very similar to Hinduism in some ways, so sometimes we also pray to him as a god.”

This immediately struck me as a novel concept. Religious harmony? Two spiritual belief systems co-existing, even thriving, in the same environment? One worshipper, not threatened nor challenged by another religion, but inspired by its teachings? Does he just not take his faith seriously? Hendry, as well as most of the islanders, do not seem like one-day-a-week religious practitioners. Their religion is constant yet un-intrusive. I’ve never seen spiritual practice so gracefully woven into everyday life. Let me give a few examples.

The people make three offerings a day. You’ll see these little “plates” full of frangipani petals, rice, coconut leaves and incense everywhere on the island – in front of restaurants, at temples in city centers, on dashboards of cars. We happened upon the afternoon offering ceremony at a temple in the center of a flea market, as shopkeepers placed plate after plate at the alters of their gods. It was a quiet, dignified, public procession. We also visited a temple in the natural hot springs where Hendry took us. Moments after he explained the temple’s purpose, Rylynn’s friend Mike noticed Hendry stop behind us, then subtly say a quiet prayer. Then there was the beautiful Hindu temple on the lake that I previously mentioned. Turns out, it shares the same land as a Buddhist temple. There is even more to Balinese Hinduism than the public temples, for which each town has three or four. Hendry also explained how all Hindu homes have their own separate religious sanctuaries. The properties are essentially a walled-in family compound, combining daily function with religious function. Each home has various sleeping quarters, a courtyard, working rooms, a kitchen and two shrines for daily worship.

Maybe since I’ve been on the island less than a week, I have simply missed the dogmatism one might assume is present in any religion. That word – dogmatism – is what has driven me from any organized religious practice since leaving home at the age of 18. However, I’m not that cynical nor jaded (yet). Any religion that can be accepting and even praiseful (not just tolerant) of another religion is one that I can appreciate. After all, aren’t all spiritual seekers searching for the same thing? Harmony, love, light, truth, balance, compassion? Or is it just about securing a certain place in an uncertain after life?

These are all questions that I’ve been asking myself… that others have been trying to answer for me… that I feel no closer nor further to finding resolution, even in Bali. I simply have never understood why religions are so often at odds with each other. Why one religion must be debunked in order for another to be the "right" one? Why there is an "only way," as I've so often been told? I just know that there are few places in my youth where I felt a spiritual pull. My first inklings of it happened when I started practicing yoga seriously. And I too feel that connectedness here in Bali. Where that leads me one day, I do not know nor do I particularly want to know. I realize these sentiments frustrate, even embarrass some of the people I love most in the world. And for that, I am sorry.

Let me say this, however. I do recognize that Bali isn't eternal paradise. Through Hendry and my own observations, I do sense places of discord. That will be Part 2 of the Hendry story. Stay tuned (I will also post many more pictures at that time).

Rosé Up In Protest!

I have too much internet time on my hands during this Kuala Lumpur layover, so my blog might be straying a bit. But I came across this wine article in the Dining & Wine section of the The New York Times. I consider myself one of rosé's personal PR machines, so I am aghast to hear about potential changes that could further injure its reputation as a softy wine (and make it more reminiscent of white zinfandel - gasp!). Join in my fight for the future of good rosé!

You can find the article here: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/09/business/global/09iht-wine.html?ref=dining

New Favorite Appy - Sure To Please

This isn't really a food recipe blog, but there is little I love more in life than a satisfying meal. Even better - passing on that pleasure to those who rank higher than food on my love list. A couple of Rylynn's nuke pals took us out to an okonomiyaki joint a few days before our departure. It's one of those cool little Japanese hole-in-the-walls that squeezes few people into tables and even fewer people at the bar. We grabbed bar seats for a front-row view of all the cramped kitchen action. Okonomiyaki is a Japanese pancake that acts a medium for any range of ingredients. In our case, curry and kimchi. It was good. Very good. But that's not really the focus of this blog entry. I have no idea how you make okonomiyaki, and I surely can't pass on any useful tips.

