From the island of Borneo, you board a ship bound for Jakarta, the capital of the island

of Java and the whole of Indonesia. Its a tempestuous journey, tinctured with ominous
clouds up above, waves furiously rolling down below, plus an existential storm raging
from within to top it all up.
Once having arrived at your destination, though, the clouds have already cleared away,
the storm has been all but washed away and the unbearable lightness of existence, forever
a guiding lighthouse, has regained its high throne once more. Long ago have you come to
terms with your contemplative nature, yet are still struggling to maintain a relative state
of moderation, composed of necessary action and desired simplicity.
From Jakarta, an eastbound journey across Java commences, in a sleepwalking pace
and without a care in the world. You travel by means of local trains and chicken-busses,
through muddy towns and even muddier cities, across a paradise island of exquisite
beauty and between active volcanoes, steaming geysers and hot springs.
On a mere thirty days tourist visa, one could simply not manage to explore too many
of the unique islands that make up the South Pacific Republic of Indonesia in a relaxed,
enjoyable manner. Nevertheless, when a choice has to be made between the quantity and
the quality of experiences, its as if there is no choice to be made at all.
Compliance, however, does not necessarily mean acceptance. As a matter of fact, the
root concept of depriving any human being of his or her natural liberty to walk, inhibit or
merely rejoice in any part of this world of ours makes very little contemporary sense. Its
abominable manifestations, in the form of visas and other arbitrary restrictions, make
even less commonsense, and their side effects may include nausea, ignorance and loss of
basic human freedom.
Hopping over to Bali, the next in the chain of Indonesian islands, you at least take
comfort in the fact that, as flights to Australia are the cheapest from this tourist haven of a
lost paradise, your exploration of this country would have to conclude here,
independently from the length of granted visa and all.

And, much the same as with life itself, all thats left is to try and fully enjoy the time
that you were given, experience unique things, try to learn something new every day and
save issues of Freedom and Justice for somebody who might actually give a damn.
***
The following events all transpired within the course of a single week:
Having spent the summer in Europe, patiently awaiting the drop in flight prices
undesirable weather forces on airline companies, the time finally came to be making your
way from Ljubljana, the Slovenian capital, across the Atlantic Ocean and all the way to
Toronto, the undisputed Canadian champion of cities. The cheapest flights westwards,
however, depart Europe from London, which is why London was where you had to go.
As protocol dictates, upon migration to another continent, or even a different country
for that matter, bank accounts best be closed, nailed and buried and credit cards returned
to their makers, or therell be hell to pay when they suddenly resurrect halfway across the
globe. That does, however, make booking a ticket online a rather tricky task. For that
reason, you decided to bank on a last minute ticket, paid for in cash and presumably the
cheapest way to travel for someone with an abundance of time on his hands.
However, though they might not say that the road to hell is paved with bad
presumptions, they bloody hell should. The price of a last minute ticket with easyJet from
Ljubljana Airport turned out to be so ridiculously expensive that you ended up recoiling
back into town and with your tail between your legs, booked a Ryanair flight through a
travel agent instead and paid in cash. Ryanair, however, does not fly from Slovania but
from Italy instead, which meant a four A.M. march to the bus station, then a five oclock
bus to Trieste, six hours wait at the airport, followed by a smooth flight all the way to
Stansted, yet another London based Airport that is a long way away from actual London.
Once youve secured a bed for the night at a decently budgeted hostel (a rarity in the
capital of the Commonwealth), you traveled to Gatwick Airport by train, only to
rediscover that last minute also means twice the price with Air Transat just as well. The
next day, you discovered that Air India offers the cheapest one way tickets to Toronto,

