Indonesia, Sumatra - Where Am I?

Seriously. 

They say I'm I'm Padang but I am not so sure. Three days have passed since conquering that which is Mt. Kerinci and the boy's legs are still in shambles, knotted and hard to move about quickly. Yours truly escapes the painful cramps via stretching combinations, massages, and, of course, aeromatic yet pungent doses of tiger balm. 

I'm sitting in an empty Mc Donald's restaurant steeling wifi and toilet paper, watching EuroSport cycling, pondering this unfamiliar and foreign menu (what good is one that foregoes apple pie?!) as Celine Dion provides background noise. Hold on, now Puff Daddy.

Actually, the whole experience of this city is identical to a midnight episode of The Twilight Zone I saw so many years ago as a youth up way past my bed time. You know the one where a well dressed man wakes up in a coffee house not immediately remembering how he arrived or what business he had there at all. Slowly, to avoid the embarrassment of his eloped memory, he wanders the town. He finds that things are as they have been, only slightly altered. Accordingly, here is a collection of slightly altered hints suggesting I am not where they tell me I am.

Monopol(i). Really? Not the classic Matel Co. game you played as a child, yet not a complete and inferior replica either. And not just one, but two versions!

Can you guess where I am? Bet you can't. That's because Pizza Hut restaurants are not this fancy. Even calling them restaurants back home is puttling a tight shirt on a fat stuffed animal, a bit of a stretch. Yet here they are in all their lavish "modernity", overpriced menus items, and Art Deco attempts. (Personal note: is anyone else rembering that movie Demolition Man with Stallone and Snipes? Where in the future Taco Bell has eliminated all competition and remodeled itself as a five star restaurant? Same thing). At least their food still looks as bad as it does back home - phew!

We can't ride our bikes everywhere. And when we do stop off in a town for a few days, public transportation is always a nice option. Except, that here the buses are, well, first, hopefully not government sanctioned. Second, very loud and very colorful. At 9:30 am when I got on this ten-wheeled touring vehicle I though it was a joke. Booming drum and base techno music with all the breaks, an annoying interrupting DJ announcer dubbed over the music, plush furry arm rests, Troll dolls in all their neon pink and green glory, fuzzy dice, and carpeted everything. And all the music and bauble would be OK if it weren't for the fact that nobody parties on these party buses. All the passengers are as calm as Hindu cows. Not even a head bob. The stark, disjointed relation between environment and reception is so deep that it actually made me a little uncomfortable. Really uncomfortable. Only one remedy to quell my uneasiness - something had to give, someone had to dance. So much for not making a Western ass out of myself. F**k it.

Don't know how to explain this one. Marathon cigarettes? I've met the occational professional athlete who enjoys a fag every now and again, but to brand an entire product around this small demographic? As things become progressively altered to a reality curiouser and curiouser to the investigative portion of my brain, I simply have to let this one be and carry one. 

Ahhh, who could forget a night at Plan B Hotel? Enough said. Please, leave your contraceptives at the door. 

Love,

-A