The relevant issue here is stunningly good and simple avocado appetizer. I admire avocado for its creamy, butteriness. I can eat a whole one dressed only with a touch of sea salt for a satisfying afternoon snack. Here, salt was replaced with soy sauce, and the butteriness enhanced with - you guessed it - butter.

To make this fast, easy dish, just place the sliced meat of an avocado in a foil packet, add soy sauce and a couple huge pats of butter. Then place the packet over a heat source (in a searing hot pan or on the grill or in the oven). Let the flavors meld for a few minutes. Serve on a plate in the foil, and that's it. I wouldn't exactly call this a Japanese dish, since butter and avocado aren't really classic ingredients in this part of the world. So you could play with it to suit your desires: add tomatoes, lime or cilantro and make it Latino. The crowd will go wild. We did.

(Last picture is okonomiyaki in the making... I was too enthralled with the avocado to think about taking a picture of it)

Where In The World Is Jessica? (third edition)

First - a shout out to Grandma and Aunt Karyl and apology if any offense was taken to any foul language. I had a feeling it might offend certain readers. I'm not promising to make any adjustments (it is my blog, after all), but I told Grandma I would put an "R" rating on the blog. So there it is (this post is a clean one).

Right now, I'm in the business lounge at the Kuala Lumpur International Airport in Malaysia - a far superior place to spend 24 hours compared to Tokyo's Narita Airport. Better food, better shops, and surprisingly more English speakers. But really I'm aiming for Bali, Indonesia. I hope to be there by Saturday night, if all goes according to plan, but I'm not counting on smooth sailing at all, especially after this morning's debacle leaving Tokyo.

I knew I was carrying a ridiculous amount of luggage, but I had to pack for a full year. The heavy load cost me an additional $50 in the states. Malaysia Airlines was going to charge me an eye-popping $1,200 for the extra weight. That's no joke. Really - one-thousand-two-hudred dollars. I had to unpack my luggage, throw away a lot of stuff, and mail the rest to my hotel in South Korea, for which I am only hoping I have the right address. Clothing trouble could be ahead upon arrival to Seoul. Eeks.

But first, I'm going to forget about that fiasco as soon as I hit the Balinese beaches. Bali is a small Indonesian island in Southeast Asia. While Indonesia is a Muslim-majority country, most of Bali's 3.1 million citizens practice Balinese Hinduism. The country is known for its art, dance, good vibes, and surfing. More importantly, it's cheap. You can get by on $10 a day or live like a queen on $50. Not a bad change coming from wallet-draining Japan. My plan involves little more than laying by the pool or on the beach. But I do also hope to check out one of the much-hyped cooking classes to learn more about the culture through its food. What better way than that?

Nothing Comes Easy

I had written a long, dramatic tale of the difficult day - to put it lightly - that I've had. Then my airport wireless internet service died, and I lost all of it. Perhaps that's a good thing. You don't need to know all the hairy twists and turns that led to me spending a long night at the Narita Airport, instead of making my way to Bali.

Here's the condensed version: I have four large bags with me - including a 70-pound suitcase - for a year's worth of clothes for Korea. I had found a cheap train that could deliver me to the airport without making any transfers, so I wouldn't have to lug all my stuff on standard commuter trains. But upon arrival to the station, I discovered there was an accident and the station was closed. I ran in a full sprint - with all four bags in tow - to the nearest station and boarded the first train there. I would have to make a transfer but should still make it to the airport with 90 minutes to spare. But no such luck. After arriving at the the transfer station, I learned that the entire JR Line - Japan's largest train network - is completely shutdown. I had to reboard the same train line I was just on, but on a new train. The latest train had a sick person on it, so the route ended up canceled (that's what I think happened - the language barrier was fatal on this effort).

