Not All Rainbows & Unicorns

I take a lot of photographs when we travel. Hundreds, sometimes thousands.

I work hard to capture interesting light, unusual angles, quiet moments — the kind of images people later tell me are “amazing.”

And they often are.

But photographs capture a moment — often a beautiful one.

We are deeply grateful to be here.

We also occasionally need a nap. Sometimes simultaneously

Preferably somewhere with air conditioning.

But here’s what doesn’t always make it to Instagram or a Photo Gallery. Here’s the REST of the story:

• That atmospheric city shot from our hotel balcony?

Our hotel in the city is beside a large mosque. Right beside. It’s Ramadan. Once the sun sets, it seems to be the time for the loudspeakers to come on. To pray. To teach from the Qu’ran. To make announcements. To call people to pray. Around 3:00 a.m. the morning call for Sahur (the meal before fasting) begins softly. It’s like the first wake-up call. You hit snooze. You go back to sleep. BUT there are four loudspeakers. Right next door. Ten minutes later the message repeats. Again. And Again. By 4:30 it feels less like an invitation and more like a city-wide alarm clock.

Who picked this hotel anyway?

And when does the guy on the loudspeaker sleep?

I was thrilled about our next hotel. In the countryside! On a hill! Far from any town! Surely we would finally sleep.

Nope.

Turns out sound travels beautifully across valleys. Every surrounding mosque seems to broadcast up the hill in glorious stereo. So now we have more calls to prayer, not fewer. I respect Ramadan and the Islamic faith — I’m just still adjusting to the overnight soundtrack.

• That serene temple moment?

There were tour buses. Lots of them.

We ran ahead of them. I carefully chose the camera angles. Waited patiently. And relied heavily on selective cropping.

• That “effortless” market wander?

It involved heat, humidity, and one of us quietly Googling “how to say where is the bathroom.”

But we did discover snake fruit, which feels like a fair trade.

• That glowing beach photo?

Zoom out. There’s plastic at the tide line. Beauty and reality share the same shoreline.

• That smiling man who stopped just to chat?

He asked where we were from. Told us about his friend who studied at McGill (everyone we meet seems to know someone in Canada).

Five minutes later we were at a “Batik Exhibition” that has been on for “one month” and is closing in “just 30 minutes.”

We were gently but very efficiently being courted to purchase a masterpiece.

How did this happen?

All we did was smile, say “Monggo,” (“Hi” in Javanese) and look vaguely polite.

• That moment I read “appropriate dress required”?

Appropriate according to whom? Sleeves? Ankles? Both?

Do I look respectful or just aggressively tourist?

Why do all my clothes suddenly feel too heavy, too dark, and entirely wrong for this climate? I appear to need an entirely new wardrobe.

My suitcase — and Gary — strongly disagree.

• Lots of people look happy in the photos.

And many people genuinely are. But some of the young women we’ve spoken with have quietly told us about being kept out of jobs because they’re of marrying or pregnancy age. About rules around whom they can date. About what they must wear. About the religion they must list on their identity cards.

We’ve heard about no vacation pay. No maternity leave. No sick days.

We’ve watched people work what feels like 24 hours a day for very little.

Living somewhere is far more layered than visiting.

• Travelling during the rainy season seemed like a good idea.*

Fewer tourists. Cheaper hotels. Plus it’s winter in Canada.

Bonus.

And it’s true — it usually only rains in the late afternoon. Usually only for a short time.

Except when we were visiting some temples.

And a few days when we were cycling.

And those other days when we were, inconveniently, outside.

I used to say “I don’t do things in the rain.”

Apparently now I do.

• That “living the dream” moment?

Dreams are wonderful. They’re also tiring.

They involve long days in cars, waiting in airports, and sitting on planes.

• That romantic travel-with-your-partner idea?

You’re together 24/7. Airports, taxis, temples, markets, hotel rooms, long drives, longer flights. Every decision — where to eat, where to go, whether we really need another temple today.

Even after 39 years of marriage — and genuinely enjoying each other’s company — that is a lot of together time.

• And sometimes there are things entirely outside your control.

A war starts somewhere. Airspace closes. Flights get rerouted. Suddenly you’re wondering if you’ll make it home in April.

Travel has a way of reminding you how small your plans really are.

• That slow, immersive travel we planned so carefully?

This is why I love it.

Because staying longer means conversations happen. Time stretches. Context emerges. Complexity surfaces.

It’s not perfect. Some days it’s uncomfortable.

But it’s infinitely richer than zipping past on a tour bus, hopping out for a photo, and calling it understanding.

We’ve had long conversations with wonderful people. We’ve been treated with kindness, patience, and a lot of laughter.

We’re still on WhatsApp with some of them.

Travel isn’t rainbows and unicorns.

It’s nuance.

It’s discomfort.

It’s exhilarating.

It’s funny.

It’s tiring.

It’s wet.

It’s beauty braided with inequality.

But if we stay long enough — long enough to listen, long enough to look twice, long enough to step outside the perfect frame — the place slowly becomes more than a picture.

It becomes a story.