It’s been 88 days since Joe and I closed the door to my studio apartment in Busan, South Korea and boarded a train to Seoul, where we slept in the first of a long list of hotels, guesthouses, train bunks, huts and faux double beds. (In India, a double usually means two single beds pushed together with a deceptively smooth sheet spread across the top, hiding the soon-to-be-discovered crack down the middle.)
Temporary homes, these shelters provide the illusion of belonging. Kick off your flip flops, hang your sarong on a wall hook, unpack your toothbrush near the sink, and in minutes a few square feet of space can be claimed as your own.
On Nusa Lembongan, a small island off the coast of Bali where we stayed eight days, we woke each morning to roosters crowing from the yard next door. The day was still dark, coconut palms hidden behind the pink curtains pulled across our windows. Our ceiling fan rotated in a slow spin: any faster and it would emit a persistent, noisy squeak. Rooms–like dogs and people–have their own distinct personalities.
Our Lembongan home cost 100,000 Rupias a night–the equivalent of 10 bucks, or four large Bintangs, Indonesia’s local beer. Double doors opened to a small terrace furnished with two wooden chairs and two wooden tables. Through the garden’s trees, I could glimpse the Badung Straight and hear its waters rolling onto shore. Beside the bed, white paint peeled, showing patches of cement wall beneath it and in the bathroom, a blue rubber hose rested on the floor, connected to a cold-water tap we used for rinsing salt water and sand and sweat.
Since leaving Busan, we’ve slept in 29 rooms, not counting the nine sleeper trains, one overnight bus, two desert cots, and an airport bench. We’ve taken to photographing these spaces as soon as we arrive, before our presence becomes evident–what we refer to as “exploding.”
A few shots are snapped and then familiar objects begin the occupation: backpacks are unzipped and chargers plugged in; the laptop cord snakes over a hard or soft or smooth or sagging mattress; our guidebook rests on a wall shelf; my yoga mat is unrolled; maps and coins and tickets and sunscreen and bug spray and malaria pills and sticks of incense we bought somewhere in West Bengal mingle in piles on bedside tables; our shared blue towel “we really need to handwash that” is draped, still damp, over another bathroom door.
Sometimes we’re alone in these homes away from home, but usually we share the space with other, indigenous residents. A week ago while brushing my teeth I noticed a small brown squiggle exploring the ceramic base of the sink. “Worm!” I said, pointing. (We’ve started speaking to each other in the one-word style of broken English.) “Centipede,” Joe said, collecting it on the scarf we bought in Jaisalmer and holding it toward me. “Look, it curls into a little spiral.”
Our first night on Lembongan, something large and heavy pounced on the rooftop as we were falling asleep. The sound prompted me to quickly shut the bathroom door–I’d noticed, after checking in, that its ceiling had eroded to create an opening large enough for an island creature to inhabit. If the pouncing belonged to a monkey, surely it would find the hole, jump through it, and attack us in the night. Despite Joe circling the hut’s perimeter, flashlight in hand, we couldn’t find the animal, or any clues to what it was. But a few days later a local man suggested a possible suspect: “Here,” he said, referring to the surrounding land and flapping his arms, “Big bats.”
Almost all of our roomates go unharmed. The large black beetles invading my soapdish in Gokarna were trapped, then freed from the confines of our hut (only to reappear hours later). Giant bathroom spiders in our Agra dive remained on the wall (we closed our eyes while showering and pretended they weren’t there). Ants have been carried outdoors inside Joe’s palm, and the gekkos in Hampi rested undisturbed next to a painting of village women wading in the river.
Last week’s wall lizard–our biggest inhabitant so far (spotted seconds after a large and unknown species of insect was gently removed from our night table)–surprised us when it appeared behind the window curtain, but after a couple quick photos (taken at a distance), we left it in peace.
Only mosquitoes meet their final moment among us. The winged demons like Joe’s blood; he likes keeping it more.
Some of our shelters have provided opportunities to practice the art of awareness. In Khajuraho, sharp metal peeling off the corner of the door beckoned my toes to tread carefully, while the industrial staples holding the window frame in place encouraged Joe to look elsewhere for a makeshift incense holder.
In Varanasi–our most cramped room of the trip–the swiftly spinning ceiling fan whacked my wrist and left it bruised, reminding me to look up before standing on beds. (And to avoid eating bhang cookies late at night.) And in Kolkata, the door frame Joe smashed his head on while trying to get a closer look at the lighting storm outside urged him to proceed with caution on dark, unfamiliar balconies. (The lesson was emphasized again the next day, when the market barber cutting Joe’s hair suddenly decided to give him an Indian-style head massage, aggravating the injury with a series of karate-chop hand thumps.)
And bathrooms! What a tool of surprise and discovery. Will it have a toilet? A sink? Or will I open a suspicious-looking metal door, only to reveal a stained squatter in the corner of a cold cement floor (as in Darjeeling)? If it does have a toilet, will it flush? Or will a rusty tap be jutting out of the wall three inches above the floor, next to a small plastic bucket with a handle–meant for flushing both the toilet and the bum that’s using it? (As in Gokarna. And Nusa Pennida. And Lembar. And Gili Air.)
If there is a sink, will it drain the water that’s splashed into it? Or will bits of soap float among the mini-pool that’s created each time we wash our hands? (Pushkar, Ubud.) Oh, water–cleansing, purifying body-nourisher. Will it burst from the tap in a long, straight, skin-blasting surge? (Gili Trawangan.) Or will the gentle-looking pinholes of a showerhead deceive, only to surprise me when the water spurts every direction but down? (Udaipur.) And heat–I think our water had that once, somewhere in Rajasthan. And after a 16-hour train ride from Varanasi, a check-in staff member at the hotel in Siliguri taunted me with the promise of a hot shower, but despite our turning the tank on and jiggling the taps several times, the water jolted from the faucet in an ice-cold, calculating stream.
Toilet paper? That exists in shops. Or in my bag, if I remember to stock it. Not in bathrooms.
Now, 13 weeks into our trip, we’ve developed a ritual for finding accomodation in a new town/city/island. After consulting our guidebook or asking a local the general direction of budget places, we scope out several spots, comparing prices and room styles. Along the way, we usually come across both ends of the spectrum: dingier than we’re hoping for and way beyond our budget. Though a lot of the places we’ve stayed in have been on the lower end of low to mid-range, it’s off season in India and Indonesia, and we’ve been able to barter our way into a few gems.
“How much for one night?” we asked the woman at Sasak Bungalows on Gili Meno last week.
“150,000,” she said. ($15 U.S.)
“Ah, a little too expensive for our budget,” Joe said. “We stay two nights. Can we pay “120,000?”
“120 okay?” Nod again.
“Including breakfast?” I said. She agreed–and we moved into a beautiful wooden bungalow built only two years ago.
It had a big, comfortable bed with a white sheet and a patterned throw blanket folded at the end. At the top of the bed two pillows with white pillowcases and one of those long tube-shaped decorator cushions leaned perfectly against the wooden headboard. In the front, a small terrace with two wooden chairs and a small wooden table faced a path lined with newly-planted trees. Connected to the back by a wooden door was a huge outdoor bathroom with stone-covered steps, a sink that rose from a long wooden counter (a counter!), and a basket full of coral. The toilet had a flush, and was divided from the shower by a wall.
After we moved in, I took a long cool rinse under the stars. (The weather’s too hot for hot water anyway.) Only after digging out the roll of toilet paper I’d been packing around since Nusa Pennida did I notice it: a silver metal holder, attached to the wall beside the toilet. With toilet paper already there.
*Click on a photo to check out the gallery of some of the spots we’ve stayed.