Five hours later, I finally arrive at Narita Airport just 15 minutes before my flight is scheduled to take off. Malaysia Airlines ticketing counter is now closed because that was their last flight of the day. Through a series of painful phone calls, I finally make a reservation to arrive in Bali on Saturday night - my 30th birthday. So much for the big beach party, but such is life... such is my life... and I'm getting really good at rolling with it. I haven't broken down yet, even though Malaysia Airlines told me I would have to pay for an entirely new ticket. $650 drained out of my pocket - or to be more clear, added to my growing credit card account. Between the injured foot, going to Guam for a work visa, and missing my flight, I have racked up a huge financial hole from unexpected expenses that I'll likely be working off the entire year that I'm in South Korea (and I can't cancel Bali because that's where I depart for Korea).

Right now, at least I have internet access, a Sapporro beer I picked up at the airport convenience store before it closed, and a dope new playlist on my iPod, and now I'm in shockingly (even to me) good spirits.

Parting Thoughts: Best & Worst of Japan

My five-week holiday in Japan is ending, and I'm ready to go. For the first four weeks, I was enthralled and impressed with the culture. For the last week, there are a few things wearing on me - the rigid rules, the cold politeness, the crushing crowds. And the language barrier. Nothing annoys me more than ordering food I don't like, and I've made a few mistakes in recent days that may have put me over the top. When I get to Korea, I'll invest time in learning the language, so I hope that will be less of a problem down the road.

I'm an American at heart and a recovering news professional. That means I like lists. So here's what I've loved and disliked about Japan.

The 5 Best Things About Japan:

1. My single favorite feature is the train system. I love public transportation. I wish it was more accessible in the United States. Japan's public transportation is exceedingly punctual and a perfect place for people watching. In my view, public transportation is good for more than reducing dependence on oil. When it's efficient, as it is in Japan, it brings people together - old, young, white collar, blue collar, men, women, conservative, edgy. It's a place where all these subsets of society converge in close corners and have to deal with each other. I love it.

2. The food: sushi, soba, okonomiyaki, yakitori, sashimi, green tea, sake, sake, sake! I've had some bad experiences too - lobster-flavored chips with 'dip sauce' - but overall, the food is healthy, fresh and adventurous. I loved horse sashimi!

3. Japanese sports rock. I never got to complete a sumo blog, so suffice to say it's a fascinating display in ritual, custom and sport. Like so much else in Japan, sumo follows ornate tradition to the extreme. In between matches, we had no idea what the bizarre ritualistic displays were meant to represent, but they were entertaining nonetheless. Then the pushing and shoving between extremely large men began and ended within seconds. The crowd goes wild. If you read my baseball blog, you'll know that I dig that too. Go Yokohama Bay Stars!

4. Kyoto. If I were to live in Japan, it would have to be in Kyoto. The food, shopping, the surprising discoveries in the maze of alleys, the cafes. It's the country's cultural and spiritual heart and soul. After World War II, much of that cultural zest was lost in urban centers in the rush to rebuild. Kyoto was far less damaged and has retained its charm.

5. Ostentatious presentation: from the smart clothing of the business people to the outrageous outfits in Harajuku, the Japanese pay a lot of attention to presentation. The women wear the most fabulous coats (possibly my favorite accessory ever). In Tokyo, the fashion is fun and flashy, if a bit ridiculous at times. But who am I to judge? The focus on presentation extends beyond style. You'll see it in restaurants with the delicate attention to detail on the serving dishes and plating. You'll see it at a store where the clerks carefully wrap your purchase in a bag and put it another bag and then another bag. No detail goes overlooked.

The 5 Least Best Things About Japan:

1. Rules, rules, rules. Everything in Japan is governed by so many rules, and most of them are foreign to foreigners. The Japanese do forgive gaijin for not knowing most of them. But there are times when you get insight into the sanctity of their rule system, and you find the decision-making unbending and irrational even. In fact, I wouldn't even call it decision-making. There isn't a choice. It's just how things are done.

