Surabaya, Indonesia. Day 2. March 1, 2016

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Jane declined to join us today in favour of lounging in the heat and nursing her annoyingly persistent cough.

The rest of us headed off again with Joko, who from the bus showed us how the Dutch colonial architecture gives way to, and in some cases melds with the Arab and Chinese styles which came to Surabaya with the expanded trade routes.

Our first stop was a multi-floor Chinese temple hidden off a side street. If you missed the ornate rooftop connecting two buildings at the second floor over an alley, you would never even know this complex building was there. Beautifully painted dragons and demons decorate the carved walls and pillars. Joko bought us incense sticks so that we could join the locals in making a wish or prayer and place the burning sticks in the great sand-filled urns under the colourful figures. He also cajoled a couple of the attendants into showing us a short Indonesian/Chinese puppet show in the puppet theater off to the side of the temple.

"Now for a taste of the real Surabaya," said Joko, and led us down a crowded side street where we gave way continually to motorcycles, wheeled carts laden with various natural and packaged goods, and aggressive taksis.

We gathered at the end of an alleyway which was packed full of makeshift shacks and tarped lean-tos made from discarded skids and pallets. One might be a curtained room sided with crates and a small mattress, another might hold a bench for three, a small countertop and a propane cooker with a wok, and a cook selling lunch.

Joko's bag of candies came out here to great effect. Suspicious looks at the intruding tourists were dissipated by Joko's hearty invitation to locals to dig into the bag of sweets and we were welcomed and encouraged to take pictures. I myself particularly enjoyed the strong soft ginger candies he included today much more than the other coffee and cola flavours. I prowled subsequent markets from there to Mumbai looking unsuccessfully for that particular variety.

Then into the food market. This one, like others we have seen, is a huge warehouse-type building concealing a complex maze of vendors of fruit, vegetables, spices and coffees. Our larger Dutch men prompted quite a stir amongst the vendors, mostly women, many in headscarves and robes, who pointed and giggled and made loud comments amongst themselves.

The larger people in our party frequently found themselves inadvertently blocking the narrow aisles. Loud female voices occasionally arose behind us and we quickly learned to make way in the passageways for the women carrying bags and packages of up to 50 kilos on their heads, who really did not want to have to slow down or stop once they had forward momentum. They clearly had priority.

Some of us stopped to buy fresh ginger, potent chilis, freshly roasted coffees and unfamiliar fruits and vegetables. The bag of candies usually preceded any bargaining, which Joko would begin but let us complete.

One young woman simply walked up to Joko with her hand out, silently making come on, come on motions with her fingers. Joko selected one of each kind of candy and placed them in her hand. She made a fist around them and melted away. "She's a collector," he explained.

We stopped to visit an elementary school, where we were allowed, to the delight of the uniformed children, to peek in and disrupt their class. Some of us had brought presents - packages of disposable pens, coloured pencil sets and to the amazement of one happy teacher, a quality boxed geometry set complete with a compass and protractor.

Some brought food treats snaffled from the ship. Little boxes of Dutch breakfast chocolate, cookies, single serving packages of cream cheese, honey, jams and peanut butter, and fruit. Elliott held up an orange over the crowding children, and they showed some interest. When he held up a green apple, though, there was shrieking and general tumult. Clearly a rare commodity.

Sheryl had a lot of cookies left over. As we made our way to the Arab Quarter, she handed them out to those sitting and chatting outside the tiny shops lining the street, to their confusion and pleased surprise.

A walk down some side streets took us to the Arab quarter, another complex maze of narrow streets, interconnected hallways, and indoor and outdoor market stalls selling fruits, vegetables and spices, prepared foods, perfumes, clothing, musical instruments, jewelry and prayer beads and the inevitable tourist stuff.

Elliott pointed out to me one of those plastic 4-legged stools that you get for 2.99 at Walmart. It had split diagonally across the seat and someone had used a heavy waxed or plastic thread to actually stitch it back together again, then used a torch to melt it all solidly together.

Back onto the bus for the trip to one of the major historical industries of Surabaya and a family success story that has endured for over a century, the House of Sampoema. The Sampoema family has produced clove-spiced cigarettes since the late 1800s.

One may wonder why such an anachronism is a popular tourist destination, but the displays and the history are rich and interesting. On the top floor, their fastest workers put on a production display, hand-rolling cigarettes with ancient machines at incredible speed. On the open factory floor viewed from above (photography is forbidden), hundreds of workers work at top speed.

