So before we end and then begin ...

I have waived extradition and am returning voluntarily to face justice. These final hours of freedom will be spent much like the first: as a non-paying poseur among the privileged and pampered at the front of the plane. Bagging up the free jammies and gear kits, sucking down the Glenlivet and good wine, living la dolce vita one last time until who knows when.

Was it worth it? I can say only this: I traveled a long, roundabout path halfway around the planet -- six weeks shambling back and forth across five tropical countries – to find at the very end a moment of clarity that can guide me through the raging shitstorm that awaits back in Oregon. And that moment surely would have eluded me had I done the “prudent thing” and stayed home.

So maybe 7,926 miles was just enough. Cheers, and see you soon.

Back to the future

First morning back in Jogja, a few of the bicycle-pedaling bechak drivers along Justin’s street wave hello, and one even trots up to greet me: “Hey! I know you! You here before!” I must have made some impression during my last visit, galumphing back and forth 10 times a day, leaving moisture trails along the roadside.

I’m here for just a couple of days to touch bases and say good-bye. Justin is busy again with school, and I’m antsy to be within running distance of my Wednesday flight home out of Singapore. But before I go, I finally get to see the art form that precipitated this trip in the first place: a performance of wayang kulit – shadow puppetry.

Justin has a prior commitment Saturday night, so I get directions to the abbreviated white-people-friendly show at the Jogja museum, arriving at the empty hall one hour early. There, I meet an affable bear of a man, Safir, a puppet maker for the museum who draws me next door to see his studio. Safir would look totally in place with a loincloth and a spear: a great shock of scraggly black hair and chin-whiskers, and maybe five teeth left, all skewed at different angles. But his handiwork is astonishing.

Good wayang kulit puppets are made from buffalo leather and can stand up to years of being slapped and twirled in battle scenes. The curly-q line cuts for tresses and tree leaves, the stippling textures, the airbrush-like painting, the details that can barely be seen by the naked eye – every puppet is a marvel that you could study and savor for hours, and each one takes Safir about two months to complete.

Now I am excited to see these intricate delights in action. The performance begins and pretty soon I am making my “huh?” face.

The audience views these microscopically detailed artworks in silhouette through a backlighted, translucent screen. Except for some gradation of light and dark and muted hues, the months and months of lining, cutting and painting are utterly imperceptible through the screen.

Wayang kulit is, in a way, theater in the round: the audience members are not confined to their seats in front of the screen but can wander “backstage” to view the puppet master (who also narrates and provides sound effects with percussion instruments at his feet) and the gamelan orchestra clanging away behind him. In fact, most people attending this show spend more time watching the performers than the performance.

Now I understand why people bring pillows to the long-form wayang kulit shows. Ninety minutes into the Cliff Notes version, I am in REM territory. But seeing the puppets up close – those are worth the price of admission, and then some!

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On my way out of the country, Indonesia pulls a few final rupiyah out of my pocket:

• The Visa security auto-droid has canceled my card AGAIN, I learn when trying to purchase a flight out of Jakarta. This necessitates a Skype call to customer service from the despicable airport Internet café that charges roughly $6 per half-hour; the going rate near Justin’s house: not even 25 cents.
• The international departure tax is a whopping 150,000 rp, or $15. This just about cleans me out of cash, but I guess someone has to pay for the government ineptitude and corruption in that country.

That’s fine, Indonesia, you can keep your too-many-zeroes play-money, because now I am in Singapore, where a dollar is actually called a dollar. Singapore, where it is the 21st century. Singapore, where the standard greeting is “hello,” not “taxi, meester?”.

An Indonesian “travel help desk” agent at the airport will shunt you off to his brother-in-law’s dump of a hotel so that he can collect a commission. That dirty dog’s counterpart in Singapore is a cheerful professional who calls up a computer listing of hotels that meet your criteria – price, location, amenities –then arranges for an independent shuttle service to take you there. And at no time does she attempt to fix you up with a girl.

But enough ranting. My two favorite ethnic foods are Thai and Indian, and this hotel borders both Chinatown (close enough!) and Little India. My final night in Asia might involve not one Last Supper but two.