Many of their friends tried to dissuade them. "What are you doing?" they asked, appealing to practical considerations of building a life together, of laying the foundation for their piece of the American Dream. "Look, you're in your thirties," they said, "you're using up your savings. You should be buying a house or a car or something." It was sound advice.

But Ellie Jones, C'85, and Rob Rossi, C'84, were up for an adventure. Former English majors at Penn, they had married and moved to San Francisco. Rossi was managing editor of a legal newspaper there, and Jones did writing and editing for a medical/technical journal. They had been working at these jobs for a number of years and felt the need for a change. "We wanted to do something different," explains Jones, "take a year off, clear our heads, wander around and see what else is out there. For me, a lot of it was just feeling 'is that all there is?': waiting for the next promotion, the next job."

In May of last year, they set out on an eleven-month tour that took them through Morocco, Turkey, India, Thailand, Malaysia, Indonesia, Laos, Vietnam, and Cambodia. Their aspiration--to get as close to the cultures as possible, to get to know different cultures by being in them--coincided with their bare-bones budget for the trip.

"The idea was to go places where you need a lot of time," says Rossi. "If you really want to see where you're going, the best way to do it is to use local transportation. A bus ride costs about 50 cents, even if you're going 300 miles, and the place you stay is something like four dollars. We would go to a city or a little country spot and just sit outside and watch what's going on. Or we'd wander around and inevitably, wherever we went, somebody would come up, ask where we were from, want to practice their English, and we'd get into a conversation. We wanted to get a feel for what life is like in these places."

"And how people live," adds Jones.

"That's part of 'the vacation,'" he continues. "Instead of going to see the usual tourist sites, we went to see what life is like in India."

"We went to India for two months and didn't see the Taj Mahal," Jones exclaims as a point of pride. "I think we may be the only people who did that. We were pretty much on the move every couple of days. We weren't hidden away in some Hilton where everything is exactly the same as it would be at home. That's what you do on a two-week vacation; you make things as easy as possible: you fly in, stay in the nicest places, see the sites, and leave."

Jones' and Rossi's habit of completing each other's thoughts reflects the complementary natures they bring to their partnership. Jones' speech is hot, rapid, and intense, her voice animated by the feelings that were part of the experiences she relates. Rossi offers his accounts in a cool, uninflected, factual tone.

"I fell off a lot of stuff," Jones announces, as though it were one of the journey's highlights. "I fell off a boat with my backpack on. I fell off a camel. I fell off a horse."

"You fell off a motorcycle," Rossi interjects.

"On the way to the killing fields. My motorcycle driver wiped out; I got road rash on my butt."

Bus rides play a prominent role in the stories they like to tell. By sharing this ordinary experience with "the locals," they were able to narrow the distance between the tourist's outsider perspective and the lived life of the local culture. They sought out an intimate, down-and-dirty closeness with the culture, a taste of the everyday lives and challenges of the people rather than a snapshot of history enshrined in a country's monuments and tourist attractions.

In India, as in most of the other countries they visited, the buses are in a poor state of repair--as are the roads. "And every bus in India had an altar in the front," observes Jones. She tells of a particularly harrowing ride on a high mountain road with no guard rails. The bus was driven by a boy who looked to be about 15 years old, maybe younger. "I'm like this the whole way." She curls into the fetal position draping her arms across her face. Her husband did his best to allay her panic, pointing out that the local drivers do this all the time, that it's not a big deal and everything is fine. "I'm sure they hardly ever crash," he assured her.

"Just as he says that, we look over the edge of the mountain and down below there's a rusted bus carcass. We go a little farther, there's another one. By the end of that bus ride, I was praying to that altar too."

Besides riding on local transportation, Jones and Rossi enjoyed sampling the varieties of exotic cuisine their travels made available. "We ate what they ate," says Jones. "We're adventurous eaters; we'll eat anything--well, not anything, as we found on the trip--but we like all different and new kinds of food. We had some amazing meals cooked over open fires built in holes in the wall. That was part of the fun, and it was part of getting to experience the culture."

Food and buses come together in a story that, for them, encompasses almost all the elements of their travel experience. It was on an overland journey through Laos on the way to a new border crossing to Vietnam. They arrived at the bus station, which was really just a parking lot, at 5:30 in the morning and began asking people which bus they needed to take. When it comes to getting travel information, "you have to ask seven or eight different people," notes Jones. Rossi completes the sentence, "and take the average answer."

"Things are on rubber time," Jones resumes. "It's partly a function of there not being a schedule; you never get a schedule anywhere. I think things probably change more often than we're accustomed to. You can get a bus that's supposed to leave at seven o'clock, and it doesn't leave 'til 7:45 because the driver's decided he's going to eat his sandwich. And no one gets upset. And then, on the way out of town, he stops at his home to drop something off to his wife. You get used to it."

