An Amateur Traveler's Guide to Jakarta by Chris Lee

First off, incredibly excited to have this piece shared and to be supporting a great project from an even better friend!

Coming into Jakarta, I had no idea what to expect – a lot of friends had told me to try and avoid it because megacities never tend to have anything to do. So with a forty dollar flight ticket in hand and a close friend who was up for anything, we were practically looking for trouble in whatever corridor it may appear. With little plans and nothing to see in Jakarta, we made our way to Bogor, a city just a short ways away. It was there, at Hostel Bogor that the owner (who we affectionately called Mom) gave us an ultimatum; we could choose to see the regular museums around the area, or she could send us on a three day quest that she described as, “Impossibly confusing but really fun.” To us, this was taken directly as a challenge to our frail masculinity and was no longer a choice. Three days it is.

She drew out the instructions on the back of a crumpled piece of recycled paper – take three busses, hire a motorcycle to take you to the base, stay at the base camp, ascent the mountain and then do it in reverse. “An easy 6 hours” she laughed. That was a lie. Bags in hand and with little expectations, my friend and I walked out of the hostel feeling like Frodo and Sam in the Fellowship of the Ring.

Our first challenge was the busses. Out in rural Indonesia the concept of a bus is far different than in the West, anything can be a bus. If you slap a number on the back of your broken horse cart, you can officially operate as a bus driver and make some cash on the side. The only way we could identify which busses we needed to get to was via the three route numbers she had written – 3, 9, 6. Catching the first two busses was simple. We were able to deduce through Google Translate assisted conversations with locals where we should be getting on and off. But by the time we had reached our third bus, the language barrier and time was against us. We had overshot our bus stop riding the 9, the sun was setting and we had no way of getting back. Frantically, we came up with options – sleep in the local KFC, walk three or four hours back the opposite direction or ask the locals. Choosing the last option, we started asking around. After an hour of what felt like panhandling, someone finally responded to us – “stay at my house” he said. We knew for sure we were going to get kidnapped.

So there we were, riding on the back of a motorcycle of a man we had never met with complete trust that he wasn’t in the market for selling small immigrant boys. We arrived at his home and met his (incredibly lovely) family. We spoke few words past the initial “hellos” and soon he showed us to a room, a concrete floor with two single beds on it. Still better than a KFC washroom. Gratefully but cautiously, we fell asleep. To our surprise, we hadn’t gotten kidnapped at all, this man was just being incredibly nice to two foreigners he had never met before. In the morning, his wife was waiting with breakfast already cooked and we proceeded to ascend the mountain, hiring a guide to take us there. After seeing the incredible views, we made our way back through the rain to our salvation at Hostel Bogor. There, with bated breath we laid our bags down and went for some shut eye.

Reflecting back, what shocked me most about this trip wasn’t how crazy the circumstances were (and heaven knows how crazy they were). What shocked me the most is that we fully put our lives into the hands of five or six strangers and at the drop of a dime, any one of those people could have completely ruined us. For the most part, we were lost and had nobody understood what we were saying; we would have been in major trouble for sure. So apart from the memories, what I got from this was a lesson in humility and human kindness. The people with so little and so much more motivation to do us harm did quite the opposite and left an impression on me that I’ll never forget.

Being Black in Asia by Danielle Cesar

This is the fifth time I've started this post. Mainly because my feelings about the experience changes daily. Some days the attention is unwanted, creepy and makes me angry. Other days it's a mixture of childlike innocence and curiosity which touches my heart. And the rest of the time I don't want anyone to touch my hair, skin or take photos.

Being black in Asia you're on display ALL THE TIME! One would assume that due to the influx of tourism in recent years black people wouldn't be treated as a spectacle but unfortunately I've only seen a handful of black travelers since I started my journey so I understand why people are in such awe when they see us… I even catch myself staring sometimes.

Or asking for selfies - International Student, Omar in Malaysia 

My experiences as a black woman in Asia have been enlightening… It all started in India, men would constantly approach, asking for a photo or attempt to take one in a not so sneaky manner. This happened at all the monuments and on the beaches, while we were in swimsuits. The men in the photo below took photos of my classmates and I the entire time we were on the beach in Goa, India.

In the mountains of Chiang Mai, a group of men and women sitting around a fire were intrigued by my hair. As one of the men held up a twist and looked at it our tour guide translated their questions. How long did this take? Is it real? How often do you wash your hair?

After crossing the northern border between Thailand and Laos many people blatantly stared in awe. Although this area has an influx of tourist passing through I don't think many of them are black. My cousin and I were two out of 100 tourists that morning. A little girl, around the age of nine (working collecting money for the bathrooms) was extremely curious about my hair and asked if she could touch it. She was fascinated by my twists and wondered if I could do the same with her hair. Of course I obliged and twisted a section of her hair!

In Laos, as climbed out of the waterfall I looked up and there's an old Asian man with his phone trained on me, I yelled "No!" at him and he immediately lowered the phone in embarrassment. That however didn't stop his wife from coming over and asking for a selfie.

In the beach cities of Vietnam I had entire families run up to me and and ask for photos. In one instance, I was with a family of seven for five minutes taking pictures. Other days I just shake my head and keep walking.

Other than the constant staring, photos and the creeps who want to touch you or your hair, Blacks in Asia are treated just as fairly and equally as other tourists are. That's stating it nicely because everyone is trying to hustle you!

However more and more I feel like I'm on display like a zoo animal. There's nothing I can do to blend in or stop it so I try to just take it in strides and walk away if a situation is creepy….

When I got off the bus in Cambodia I was surprised by the variety of skin tones I saw. The people were extremely beautiful. Their skin colors ranged from Snow White to midnight and I fell absolutely in love with the Cambodian people. The further south you travel in Asia the more Asians you meet with darker skin tones. Although it is still a rarity to find cream, moisturizer or deodorant without whitening properties.

In Asia white skin is regarded as beautiful. Darker skin is associated with working outdoors and of a lower economic standing. In 95 degree weather the women are completely covered up without an inch of skin exposed in an attempt to protect their skin from darkening. Futhermore, I have not seen one dark skinned person featured in one advertisement, billboard or television program. The beauty stereotype that white is right and beautiful is deeply rooted in Asian culture and history.

I've realized that I'm an introverted extrovert. Sometimes I want to shine and be the center of attention, other times I want to hang back silently and observe. Being Black in Asia doesn't give me the luxury of blending in. Everywhere I go, I'm an anomaly. People stare, try to touch me, take photos, laugh, and point. I don't understand the language so I don't know if what they whisper to each other when they walk up to me and touch my hair or giggle in groups as I pass is good or bad. I do know that it makes me uncomfortable. It's taken me months to even understand how I felt and be able to write it down. I've had a range of emotions run through me, from anger to passivity to my current state of acceptance. I've resigned that I'll not let people see that their reactions to being in the presence of a black woman bother me. I will check them very quickly if they are disrepectful though.

Mainly I straighten my spine, square my shoulders, add an extra dose of swagger to my walk and hold my head up high. That way when they say they've seen a black woman, they'll say she radiated confidence and self love and when she walked through town she made it her own.