Our days consisted of experimenting with funky foods flavored with lemon grass and coconut, exploring a countryside of sweeping rice paddies and distant, cloud-laced volcanoes, staying in small villages of thatched roofs and glossy brown cows. We tried to converse with a (mostly) friendly populace when the language barrier could be surmounted.
I was writing in my diary and focusing on keeping my breakfast of fishcakes where it belonged, while the driver exercised his penchant for supremely dangerous passing maneuvers. Peter, my adventure companion (who happened to be in love with me and could pitch a tent in the black of night and had a lot of accomodating relatives in East Australia) spoke.
"You know," he began, his eyes rather nervously tracking the grey truck coming straight for us, "maybe we should try out the hitch-hiking thing while we're in a country that is supposedly safe enough for it."
"My mother would have a fucking cow," I mused, "but let's see, we'd save enough cash to stay an extra day or two, and we might save lives by staying off these buses - our lives. Hey, sounds like it could be a go."
"Think about it." he said enthusiastically, "this would be our chance to get close to the ground, to really get to know the people who call such a singular place their home."
"Singular, huh?"
"Yeah."
God, he was cute sometimes. A little more discussion about the logistics, like how to find the right road out of town, then, using our Lonely Planet guide to determine the proper hand gesture - we set out.
