The only bule in town

I feel like a fairly savvy traveller by now, yet on reflection I write posts like yesterday's in the blindest naivety.

If I thought being able to speak a bit of the language and take everything in my stride could help me to blend in, I was mistaken.

First thing this morning the taxi driver drove me to a random house where there was a family with a newborn child who had to have his picture taken with the only bule in town.

Then there was uproar in this restaurant when I didn't have rice with my food and further consternation when I announced after finishing, in Indonesian, that I still managed to feel full.

Then of course I was charged harga bule (term I coined for foreigner price) despite paying at the exact time as everyone else, who ate more than me, and were charged less. It also happened to be more than I paid in the same place yesterday, when I ate more.

Later in the office, a young volunteer-type figure appeared and seemed to turn one of the bedrooms at the office into a smoking den, which strangely for Indonesia, included a couple of young women. Over the course of a few hours the haze became overpowering and the screeching of the girls almost too much to bear. All very strange when you're trying to focus on work.

The curious experiences of a bule...