this time at Heathrow Airport. Unfortunately, back at your hostel you later discovered
that, by the time you returned from your extensive travels, they have already become
fully booked for the night.
Finally, after having tried each and every other hostel in a mile radius, eventually
getting kicked out into the rain and spending a miserable night in the unforgiving streets
of London, you marched into a travel agency first thing in the morning. There, you
purchased your passage across the seas and into Canadian soil for the price of several
hundred British pounds.
At the conclusion of a long and restful weekend at a friends bachelor pad in Brighton,
you boarded an early enough train back to London that would guarantee safe and timely
arrival at the airport, while still leave plenty of time and space for the kind of possible
scenarios traveling British Rail without a proper ticket might bring about. Once indeed
getting caught, you pulled off the stupid foreigner routine, waited out a couple of trains
and still made it to Hayes & Harlington Station with plenty of time to spare.
As bad fortune would have it, though, there remained a 5 bus ride between you and
Heathrow Airport. As even worse planning would have it, not only that you had no local
currency left whatsoever, but also nothing smaller than 500 notes in your pocket to
exchange, had there been an exchange office anywhere in sight.
What then started out as a well measured march towards an Airport somewhere over
the rainbow quickly turned into a mad dash, backpack and all, in desperate quest for a pot
of gold to buy yourself precious time; time that has officially ceased being on your side.
At last, muddy, sweaty and in a state of near physical and mental collapse, you first
made it to the Airport, then to your specific terminal and finally to Air Indias check-in
counter about ten minutes before closing time. The folks at the counter looked at you
funny for arriving so late, even funnier for the sweltering state you happened to be in, but
funniest of all for having just a one way ticket. The whole thing stopped being funny,
however, once they decided to deny your boarding right! Apparently, airline companies
reserve the right to reject any passenger they dont fancy, including those holding tickets
these very same airline companies had no problem selling the day before!!!

Stuck in a bloody nightmare, wherein youve just got swindled out of shit loads of
money by autocrats and bullies, you returned to your travel agent, who delivered the
sympathy coated sting for a couple of hundred more, Air India shall graciously be
willing to put you on the next day flight, granted that youve also purchased a return
ticket this time. As it happens, unwillingness to commit to a date or even a destination for
a return ticket makes buying one, in all likelihood, an utter waste of money. Nevertheless,
traumatized, humiliated to the bone and having just been dragged, kicking and screaming,
through the most costly day of your entire life, you purchased the bleedin' tickets.
Its only moneyits only paper is what you kept mumbling to yourself.
When the deed was done, you didnt even bother with searching for affordable
accommodation in London, and spent the night on a seat designed for maximum
discomfort at the Heathrow Airport waiting hall, at least ensuring your presence at the
check-in counter the following day, and with plenty of time to spare.
Considerably recuperated, yet but a step away from relapsing into a catatonic state,
you finally landed in Toronto Pearson Airport, only to encounter immigration officers
checking passports right as you were stepping out of the sleeve, before even technically
entering the airport. Obviously, the only passenger actually delayed for a most lengthy
interrogation turned out to be you.
Torn between an urge to flee and another to tear them limb from limb, you settled for
trying your best to come up with half decent answers to a machinegun fire of queries
regarding nationality, income, status and precise future plans; questions that for half of
which answers simply do not exist, while for the other half the kind of answers that do
exist sure wouldnt be the kind immigration likes to hear.
Though they didnt seem at all convinced, they reluctantly let you through to the next
round of interrogations. The lengthy queuing for the official immigration counter,
however, allowed you to arrive well-rehearsed this time, and with all the right answers.
This time you were wholly Dutch, seasonal worker for an agricultural company, quality
control manager to be precise, and going back home at the end of winter. When asked for
proof of funds, typically presented in the form of a bank statement, you just slammed a