After making a number of inquiries about departure times, distance, and destination--it is difficult to find English speakers in Laos, which has only recently been opened up to foreigners--they finally come upon someone who directs them to the correct bus. Only the "bus" is really a diesel truck of Chinese manufacture that looked to be about 25 years old. The truck bed had been fitted with benches, and there were wooden slats around the sides and across the top. It was packed full with people, rice bags, and bundles of herbs. On top of the roof slats were bamboo cages filled with chickens. The passengers, seated six across, squeezed over without complaint to make room for the American visitors.

"The guy sitting next to me said the bus was due in at 3 o'clock," says Rossi. "Because you always get different information from people, we figured his English was not good, and he meant we'd be on the road for three hours."

The bus departed just as the sun was coming up. It creeped and bounced along, making frequent stops to pick up even more people along the road. "It's getting hotter and hotter," recalls Jones, "and it's too crowded. I've got coconuts under my legs; he's got rice bags under his, so his knees are up by his ears. And we're coming to realize that, instead of having a three-hour ride, we have maybe six or seven hours like this. We have no idea."

All at once there's a commotion on board, and people are trying to get out from under raw egg that's dripping down through the roof slats as the chicken eggs begin to burst in the heat. A monk in the next town confirms that it will indeed take seven hours to reach their destination, but he doesn't know anything about the Vietnam crossing. "We're moving farther and farther away from what looks like civilization to us," continues Jones. "I mean it's just hills and hills and hills and tiny thatch villages. We keep going; it gets hotter, and more and more people come on."

At hour number seven, the chickens on the roof start to die because it's so hot. So now, in addition to raw egg coming through the roof, there's blood, mucous, and feces. And then the truck begins breaking down at regular intervals. Members of the three-man crew run down to nearby rivers for water, and the vehicle must cool down before proceeding with the journey. "And we're getting increasingly frustrated and furious because we need to get someplace," recounts Jones. "We need to be there on time, and we want to know where we're going, and we can't believe the bus is breaking down. How can this man take out this truck that doesn't work and keep letting on more people? This is insane!"

Finally, the bus stops at a restaurant and out comes a woman who holds up kabobs for the passengers. She didn't have chicken kabobs, though, she had bats--bats on sticks. And they weren't skinned or anything; they were just roasted bats. This was one of the foods that lay beyond the boundary of Jones' and Rossi's adventurousness. Nor did they partake of the roasted beetles on sticks that were offered later in the journey.

Jones continues the narrative. "So you look around and say, 'Where are we? How did this happen?' We're still getting angrier, but then you notice all the people around you--it sucks for them too. It's their only mode of transportation, no one's complaining, everyone's smiling, everyone's sharing--even though it's bugs--everyone's nice to us: we're bigger than most of the people, and they're trying to move over and give us room."

"That's the thing you realize," says Rossi, "we don't have to be anywhere; these folks depend on this bus."

"All of a sudden you realize these people were going to market," says Jones. "The chickens that died--they were one woman's income for the month or something. The guy that owns the truck has to get these people to the next point so he has enough money to buy dinner and gas, and to get the truck fixed. People stand on the side of the road waiting three hours for the bus to come, so of course you move over. It doesn't matter how crowded it is. It was just a real lesson on how patient and nice people can be, and how ridiculous I felt about being so angry." The trip took 12 hours to go 150 miles, and it was just half an hour by motorcycle taxi to travel the final 20 miles to the border crossing.

"Their lives are hard," declares Jones. "In a lot of places, there's no electricity at all."

"The hotels were often dark," recalls Rossi, "and they'd have candles for us."

"The family lives on the ground floor," Jones points out, describing typical accommodations, "and they'd have extra rooms upstairs. No windows or anything: it's thatch and plywood. You'd have to walk down stairs and outside to an outhouse, which is a pit toilet. And there's no shower; it's a basin of water outdoors that you sluice over yourself with a saucepan. You're just right out there--I mean it's covered, but you could see the farm next door through the holes in the thatch.

"Sometimes, you'd get to your room feeling terrible and say to yourself, 'I'd love to have a bathroom. I'd like a screen because there are bugs in here. The bed's not very comfortable. I can't believe I have to walk out into the woods to pee.' But then you see that these people live a really hard life, and you feel terrible for thinking these things. And then you realize it's fine; you have what you need."

They didn't always lodge in such meager accommodations. One of the more luxurious establishments where Jones and Rossi stayed was an old colonial mansion up in the hills of India that the British overlords had used for vacations. A welcome relief after a 100-degree 15-hour "bus ride from hell," it was a cool and magical place with mists blowing among the trees--and their room had a bathroom with running water.