2. Golden Week and the massive crowds. For seven straight days of Japanese holidays, the natives are out in force. In imporant cultural areas, it's as though you're in rush hour traffic in New York City... bumper to bumper, slowly crawling along, trying to maneuver the quickest away around - but you're on foot. At spiritual sites, it's impossible to have anything resembling a spiritual experience. It's so overwhelmingly frustrating that I spent my final two days in Japan mostly indoors. If you plan a trip Japan, avoid Golden Week at all costs.

3. Japan is expensive, really expensive. My breaking point was during a hike last weekend with Rylynn to a giant stone Buddha on a nearby island. In the states, hiking is considered an inexpensive activity, so that's what I was expecting. However, this one tallied up to $30+, when I accounted for trains, ferries, cable cars, buses and admission (and that doesn't include the costly food mishaps along the way). While the shopping here is also world class, many of the clothes are far more expensive than they would be back home. I can't wait to get to South Korea, where I hear the shopping is quite the opposite.

4. Urban blandness. You get the worst view from the train - stoically efficient apartment building after blandly austere apartment building. Japan is densely packed, and these apartments serve the utilitarian purpose of housing millions of people in a small area. But it's as if the same bored architect designed all of them, and then chose only three colors to paint them: sickly mauve, washed-out beige, and charcoal grey. It's a tad depressing. And it's a bizarre contrast to the rest of Japan, which is so focused on presentation.

5. While I listed presentation as a pro, it's also a con. Imagine being on a hike to one of Japan's most sacred sites, and you're caught behind the group of women decked out in their best clothes and heels. Seriously, heels on a hike. And keep in mind, this inappropriate footwear complaint comes from a card-carrying member of the Bad Shoe Choices Club (hence, the multiple foot injuries). It has brought out the embarrassingly rude, no-nonsense American in me, as I've been shoving my way past the ridiculousness.

I leave Japan deeply grateful for this wildly wonderful experience and for the people who've helped me along the way. Most notably, I should extend a bit thanks to Rylynn and her roommate Jo, who allowed me to crash in their small space for three of the five weeks that I've been here. There were also several incredibly accomodating people who assisted me on my frustrating journey to the airport (see next post), especially the backpacking Japanese girl who not only let me use her cell phone but called to get the phone number for Malaysia Airlines. Wherever I hit bumps in the road, I am eternally encouraged and uplifted to meet more and more people with such kind, generous spirits. Sayonara, Japan!

A Harrowing Haircut

Sometimes I think I do things just because it might turn out to be a wacky experience (and thereby, turn into a good story). Getting a haircut while in Japan is one of those questionable decisions. Akiko recommended a salon chain that has a training branch, so it's far less expensive than your average high-end salon. Yes, I decided to go to a place with non-English speaking TRAINEES to get my hair cut in Japan. Maybe not the smartest decision, but I'm not so precious about my long locks that I can't take the risk.

My stylist Shoichin Wada and I went back and forth for about ten minutes, hashing out my hopes and dreams for my flowing mane. Still unsure we were on the same page, I just finally nodded okay and went under the scissors. Shoichin cut and cut and thinned and he cut (and thinned) some more. In the end, it's a bit shorter than I had hoped, but it will do just fine...until I have repeat this experience in Korea.

I'm hoping one of my loyal readers will talk some sense into me because I'm starting to consider a drastic change to my 'do. Short and sassy - something to match the return of my no-holds-barred attitude. Thoughts, anyone?

Miyajima Island

(A quick note on Rylynn's behalf to all those naysayers who were complaining that she doesn't blog. This is time consuming. It takes me a couple of hours or more to complete the more detailed entries. Some of it's the writing; some is uploading pictures. But with her work schedule, I don't blame her for not doing it.)

Now to Miyajima Island, which consumed the other part of my time in Hiroshima. There's not a lot to say about it besides it's beautiful and worth the trip. The most noted feature is the Itsukushima Shrine and its famed floating torii gate, which is at sea to denote the whole island is sacred (I arrive at low tide, so I didn't see anything 'floating'). Because of the sanctity of the island, no one is allowed to die or give birth on Miyajima, so there are no maternity wards or cemeteries. I'm pretty shrined out at this point, so I snapped some quick pictures of the torii gate and then started the climb up Mount Misen - Miyajima's highest point at 1,640 feet above sea level. Japan grooms all its trails, and this one had stairs. Big ones. Lots of them. Think 1-1/2 hours straight of Stairmaster (on an ass that hasn't seen a gym in 3 years). But I did it. And saw some pretty dope sites along the way.