pack of five hundred euro notes on the counter, right under the nose of a suddenly very
anxious officer, who quickly waved you through.
As the echo of the stamping of a passport died out, so did your international week of
catastrophe finally come to an end. Your goal has been achieved, though in a most twisted
and crucifying sorta way, allowing you to hold your head high once more and, as a free
man, walk this part of the Earth someone arbitrarily decided to name Canada.
***
With but two days left on your Vietnamese visa, you finally make it to the Tay Trang
border crossing, following a series of well misinformed tactical errors, annoying little bus
fiascoes and one lengthy ride in the company of a pack of bandana wearing, middle aged
American bikers, holding on to a flabby waistline while struggling to balance a
burdensome backpack for dear life.
Literally and purposely, you had no more Vietnamese ng left in your pocket, for
what you did have was every intention of crossing over to Laos and starting a brand new
leg of your South-East Asian journey that very same day. Figuratively and fortunately,
you were also prepared for most sorts of mishap, as no border crossing is ever devoid of a
certain amount of nuisance.
No visa for you there, my friend, says the customs officer with a big grin, as he
points to the Laotian post across the borderline.
No tourist crossing. Local only!
With his permission, you cross No Mans Land and try every trick in and between the
pages to get the Laotians to stamp your passport. You try friendly, pitiful and even
corruptive, make promises and tell tales of ambassador fathers and royal uncles, but to no
avail. They simply do not have what it takes to stamp a foreigner into the country.
With the sun slowly setting at your back, you drag your feet back over to the
Vietnamese side, deflated and in a state of dismal. From the still grinning officer you
learn of another border crossing further down south. Nevertheless, in order to get to it
you shall first need backtrack the way you came; all the way back to annoying Hanoi.

Where can I sleep tonight? you ask, and he points to a lodge at the far end of the lot
and waves you off with one final grin. And thats that. Had you made the effort to obtain
the right information to begin with, you could have saved yourself a shitload of hassle.
Nevertheless, right now its simply too late for should haves, could haves and would
haves. Right now its about making the best out of an unfavorable situation.
Bright and early the next day, youre on the side of the road. However, as theres no
public transportation on that road, and very little in the way of any other kind of
transportation to boot, its not until around noon that you finally manage to convince a
kid to take you on the back of his scooter, over the mountains and into the next town.
After the customary half hour of haggling, you hit the road. With only half your rear
end clenched to the tiny scooter, from then on its all about desperate attempts at
balancing yourself and the backbreaking on a bumble bee buzzing up and down the
mountain road. On top of that, what started out as an annoying little drizzle quickly turns
into a good old fashion tropical downpour.
About three hours later, you finally reach town and. The kid drops you off at the bus
station, all twisted and swamped, gets his due and bombilates away. At that very moment,
in a mysterious display of haste, the clouds suddenly clear away as well, and you hop on
a Hanoi bound bus, with only a single day left on your visa;
one last remaining day of precious legality.
***
Following what could only be described as a globally scaled week of calamities, you
finally made it into Canada. During the few weeks spent in Toronto, and the conjuration
of a game plan for your stay in the country, you decided to hitch your way down to
Niagara and see the world-famous waterfalls, only a couple of hundred miles from the
Canadian metropolitan nucleus and certainly well worth a visit.
Accompanies by the worlds most minute Viking and the countrys most typical midautumn weather, you struggled against bad fortune, worse planning and harsh elements.
When even the amiable, little, Nordic hitchhiker proved inefficient in getting you
adequate rides, you decided to give up your hiding place behind some trees, while he

finally decided to give up the fight and head back to the warmth of the couch you were
surfing in good, old Toronto.
Frozen, hungry and in a most foul of moods, you finally made it to Niagara late at
night. While tramping the long strip of cheap motels and motor inns this Canadian LasVegas wannabe has to offer, you found no offer worthy of the mere few hours of sleep the
night still had in store. Behind one of these motels, frigid and jaded, you ended up
shivering inside your sleeping bag on a ground rimed and stiff with frost.
The next day, however, turned out to be a gloriously sunny day, and with fortune once
again smiling upon you, you ended up strolling along the promenade in high spirits,
sighting this inconceivable amount of water dropping with such massive force and from
such great heights; that is bearing witness to the primordial forces of sheer creation.
The city that surrounds the falls on the Canadian side is but a money grabbing
extravaganza of hotels and casinos, flashy attractions, loud merrymaking and lowdown
buzz-drinking. It seemed so unreal that you constantly felt impelled to peek behind its
brassy forepart, half expecting to see but a cardboard set; to debunk it for nothing more
than an illusion, a dream from which one usually wakes up in a back-alley somewhere,
ransacked and soaked in urine.
Finally, eager to merely explore the other side of these majestic falls; the one defined
as American, you walked through a rotating metal gate, then past a jaded looking
Canadian officer and across a long bridge with first rate view of the falls. Once on the
American side of things, you had to fill out an entry form and hand over your Dutch
passport to the keen looking immigration officer, who in turn examined each and every
page of it with the care reserved for spotting the subversively inclined, seated at his
computer and sneaking distrusting glances in your direction.
Have you ever been denied entry to any country? he casually inquired.
Similarly to being questioned about previously contracted STDs on a first date, you
immediately denied, though, in perfect honest, no such incident sprang to mind neither.
What about Jamaica then? he asked slyly and with obvious glee.
Goddamn Jamaica! awakened an irascible bookkeeper inside the cavity of your
mind. That brutish abomination of natural liberty, telling those allowed to walk a
certain portion of the earth from those denied that natural right.

