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Parenting
the parents on Their First Trip to Asia
By SUZANNE PLUNKETT, Associated
Press
JAKARTA, Indonesia - When my parents traveled from their
hometown of Edina, Minn., to visit me in Jakarta, a co-worker
put the trip in perspective, saying: "You are completely
responsible for your parents' health and safety."Right,
no pressure or anything. Recent terrorist incidents in places
like Turkey and Spain have made Americans anxious about
their safety abroad. My parents - visiting me despite a
U.S. State Department warning against travel to Indonesia
- were no exception. But I was determined to show them the
best of this beautiful country - sunrise over a volcanic
crater, stunning beaches, ancient temples, lush gardens,
Balinese dance - and to make sure everything turned out
just fine.
As they arrived, my mom sweetly chirped "Tiramisu!"
She meant to say "Terima Kasih," Indonesian for
"thank you." My stepfather Conrad asked me zillions
of questions I couldn't answer. We lunched on coconut-marinated
beef and I dragged them to a shop where for $3 a foot, we
all had the soles of our feet pummeled.
"My feet have never felt worse," said Conrad 20
minutes into the 90-minute session. At about minute 25,
he was snoring with a huge smile on his face. Afterward,
I put the jet-lagged pair to bed. My foray into parenting
my parents had begun.
We spent two days in Jakarta, the capital city, taking the
fancy yet inexpensive Silverbird taxis as well as buses.
We also played an adult version of follow the leader, with
me shouting, "Watch your pockets! Turn right! Don't
fall into the open sewers!"
I wanted them to experience Indonesian cuisine, but I had
to be careful of their stomachs. During a chicken satay
lunch (grilled chicken and peanut sauce) at Sate Khas Senayan
with my colleagues, one of them observed that the restaurant
was not authentic because "it is too clean!"
My obsessively neatnick mom failed at feigning disappointment
as she furtively used her napkin to polish her spoon.
Next, we flew to Surabaya. A driver arranged by our hotel
picked us up for the three-hour trip to Mount Bromo, an
ancient volcanic crater where we planned to watch the sun
rise. We sped through cities, small villages or "desas,"
and farming communities harvesting rice.
Farther on, our Kijang, Indonesia's answer to the SUV, slowed
to a crawl as the road narrowed through the steep foothills
of Bromo. The hillsides were covered with blue, red and
yellow flowers; my mother, an expert gardener, identified
them as poinsettias, hydrangeas, brugmansia, morning glories
and coleus.
Mom had learned a new Indonesian phrase - "bagus sekali,"
or "very good" - which she kept repeating like
a mantra, first in response to the flora at the airport
when we boarded our flight to Surabaya, and again when we
arrived at the Lava View Lodge.
Lava View overlooks the volcanic crater and is located near
the trailhead for the 1.2 mile climb to Bromo. But the lodge
was rustic, to say the least; I assured my parents this
was our only night "roughing it" as we wheeled
our fancy Patagonia luggage through gravel, dust and up
a steep staircase to our two-room "family suite,"
complete with red pleather sofa. Traveling alone or with
friends, the accommodations would have been fine. But I
realized then that my parents and I had different ideas
of "fine" - even though they never complained.
We turned in early, planning a 4 a.m. climb up Bromo to
catch the sunrise. The Lava Lodge had no telephones for
wake-up calls, but we got a wake-up kick at the door. We
stumbled out at 3:15 a.m. and made our way through the darkness
using flashlights. After a few anxiety-provoking wrong turns,
we made it to the top. But sulfur clouds pouring from the
crater stung our eyes so badly it was difficult to see.
"Yep, that's beautiful, I'm heading down," said
my stepfather, upon the arrival of the glorious sun as stinging
clouds made us all double over.
My mom and I jumped atop tiny horses as Conrad, deemed too
big for the horses, walked behind. Still thinking positive,
mom kept up her mantra - "Bagus sekali!" - while
I chanted mine, "I swear, the next hotel will be better!"
and "You'll love Bali!"
Back in Surabaya later that day, we napped, then visited
a clove cigarette (kretek) factory. Mom learned how to roll
her own from a woman who said she has a 5,000 daily quota.
The next day we arrived in Bali. Our driver, Sugi, told
us he was born in Bali and has never left: "Why would
I want to leave the Island of the Gods?"
"Speaking of gods," I told him, "Enrique
Iglesias and Anna Kournikova were caught canoodling on the
beach here last month!" If they felt safe here, why
shouldn't my parents?
We headed to the Oberoi Hotel on Seminyak Beach with beautiful
Balinese gardens and sleek rooms designed to look like thatched
huts. Mom was in her element. We relaxed for two days and
at night dined at hip beachfront restaurants: Hu'u (mom's
favorite) and La Lucciola (my favorite). We also tried Thai
Massage at Bodyworks, a day spa.
But when we left the quiet of Seminyak Beach, our vacation
bliss began to deteriorate. On a well-intentioned shopping
trip to Kuta Beach, we came upon the Bali bombing memorial,
bearing names of over 200 victims of the Oct. 12, 2002 terrorist
attacks. Mom and I hugged as we watched others leave notes
and flowers for their loved ones.
Our upbeat mood gone, we stopped by an ATM. Mom needed cash,
but I didn't know that she'd never used an ATM before. Sweaty
and crabby, we hunched over the machine. As her attempts
to access her account kept failing, my inner
teenager came out. "She FORGOT her PIN code!"
I shouted to Conrad.
Mom dumped the contents of her purse on the floor, Conrad
hollered possible combinations of numbers, and I watched
out for pickpockets and thieves as they tried permutations
of various siblings' birthdays.
The incident made me realize I'd underestimated the stress
of this trip. We needed to take it easy. Sugi suggested
the Bali Orchid Garden, where mom was in heaven.
Next stop, Ubud, an artist community in Central Bali. We
planned to stay a night, then fly to Yogyakarta to visit
ancient Buddhist and Hindu temples. But
when we arrived at the Alila Hotel, mom exclaimed, "I'm
home!"
Suddenly my grand itinerary was toast. I was fired as trip-planner
and mom took over. It was actually nice to have my parents
back! We changed our tickets and spent our last days together
in Ubud, relaxing, shopping and sightseeing.
Balinese dance is a must-see in Ubud. We chose a Kecak show
at Pura Dalem Theater. A hundred barechested men sang acapella
while three women mesmerized us with their syncopated arm,
hand and eye movements. For the finale, a dancer "possessed"
by a Hindu god danced atop burning coconut husks to exorcise
evil from the village.
My mom would have loved Yogyakarta, but I'm glad we simplified
the itinerary. And because my parents now believe I live
in a land of massage, flowers and beaches, it will be hard
to get their sympathy next time I call up homesick.
Shortly after they left, I emailed this news item: "Indonesia
has advised its citizens to avoid traveling to Britain due
to fears of possible terror attacks following the recent
bombings in Spain."
Mom responded: "I guess you, as an Indonesian, won't
be going to Britain."
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