The Bewildering Logic of Travel
One of the quiet joys of travel is learning just how irrational the world can be. You set off expecting to be amazed by landscapes and cultures, but you end up equally amazed by the sheer idiocy of foreign systems.
Airports are the undisputed champions of this game. You dutifully show your boarding pass to a stern security officer, then again at baggage screening, only to scan the exact same piece of paper again thirty seconds later at the gate. Arrival forms are just as absurd - China still ask you to list every single country you’ve visited in the past two years, as though a weary immigration officer was going to pore over my sprawling list of 30+ nations before waving me through.
Money doesn’t escape the madness either. Some countries refuse to let their currency be exchanged abroad, so you’ve got to find a black market money dealer or another traveller heading in the opposite direction. And even when you’ve paid your way into a tourist site, you may be asked to pay again to use the toilets inside. I’ve already handed over the entrance fee, and now you want me to cough up a few more coins just to relieve myself? Do you want me to piss against the tree out there?
Mount Bromo in Indonesia here is another example.
The sunrise there is unforgettable. You rise in the dark, climb into an ancient Land Cruiser - one of hundreds, all painted in retro greens, reds, and yellows - and rattle up a winding mountain road. By the time you reach the viewpoint, the air is cold, the stars are fading, and the horizon glows with an orange blur. Then the sun ascends, the mist lifts from the caldera below, and you’re staring at that picture postcard view. It is, genuinely, one of the most reliably beautiful sights on earth.
And then… everyone has to leave.
This is where logic collapses. The road down from the viewpoint is a narrow two-way road carved into the mountainside with cars parked on either side. Hundreds of jeeps must descend in order, nose to tail. But if even one driver decides to park “just for a minute” in the middle of the road, or if a group of tourists are late getting back to their vehicle, the entire convoy halts. Engines idle, horns bleat, and the road echoes with frustration. You can end up waiting an hour or more, watching the morning light shift while nothing at all moves forward. And the strangest part? Everyone accepts this as normal. It happens every single day, and nobody seems to have considered a system or traffic rules that might actually prevent it.
At first it’s maddening. You sit there, calculating how a single parked car has stranded hundreds of others. But slowly the absurdity softens. You notice the driver of your truck is leaning back in his seat with resigned patience of someone who observes this daily. You see locals climbing out to light cigarettes, trading jokes, gazing at the new day as though they had all the time in the world.
This is what you came for. Not the comfort of efficiency, but the chaotic charm of a place that doesn’t work the way you think it should. The system makes no sense, but the view still does.
So you climb out of the Land Cruiser, stretch your legs, maybe share a couple of cigarettes with a driver in a faded leather jacket.
The most bewildering part of the journey can be the most memorable.