Yes, you quickly admitted to the boggling accusation. That was twelve years ago,
though, and I completely forgot. Sorry about that, sir.
Though he didnt seem at all convinced, the gracious officer finally succumbed to
letting you through, only so you could spend half an hour on his soil, walk around the
falls a couple of times and then cross the bridge back to the side defined as Canadian.
***
To the Ben Gurion Airport, the one and only hub Israel has to offer in the way of
international aviation; to this point of departure, youve arrived sufficiently early, so as to
deal with its intricate security procedures in good time and be sure not to miss that flight
to China. Across the globe, an English teaching job is already awaiting your arrival,
provided by the good grace of a local agency that is to take you under its wings.
It all goes as smooth as a shaken martini, right until reaching the Aerosvit check-in
counter about an hour before the flight is scheduled to depart, where a pretty Ukrainian
lady lamentably informs you that they shall not be letting you onto their flight with only
the one way ticket they had no problem selling you the week before!
With no time to waste, and armed with but your modest, triple-digit lifes savings in
US dollars, safely tucked away in the front pocket of your trousers, you immediately
commence a mad dash in between various airline counters; a desperate attempt at coming
up with a last minute and fully refundable return ticket of a sort. Finally, it is the very
same Aerosvitians who are also willing to sell you precisely such a ticket, practically
leaving you at the gate of a new life in China empty pocketed.
Interestingly enough, once you did arrive in Beijing, you got instantly stamped
through, that is granted a thirty days tourist visa with no desire whatsoever to see a return
ticket of any sort. At Beijing Capital International Airport, the last remains of your capital
bought you a flight to Changdu, the capital of the west Chinese province of Sichuan,
where a representative of your agency was waiting to pick you up.
And so it goes that, the very next day, you are already attempting to teach primary
school kids how to say halo mister, without the traditionally added give me money.

The first few months in a new country are always the toughest, which goes double for
something as Martian to a westerner as China. Theres so much to adjust to, so many
peculiar things to learn, odd relationships to establish and interesting times to deal with.
However, towering over this strange new world, are also these two ogreish windmills,
casting their long shadows over the daily struggle for comprehension, while relentlessly
trying to pick a fight.
The first of the two is greedy, rotten, devious Aerosvit, who refuses to refund your
fully refundable return ticket, piling all sorts of bureaucratic obstacles that would surely
drive any private individual off the path of rightfulness. Fortunately enough, you have on
your side an uncle, with the entire legal department of a large exporter of agricultural
produce at his disposal to fight the good fight on your behalf.
The second windmill for you to be tilting at is the Chinese authorities, and in
particular their unwieldy and heavily administrative department that deals with visas and
work permits. Though the agency promised to be fighting them for you, over and over
again you find yourself on urgent trips from the quiet little town in which you teach to the
hustle and bustle of Changdu city, only so you could obtain, fill out or pay for one
extension to your tourist visa after another. Meantime, the responsible agency are
continuously claiming to be just a few official documents short of getting you that
coveted work visa; the one official document necessary for stabilizing your status in what
is, after all, a rather formidable environment.
Meanwhile, though they certainly did put up a good fight, your money is eventually
wedged out of the tight grip of the Ukrainians and returned to you to the last cent. By the
end of the first semester, all the necessary visa documents are also obtained at last, and
your coveted work visa finally appears to be within reach.
The only thing is, you are only now informed.
The thing is, now youll need to fly to Hong Kong in order to get it
***