All uniformed and mostly women, those in red baseball caps roll the cigarettes on old machines. Those in yellow hats trim the excess tobacco and paper and make the cigarettes a uniform length, and those in yellow hats form cardboard boxes of various sizes and pack the cigarettes in and slap on the final label. As a nod to health concerns, the photos of the damage caused to some by cigarette consumption are much, much more graphic than those seen on North American packaging.

8 people can roll, cut and pack 72,000 cigarettes in a 9-hour day, and they work 6 days a week.

Our final tour was of the huge flower marker, where in dozens of stalls workers assemble sprays and displays of many different species and types. One guy had his running motorcycle up on a stand to power some sort of tool, while his neighbor used the illumination from the headlight to do some detail work in the adjoining dark stall.

I had earlier seen guys easily carrying huge flat packages of wide, long sheets of something, and had thought to myself, "These fellows are strong, but that can't be drywall."

These are the sheets of styrofoam they use to mount the flowers and to form intricate displays and forms - palaces and temples, cars and people. Very detailed, incredible varied and colourfully embellished accompaniment to the beautiful fresh flowers, ferns and fronds.

Lots of cats around with the kinked or missing tails. Jane theorised that the culprits are the many wheeled carts and barrows used to ferry materials up and down the streets and market areas.

Deep in the dark warehouse, I thought I heard my name called, but of course that couldn't be. I heard it again, more insistantly, and turned to see Brainard and Leslie across the way, waving happily. Brainard clutched a twig of orchids given to him by a young lady after he informed her that it was his birthday. Once again, in a densely populated city of over 3 million people on the other side of the planet, I happen to run into people I know.

As we headed back to the bus, Elliott picked up a palm frond, and cupping his palms together, had Cheryl place the large leaf over his hands. His clenched fists covered by the large leaf, he approached a gaggle of young Muslim girls and held his arms out invitingly. With great trepidation, one of the girls started to lift the leaf to peek at what he was hiding underneath. Elliott's hands made the fart noise again, and the girls fell back surprised, shrieking loudly in embarrassed and delighted laughter.

We were again collected off a busy main road by the bus as we dodged trishaws, cargo bikes and a constant stream of buses in various states of repair. Then it was off to a restaurant encouragingly packed to overflowing with locals. Management provided a preselection of dishes and we served ourselves family-style. We sampled a wide range of food; crispy chicken parts, chopped red and green chilies in a soy sauce thickened with sugar cane juice, two kinds of squid and tofu, four different versions of the catch of the day, some cubed and baked and deep fried and served in a sweet sauce or a hot sauce or a vegetable broth. Crushed peanuts, chunky vegetable soup, steamed greens.

Joko was asked about the fish, was it local? Of course, replied Joke, it's all local fish. We looked across the street at the thick muddy river flowing alongside the highway, and he laughed in understanding, "Not that local," he said. " Local from fish farms and fresh from the markets on the docks."Too soon, it was time to head back. Riding through the now familiar downtown, we passed large, busy recreational areas with water slides and skateboard parks, many many military statues dedicated to the expulsion of the Japanese at the end of WWII, and many welcoming gardens and fountains.

Oddly, a prenuclear Russian submarine is up on blocks by the river, open for touring.

We passed an area I've seen in travelogues; a long stretch through the center of town where shacks and houses sit inches from the train tracks, whee the train moves through the community as if down the main road.

And finally, after being so impressed with the ballet of traffic we've seen since we first landed in India and throughout SE Asia, a helmetless driver put his motorcycle down hard in the oncoming lane and didn't move again.

Good internet at the cruise terminal, so everyone waited until the last minute for all-aboard. In the meantime, local talent put ona stupendous goodbye show, with wonderful musicians and dancers, costumes and acrobats. Even a breakdancing dragon.

I squeezed out the last few FB posts to let people know we were still OK and emails to Shailesh in Mumbai, hopefully finalising our tour details for our two days there. I overheard a woman asking her locally-born cabin steward, while pointing at her 6'6" slim, Nordic, wrinkled and white-haired husband, "Why does everyone want a picture of him?" The steward shrugged diplomatically, but giggled as I caught his gaze and rolled my eyes.

Tonight was Brainard's birthday celebration with Leslie at the Pinnacle, just the four of us. These folks are great company. The Cellermaster's dinner is an occasional event where Chef Raj and Sommellier Justin team up to produce a world-class pairing meal. Although I did not actually taste the wines, I could smell Jane's as Justin lectured between courses at how the food and wines complimented each other. I got almost as much out of it as everyone else, and it cost a lot less.

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