Wild deer roam the island. So do monkeys, but this the second place where monkeys are supposedly running rampant, and I haven't seen a single one.

Super cool Daisho-in Temple on the way up Mount Misen.

Editorial on Hiroshima

Maybe it’s the way the debate is shaped on the news or in our secondary education classrooms, but I often feel we live in a right vs. wrong country. There are only two sides in politics and religion and the hairy combination of the two. There are those who are with us and those who are against us. The U.S. is inherently right. Our adversaries are inherently wrong. It’s the Hummer-driving-my-dick-is-bigger-than-yours-Fox-News-Channel mentality that the U.S. is in its nature the very best at all times. That questioning the country’s actions or intentions amounts to treason. Fortunately, that kind of debate is changing with a new president, willing to say ‘yes, we tortured prisoners and no, we shouldn’t have. We’re sorry.’ (Yes, I’m closely following U.S. news even from here)

These thoughts arise after visiting the Peace Memorial in Hiroshima. It is the site of the United State’s single most terrifying display of military might. The museum tour explains Hiroshima’s past, its significance as a military target, the decisions leading up to the dropping of the atomic bomb, the aftermath, and the implications of a nuclear world. The Memorial is unapologetically skewed against nuclear weapons (after all, it is a peace memorial, right?). Those who visited the memorial before me described it as “preachy” (not just you, Rylynn, but others too). By the end of it, I asked myself, how could it not be?

One-hundred-forty-thousand people – half the city’s population – wiped out by a single horrifying device, innocuously known as Little Boy. About half died instantly. The rest succumbed over days, weeks, and months from injuries and radiation exposure. Most of those killed were innocent civilians - families, children, even some American prisoners of war. After exploring the museum and doing my own follow-up study on the subject, I would argue that Hiroshima’s worldview and reality could be nothing but anti-nuclear. It’s not that they’re right about nuclear weapons, and we are wrong. It’s merely that they’re right from their perspective. And under the circumstances, how could they have any other perspective? What shapes history is often far more about perspective than it is about ‘the facts’ anyway.

Was the United States wrong? I wouldn’t presume to know the definitive answer – if there really is one – and that’s not the point. The details of the decision-making and the shifting political climate were far too complicated for me to even make a judgment. But there’s this: I should have known more about the atomic bomb before this visit. Our basic World War II history focuses so singularly on Hitler and the Holocaust – a subject of worthy examination, of course – but maybe at the expense of the Pacific side of the war. And the American assumption of ‘rightness’ about this subject shouldn’t obscure the beastly nature of the atomic bomb (or the more fearsome hydrogen bomb) and its grotesque destruction of humanity.

If you’re interested in learning more about the A-bomb, Shockwave: The Countdown to Hiroshima by Stephen Walker is a really good read and a good place to start.

The A-bomb Dome, one of the few buildings even partially in tact after the bombing.

Radiation nails - how one survivors nails continued to grow

Peace cranes made famous by Sadaku - a young radiation victim who developed leukemia years after the bombing. She started folding 1,000 cranes, believing it would help cure her. Per Japanese legend, folding the cranes pleases the gods, so they grant you a wish.

Hiroshima grid before the bombing. The bridge (known as Aioi Bridge) where the two tributaries meet was the bomb's target.

As you can see, the target is one of the only things left standing. A nearby hospital was ground zero.

Final Days in Japan

Whoa. I didn't know this blog would be such a pubic display of my life, my inner demons, my emotional evolution (see previous post). I apologize to anyone who was expecting a sweet, little travel journal. I was too. But I've never been shy about who I am or where I am in life. I prefer boldness to meekness. Openness to introversion. I like to think that lack of filter is part of my charm. So as I change and grow on this journey, I suppose I will be putting that on full display, along with the standard-issue tourism pictures. Read at your own risk.