Though you havent taken much to the overbearing commerciality that seems to
characterize Toronto, you sure did find yourself taken by the more authentic, somewhat
old-worldly one of Montreal, in the French speaking province of Quebec.
From the moment you first arrived in Montreal, you felt very much at home, and what
was meant to be but a short visit, ended up gradually prolonging itself of its own accord.
First came a budget arrangement at a cozy little apartment on the lively Rue St-Hubert;
then came the heavy snow and barricaded you in for a long winter of minus twenty in the
shade, and an even longer, well-overdue, creative process of memoirization.
In the solitude of your cave you labored all winter long, giving birth to page after page
of raw material; the foundation of what may one day become your very own literary
manifesto. Thus, days blended into weeks, weeks into months and, before you knew it,
your time was up.
With your six months visa to Canada rapidly approaching its expiration date, a choice
had to be made. You could have either packed your bag and boarded the return flight
(forced upon you back in London) while you still had some money left, leaving behind an
entire land as yet unexplored, or you could have thrown the ticket money to the wind, file
a visa extension application form and explore much more of this magnificent land.
Needless to say, the choice was an easy one to make.
Besides, your writing was going surprisingly well, yet still necessitated one more
winter of isolation, while Montreal was soon to awake from its long hibernation; steer
into a spring of sheer joie de vivre and a summertime of jolly cultural festivals, made
even jollier against the backdrop of unwrapped Canadian flesh. In any case, there wasnt
really anything or anyone waiting for you anywhere else.
All you had to do was to fill out the forms, pay an amount of seventy five dollars and
send it all by mail across this worlds second largest country. Even if your application
was not going to be approved, you would still be legal to remain in Canada for at least the
four months it takes for the application to be processed.
And Montreal indeed awoke into a spring of joie de vivre, which turned into a festive
summer. And when the time finally came, you packed your bag, said goodbye to your
cave and winter-residence, to the lovely town of Montreal and the friends youve made
there, and embarked on an exhilarating journey across the vast Canadian territories.

***
Hopping over to Bali, your next link in the chain of Indonesian islands, you are
resolved to copiously enjoy this tourist haven and the time you were granted there; to
experience unique things, try to learn something new every day and allow the ticking
away of your visa slip out of a consciousness wholly devoted to the present.
Lost in time, this tiny island of Hinduism in a stream of Islamic heritage has a unique
nature all to its own. In between its white sand beaches in the south and black sand
beaches in the north; among volcanic peaks and amidst patches of tropical wilderness and
rice cultivation, live people who merge into nature rather than overrun it. Even away
from the countryside, within the confines of Denpasar and the islands other major hubs,
serenity seems to wrap the land like mist, be sopped up through your very skin and fill
your entire being with a sense of wellness. Everywhere your moony gaze may land,
theres an ancient temple, engulfed in evergreen, a dilapidating stone sculptures of any
number of deities, or a serene seacoast, offering a splendid glimpse into eternity.
Everywhere your stargazed feet may step, theres always traditional music being played,
folk dances being performed and native art being sold.
It is true, that this lost paradise is tremendously touristy indeed, yet for a good reason.
Its beauty and serenity are unparalleled, while its inhabitants, though unavoidably
somewhat corrupted by the fallacy and fakeness of tourism, are still kind and authentic.
By the time you finally make it to Kuta, the undisputed capital of the Bali tourism
industry, with its vast surfing beaches, its steady flow of alcohol, everlasting party
ambiance and occasional blast, your mind becomes so numb that you can hardly gather
enough wits in one place to even book your departure flight to Australia.
Finally, seated at an Internet caf down the alley from your dirt-cheap hostel, you get
to check out the prices for a one-way Jetstar flight to Darwin, the nearest destination
within the Australian territory. Finally, you pick the cheapest flight departing on what you
believe to also be the very last day of your visa to Indonesia, seal that deal and then
happily return to a blessed state of utter oblivion.

