MEET PACKMONKEY: After 10 years of working for a New York City newspaper, I quit my job and bought a one-way ticket to the other side of the world. My journey is a meandering route through Southeast Asia, from Bali to Hanoi, though I don’t know when this trip will end, or exactly where it will take me. This piece is adapted from my blog, Packmonkey.

I LANDED IN BALI after spending nine glorious weeks in the wilds of Australia, and immediately sensed that my definition of “wild” was due for an upgrade. In Kuta, the tourist mecca of Bali, there was chaos, noise, and my nose was overcome by a fragrant stew of spices, incense, sewage and exhaust. The chaos and the Hindu culture of the island reminded me of a past trip to India, the most difficult travel experience of my life. How could Bali, land of palm trees and tranquility, be any worse? How could I be so wrong?

Bali is a destination hit hard by the twin specters of terrorism and natural disaster. The tsunami of 2004 and bombings in 2002 and 2005 have decimated Bali’s tourism industry. Outside of Bali, the majority of Indonesians are Muslim, and in today’s political climate that adds a level of concern (misguided, in my opinion) that keeps some Westerners from considering a visit. Travelers once clogged the beaches and nightclubs of Kuta, but it now feels like a forgotten friend, the one that used to be so much fun but now looks worse for wear.

ALL PHOTOS BY MATTHEW KLEIN.

I had barely stepped out of my hotel lobby when the ambush began. I was assaulted by a horde of touts offering their services. Men seated next to idle motor scooters repeated the word “transport” like a mantra. Women grabbed me offering massages and scowled when I declined. One guy with a shifty gaze moved close enough to whisper into my ear, the pleasure of “young lady” could be mine for a very cheap price.

I wasn’t born yesterday, but two days in Kuta wrecked me. New sights, smells, tastes and sounds battled for attention in my overloaded brain, the constant barrage of “transport” and “massage” distracting me from my surroundings. Images of Hindu gods crowded the myriad temples, some sporting razor-sharp claws and looks of vengeance that added to my discomfort. The best moments in Kuta were those spent watching “Seinfeld” on satellite television at the hotel. I knew I was reverting to the comfort of the familiar, basking in a byproduct of globalization, but watching Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer bickering about nothing eased my overburdened mind.

Is this how I was going to react every time the trip turned difficult? How was I going to navigate the months ahead when my first stop in Southeast Asia had me running for the remote?

If I were going to find tranquility and a taste of Asia in Bali, perhaps it would be in Ubud, the island’s cultural center, where visitors can attend dance and music performances and take courses in cooking and batik. Ubud was less hectic than Kuta, but the lack of tourists lent the place a ghost-town vibe. What tourists were there were crowded into the town’s organic-food restaurant and adjoining yoga studio. I no longer felt like a stranger; but Ubud came across like Manhattan’s Upper West Side surrounded by rice paddies.

Perhaps a few days in Lovina, a beach town on the north coast, would resuscitate my desire for travel.

As one of a handful of tourists in Lovina, it was impossible to show my face without attracting unwanted attention. In 24 hours I was offered transport (motorbike, push bike, taxi, jeep and boat), polished shells, beaded jewelry, massages, Balinese calendars, fresh fruit, rice crackers, dolphin tours, snorkeling cruises, haircuts, trips to hot springs and waterfalls, sarongs, t-shirts and sandals, prostitutes (“you want jiggy jiggy girl?”) and drugs. I was everybody’s best friend and biggest disappointment.

Maybe the secret was to expand my vision and explore more of Indonesia? Surely in an archipelago composed of thousands of islands, a single traveler could find some peace. In Java, I would encounter a Muslim culture—same country, different flavor. At the very least I would be leaving those frightening Hindu deities behind.

Islam is thought to have been introduced to Indonesia—now the largest Muslim-majority nation in the world—by traders in the 13th century. By the 16th century it had been more or less peacefully incorporated into existing culture and religious institutions. Peaceful incorporation sounded like just the ticket.

Still, my guard was up and my senses were on high alert, so I was happy to come across information on the Lonely Planet web site about popular scams in Indonesia. I would pass through the city of Probolinggo on my way to the volcanoes at Mt. Bromo in Eastern Java, where one of the most popular scams was for bus drivers to drop foreign passengers not at the bus station in Probolinggo but at a travel agency, where they would be charged exorbitant fees for transport up the mountain.

I’d fallen asleep by the time the bus arrived in Probolinggo, around 1:30 a.m., and awoke with a start when the bus stopped. I looked outside at an ordinary street and saw one of the bus employees unloading my bag onto the sidewalk. I jumped out the door, grabbed my bag and told them to take me to the bus station. Two other employees and the driver each insisted that we were at the bus station. I insisted we were not. I demanded they take me to the bus station. Back and forth, we played the game, back and forth. But I was outnumbered. They blocked the entrance to the bus with their bodies. Despite knowing exactly what was going on, and preparing myself for it, I was outplayed. I’d been sold up the river for a ride up a mountain.

By 5 a.m. I was at Mt. Bromo and soon thereafter was perched on a peak watching the sun rise over belching volcanoes below. It was a gorgeous morning; I communed with nature. I then climbed one of the volcanoes, and standing on the rim, peering into the noxious steam rising from the crater below, I forgot all the hassles of the previous week, forgot that I had been ripped off not three hours earlier. For the first time in a week, I was happy.

I returned to the bus station in Probolinggo, a sprawling complex on the edge of town. A travel agent named Toto arranged a seat on an overnight bus to Yogyakarta and spent the rest of the day making sure I was comfortable and well fed. When my eyelids drooped in the early afternoon, his wife, Inda, let me sleep in the back of their shop. They showed kindness and offered honest conversation. They made a traveler feel welcome and safe, and not a little guilty for judging their country so harshly.

I arrived in Yogyakarta early the next morning. Over the next few days I caught up on my sleep, spent time reading and writing, and visited the Buddhist monument at Borobudur. I was still hassled in the street and overcharged for services, but I was more or less able to move about freely.

I ate fried fish, curried chicken, tender eggplant and okra, and shrimps drenched in an oily chili sauce at a padang, a type of restaurant where you are given a plate of rice and then choose from dishes piled on a counter, paying only for what you eat. The teenagers behind the counter turned up the radio whenever a fast-tempo rock song came on, their taste running to Indonesian alternative rock that reminded me of Green Day. Later, the guys at an Internet cafe put their networked games of RuneQuest on hold to make sure I had access to their servers.

At Borobudur, a group of high school kids practiced their English by interviewing me. They wanted to know what I thought of their country and whether I liked the food, and were overjoyed to hear that I was a journalist. They recorded the conversation and wanted to take some pictures with their cell phones. I agreed to the pictures, but only if I could take some of them. I expected them to stand in a straight line, but they surprised me by effortlessly arranging themselves like a pop band at a photo shoot.

This was closer to the “Asian experience” I was looking for. Bali kicked my ass and Java poured salt in the wound. But Indonesia eventually showed hospitality and friendship to a stranger. •