A brief timeout from all that emotional stuff. I'm down to my final days in Japan, and it's Golden Week - a series of Japanese holidays that fill the streets with the natives touring their own country. The place is downright crowded, making it far less enjoyable to travel. Instead of having a spiritual experience at a giant bronze Buddha in Kamakura, I found myself fighting through the masses of tourists feverishly snapping pictures. The temple is typically far more serene. I hope to go back before I leave. Also in store - an attempt at getting a haircut. My new friend Akiko (via Katie) recommended a salon, but I fear my hairstyle request will get lost in translation. Oh - and a big thanks to Akiko for giving me a shopping tour and helping me find my first Oregon wine in over a month. Sokol Blosser's "M." Score!

The Shikoku Incident

I am a fugitive. On the run from men. Fleeing bad relationships, anyone who makes me cry. Escaping the pattern of loving too hard, losing too much, repeat. I don't blame (entirely) all the men who've entered my life, lied, and left. I'm responsible for the inner radar that scans for and pinpoints that ever unavailable target. Japan/Bali/Korea represent a lot of things, not the least of them - freedom from that nasty cycle.

In keeping with the over-drawn fugitive metaphor, Shikoku Island was one of the places I went to hide out. After an inundation of testosterone in Kyoto (the only non-male I hung out with was a lesbian), I expected peace, solitude, and quiet reflection in one of Japan's most remote regions. I got that - for the first night. After pulling a nearly all-nighter on the final evening in Kyoto, I arrived at the Happy Raft guesthouse in Shikoku's Oboke gorge to discover I was its single occupant. I cooked myself a meal, watched Eminem 'act' in 8 Mile (one of the only English DVDs), and then pulled the covers over my head for 10 hours of uninterrupted, untortured rest. It was the most peaceful sleep I've had in three years.

But it seems men sense the detached woman. The mysterious aloofness. The completeness of independence. They too have inner radars, scanning for that challenge.

My next two days in Shikoku were filled with all men, all the time, almost to comedic effect. As the sole whitewater rafting customer, I had three male guides plus one in a kayak all to myself. Later that night - as I expected another blissfully lonely evening - all four of those Happy Raft guides showed up at the guesthouse and brought with them six other male river rafters from the Tokyo area. Kiwis, Aussies, Japanese. A 10 to 1 ratio. The following night a group of 20 English teachers flooded the guesthouse - many of them men, many eager to meet the random female solo traveller.

Let me say this: most of these men had no interest in me at all. Most were merely curious what brought me to Shikoku - of all places - alone. But that's not the point. The point is the sheer volume of masculinity stampeding me on this journey, and with it, the extremes of the male species. Charming accents/crude toughness. Sweet shyness/confounding recklessness. Gallant accomodation/arrogant posturing.

There's Mar - the rafting guide with dreadlocks, a fake wooden tooth, kind smile and almost zero capacity for English who struggled to share his crush on me, until said fake tooth dropped from his mouth and clanked on the floor.

There's Yosh - the hard-talking Japanese rafter/record producer whose English accent is equal parts San Diego surfer, New Zealand brute. He's lived in both places. After dropping the f-bomb every other word and insulting me a few times, tells me he thinks I'm beautiful.

There's Phil from Chicago, the English teacher - age 24 - with a degree in International Politics and Economics from Carroll University in Wisconsin, who's unsure what direction he wants to pursue in life, but is politely willing to make conversation with the solo traveler.

There's Rob - the former English teacher turned rafting guide newbie who I spent hours chatting with about his home in Australia . He's engaged to a Japanese girl, and turns out he proposed to her at the same hotel I stayed at in Guam.