***
On a rainy Thursday night, your bus arrives back in Hanoi, bringing your hasty retreat
from a borderline hotspot to an end at a random spot, somewhere on the outskirts of the
sprawling Vietnamese metropolis. On the day of the morrow, you shall be forced to locate
a specific governmental department that deals with visa extensions, but at the meanwhile,
all you desire is a roof over your head and food in your belly.
Luckily enough, both are soon obtained within a strolling distance of the bus station,
and after a hearty plate of oil-drippin nem,1 you lay your weary head on a soft pillow and
plummet into a dreamless slumber. If there is one thing Vietnam gets top grade for, its
the quality of its lodgings. Though somewhat more pricey than its neighboring southeast
Asian counterparts, rooms are always spacious, cozy, spotless and come with cable TV, a
travelers true best friend.
The next morning, you follow the information in your guidebook, over and around this
strange new city, with its muddy rivers, dusty parks and scooter ridden roads, in search of
said government office, only to find it closed for some kind of public holiday or other. Is
it just me, I ask you, or do governmental bureaus always seem to be closed just when you
actually need them? Its almost as if they are open the minimum amount of time to barely
justify their subsistence, yet suffice for nothing much more than simply sustaining the
system that brought them into existence in the first place.
And thats just how the fortune cookie crumbles. With the last day on your tourist visa
wasted, ipso facto, on a futile attempt to renew it, by the passing of the weekend, youll
find yourself in a heap of sticky legal manure no matter where youre at. No point in
staying in Hanoi. Might as well try your visa-less luck again at the border, for starving
provincial officers are always preferable to replete, cosmopolitan bureaucrats.
Thence, you find yourself at the Hoa Binh border crossing.
***

Vietnamese spring rolls.

A couple of months into your cross-Canadian odyssey, you finally make it into The
Yukon territory - the Canadian counterpart to the American state of Alaska on the
northwestern side and thousands of miles away from Montreal in the east. Your journey
across the Alaska Highway, on that early month of autumn, has proven challenging and
rather rough around the edges. For, though it hasnt begun to snow yet, it was sure pretty
damn cold all around.
Your first night in Whitehorse, the Yukon provincial capital, you ended up spending at
a Salvation Army shelter, which beats sleeping in the bitterly cold streets, though not by
much. At the crack of dawn, once the doors of charity where shut and bolted behind you,
you skidded over to the nearby McDonalds for a coffee and muffin a dollar thirty nine
plus tax worth, plus free WiFi connection.
Among the few new mails you found was one from a flat-mate of yours back in
Montreal, in which he informed you that, almost five months after the mailing of your
visa extension application form, a response has finally arrived, yet, for the complex
nature of said response, hed like to explain it over the phone.
Yeah, he said, once you managed to obtain a calling card, they havent approved
your application because they say that they are missing some forms.
For one, you failed to provide them with a bank statement, being that you happen to
feel ill at ease about sharing your private bank account information with anyone, and
most of all with the authorities. Moreover, you were surprised to learn that they expected
a photocopy of your entry stamp; and there you were, thinking that immigration, of all
people, should know for themselves when youve entered the country and all.
On the bright side of things, however, your friend also informed you that youve still
got about ninety days of legal presence on Canadian soil to sort it all out. Therefore,
being both unable and unwilling to deal with all that stuff from the road, and in your
unstable and unpredictable state, you gladly embraced the injury time you were so
generously given and elected to sort it all out once youve reached Vancouver in a couple
of months time.
The freedom of being an adult is being able to have your own set of priorities, while
also being responsible for them. If one is willing to be held accountable for the choices
one makes, then one should be free to make whatever choices one sees fit to make.

And at that moment, the more pressing priority was getting your ass up to Dawson
City, the northmost bit of Canadian territory you were hoping to reach this time around,
before the tide was to turn in favor of the rapidly changing elements, and the chances of
backpacking without getting that said ass frozen stiff was to become slim indeed.