Parenting the parents on a first trip to Indonesia

Parenting the parents on a first trip to Indonesia

Suzanne Plunkett, Associated Press, Jakarta

When my parents traveled from the United States 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 from their hometown of Edina, Minnesota, 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 I was
determined to make sure everything turned out just fine.

As they arrived, my mom sweetly chirped "Tiramisu!" She meant
to say "Terima Kasih". 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 the equivalent of Rp
28,999 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, 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 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 Mt. Bromo, the ancient
volcanic crater where we planned to watch the sun rise. We sped
through cities, small villages 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, bruggmansia, 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 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 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 a capella
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 e-mailed 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."