Then there's Darren Dyke. Darren Dyke is precisely the specimen I hope would never find me again. British born but New Zealand raised, Darren Dyke started his own English teaching company with his Japanese wife here in Japan. Darren Dyke is the kind of guy who likes to tell you how important he is; how much money he makes; how much more he knows than you about life and success. And he does it with that deceitfully gallant-sounding British accent. Darren Dyke was spending a lot of time talking to me. It was mostly harmless conversation, even though I still sensed a weird vibe from him. After a couple hours of his undivided attention, I broke free for the group gathered around the fire pit and shortly after retreated to my bedroom.

I had a cozy double bed in a room all to myself, while the rest of the 20 English teachers had to divide up limited futon space and bunkbeds. I'd been at the guesthouse for two nights prior to their arrival, and I wasn't about to give up my satisfactory accomodations. But I did have to endure a long evening of partying - the wrestling match that slammed into my wall, the marijuana smoke wafting into my room, Darren Dyke's stoned voice waxing poetic about inane topics. The only fortunate thing was the contact high from the weed that probably helped me return to sleep.

That was until 5:30am. That's when Darren Dyke made a sudden appearance at my bedside, imploring me for room in my bed.

I've spent years trying to tone down any of my harsh edges - anything that could make people call me a bitch - anything that comes off as too tough or unfeminine. But this was no place for that version of me. I yelled at him for waking me, then loudly rejected his multiple pleas for room next to me or at the foot of the bed. He whined that his futon had been taken. Then he took up residence on the floor, until I tossed him out entirely because he wouldn't stop talking.

"Get the fuck out of my room. Get the fuck out. You've kept me up all night. I've had it with you. GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE."

You should know that earlier in the evening he told a story about how he once did cocaine with a friend on Christmas Eve, stayed up all night, and after opening presents in the morning, he sent his two kids for a walk, so he could screw the hell out of his wife. So pardon me, if as a vulnerable woman alone, I'm not about to let this married stranger shack up in my room.

It made perfect sense to me, even if the rest of his crew didn't appreciate my tactics. In the morning, I heard the whispering from the catty girls, "did you hear what happened to Darren?" Then I heard the loud, overt attempts to make me feel bad, "Darren, it was soooo cozy sleeping next to you last night. I was totally comfortable."

I packed up my things, fortunate to be leaving for Hiroshima in the next few hours. And then I confronted the group in the kitchen, defending myself against the assumption I should sleep next to a man I barely know.

I'm not sure anyone understood my point. They were probably mostly annoyed that I had a big room all to myself, and I didn't share. Whatever the case, there was something so liberating about yelling at Darren Dyke. About defending myself in front of him and his friends, even as he called me a bitch. About saying 'fuck off' for being a thoughtless, careless, inconsiderate man.

Maybe Darren Dyke doesn't deserve the fullness of my wrath. Maybe it's pent up anger directed at all the men who've hurt me, who I've never confronted with the vehemence buried deep inside. But this stands as a public warning to men everywhere - signficant or insignificant. I've had it. I'm not taking your shit. And you can call me a bitch, if you want. I don't care anymore. It's time for the anger phase, that necessary phase I've been trying avoid.

Here it is - in full force. Let me run away in peace... or go to hell.

Pilgrimage to My Yoga Pagoda

Shikoku Island lies to the south of Honshu, Japan's main island. It's not an obvious destination, like Kyoto or Tokyo or Hiroshima. What sent me here was a personal pilgrimage. Prior to leaving for Japan, I had done little to no research on where I would go or what I would do. The idea for Shikoku was inspired in a place where many inspiratons have come over the past few years - yoga class. My most influential instructor gave me a card and a strand of beads as a parting gift. On the card was a picture of a pagoda. On the back, there were brief details that read like this: Pagoda, Unpenji, Kagawa, Shikoku, Japan.

Pagodas abound in Japan. This one - besides its presence on this touching card - is of no particular significance. In fact, a Google search turned up very little information on its location or how to get there. A few travel blogs revealed that it is part of the 88 Temple Pilgrimage, which is actually well known around Japan. The pilgrimage is a 1,200-mile circuit of the island's temples founded or restored by Kobo Daishi, founder of the Shingon sect of Buddhism. On foot, it takes henro (pilgrims) about six weeks to complete, and at the end, it's believed they are released of their 88 earthly desires. Not being Buddhist, not wanting to give up my earthly desires, and not having six weeks to devote to this, I chose to remain committed to Unpenji alone.

My online research wouldn't pinpoint exactly how to get there, so I decided I'd go to central Shikoku and wing it. Shikoku is one of the least developed places in Japan, only having a bridge connecting it to Honshu since 1988. In the center of the island is the Oboke gorge, carved out by the Yoshino River, which provides Japan with its best whitewater rapids. This became a duel mission: pagoda and rafting.

During a 45-minute wait (long by Japan standards) at a train stop on my way to the rafting company's guesthouse, I found a detailed map of the Oboke area and discovered that I was staying much further south of Unpenji than I had intended. I had no internet access, and phone calls that require more than a one-word English answer are useless. My key to success was Teru, a jack of all trades at Happy Raft, my river guide company. His series of phone calls and internet searches uncovered this plan: one-hour train ride north, take 25-minute city bus to bottom of mountain, climb three miles straight up hill to temple (approx. 2+ hours), observe temple, walk three miles back down to bus stop, bus ride back to train stop, take train south back to rafting guesthouse. And do all this on the rainiest day of my vacation - without rain gear or even an umbrella.

I was up for the challenge - until arriving at the train station that Saturday morning and discovering it was implausible. The first bus out was at 11:10 am, arriving at Unpenji at 11:35 am. The last bus returning to the train station was at 2:30 pm. Not enough time to ascend and descend the mountain and get the necessary pictures snapped. Improvise. I've come this far and rafting was far cheaper than I expected, so I sucked up the 4,600 yen ($46) cab ride to the mountain, getting there with plenty of time to hike my way back down.

I arrived 3,041 feet high up on Mount Unpenji in the drenching rain to find my yoga pagoda shrouded in mist, much like the picture that inspired this effort. The temple grounds are much simpler than the famous ones you'll find elsewhere in Japan. The army of stone men protecting the pagoda were my favorite feature. But as with each adventure on this trip, the journey is more signficant than the destination itself. It's a lesson often learned and re-learned in those sweat-drenching yoga classes taught by Shaney Aalbers. From down dog to chair pose to warrior two, the goal isn't the perfectly constructed position. It's what you discover about yourself and how you evolve through that 90-minutes of twisting and contorting your body into new, deeper shapes.

My journey back to the rafting guesthouse included my first hitchiking effort. I had set off down the mountain unsure I could even locate the bus stop on the way. Since the rain was still coming down in buckets, I decided to sport the appropriate thumb gesture. And shortly thereafter, a fellow henro picked me up and deposited me at the train station 20 minutes later.

What had promised to be an arduous journey the morning I left the guesthouse ended up being a nearly effortless effort. "Effortless effort" - a phrase often used in those inspiring 6:00am power yoga classes of Shaney Aalbers.

(Below are pictures of an awesome day on the Yoshino River. I was the only customer that day, so I had three guides, plus a fourth one in a kayak - to myself. It was a blast!)

Kyoto: The Sights

No, Mom, it wasn't all drunken debauchery the whole time in Kyoto. I saw some pretty dope stuff too. Like I said, I didn't really have an itinerary of must-see places. In fact, I didn't even have a guidebook. I hopped on random buses and wandered the streets, until I found something that piqued my interest.

Here's some of what I captured on camera:

Matsuoo Shrine, a shrine for sake among other things

Tasty soba noodle lunch

Arashiyama and its bamboo forest

Unidentifiable, colorful products from the Nishiki food market

Discoveries on side streets and alleys

Garden near Kyoto Station

Nijo Castle

Thousands of torii gates of the Fushimi-Inari Shrine. I took the 4km trail, much of it uphill... thinking it would never end until I saw a sign "Rest here, it free" for the second time, and the shop owner informed me I was going in circles.