From the balcony of their room, Jones spied monkeys playing on the rooftops of the houses below. As a tourist and stranger, alien to both this culture and to wilderness, she ascribed to the monkeys a stuffed-animal cuddliness, despite their nearly three foot height. "Oh, they're so cute; they're so sweet," she intoned with a maternal lilt and threw a cookie down to them. The animals swarmed over it, screeching, growling, and baring their teeth. Within seconds they lifted their faces to where the cookie had come from and started making their way up toward the balcony. Jones estimates there were about 60; she ran back into the room without closing the door. When Rossi walked into the room, the balcony doorway was full of these monkeys. "They were just staring me down," he says. "They weren't going anywhere; they knew where the cookie came from."

The hotel workers had a good laugh and instructed them to keep the doors and windows not just closed but locked: the monkeys knew how to turn knobs and lift windows. "They're vicious wild animals," the workers advised. "They'll take your backpack; they'll take your clothes; they'll bite you." The next morning, believing the monkeys were gone, Jones and Rossi looked up from a card game they were playing on the bed just in time to catch one crawling through an open window and making its way toward their packs.

Perhaps the hardest thing for Jones and Rossi to get used to was bargaining. "If you wanted to buy anything," notes Rossi, "you had to bargain for it. It takes time; you can't just go and effect a quick transaction."

"In Morocco and Turkey," continues Jones, "it's hard-core bargaining. You get mad at each other: 'What are you, insulting me?'" She feigns anger. "'I'm not paying that price!' It's very aggressive. But then you get to southeast Asia, and it's completely different--it's all about smiling. You never want to make the other person lose face, so you have to do this nice bargaining." She pastes on a smile and nods. "'This is a beautiful thing; I'd really like to have it.' Whereas in Morocco you might say, 'Why would I want that rug?'"

In Istanbul, where they received a crash course in bargaining, it took three days to purchase a carpet. A shop proprietor invited them in--"Come in; have a cup of tea; I just want to talk." He turns on the air conditioner. They all sit and have tea and some pastries his mother made. The conversation is of everything but carpets. At the end of the session, he shows them a carpet or two and says, "Well, it's late; go rest." The second day, there are cokes and tea and more chit chat. Near the end of the day, carpets are rolled out. "Which ones do you like?" he asks. The asking price is still not disclosed; it is always flexible. The ones not selected are rolled up, and the proprietor finally begins talking price, which is exorbitant. "But I'll give you a very good price," he urges, "because you're such a special person." The real bargaining begins when they return on the third day. "We got the carpets for half of what the guy was asking," Rossi confides, "which is probably still too much, but we were still novice bargainers at that point."

"It turned out to be a good experience," remarks Jones, "it prepared us for the rest of the trip. You spend more time arguing about fares for those bicycle rickshaws than you do getting to the place you're going. At first you feel kind of bad. You go someplace, and it's really poor like you've never seen poor. And some guy in worn-out flip flops wants to take you someplace on his rickshaw. You don't want to argue about three dollars, but then you see that he's charging the locals the equivalent of five cents."

"A lot of them are pretty up front about it," Rossi continues. "They'll say, 'Well of course you're going to pay more: you have more money.'"

Jones adds, "The Indians would sometimes say things like, 'You have so much, and I have so little.' And they're right. But if you don't bargain, you'll have no money left because everybody wants a piece of what they think you have--you'll be taken over and over again. It took me a long time to learn this, and I lost money here and there as a result. And besides, bargaining is expected."

Bargaining seemed to mark the limit of how close Jones and Rossi could get to the cultures they visited. In many instances, the fact that they were tourists and what that outsider status represented was simply inescapable. "As a Westerner," remarks Jones, "you're a walking wallet. We would try to walk places, and there'd be a line of these bicycle taxis following us trying to give us a ride: 'Come in; come in. Very cheap; very cheap.' And as soon as we turned one guy away, because we just wanted to walk, the others would scramble up and try to give us a ride for a lower price." They know where the cookies come from.

Even more than being targets of the hustle, Jones and Rossi had to deal with feelings of guilt associated with the West's colonial heritage. The shopkeepers and rickshaw drivers were shrewd about exploiting these sensitivities in tourists. Just as American advertisers use sex, status, and sentimentality to blunt consumers' judgment and manipulate choice, these Third-World salespeople understood how to pluck--if not subtly, then at least skillfully--the strings of Western guilt about wealth and racism.

"In India," recounts Jones, "a guy came up to us and said, 'Excuse me, you're from the West?'

'Yes,' we said.

'What is racism?' he asked.

As I was trying to explain, he interrupted with, 'Oh, is that why Westerners don't want to talk to Indians? Is it racism?'

'Well, no,' I said, and continued to explain.

Pretty soon he suggests, 'Why don't we go in here and talk some more?'

Then I notice that the place he wants to take us is a jewelry shop. He wants to sell us jewelry. And Rob says, 'Let's get out of here.' As we're walking away, he's yelling after us that we're racist."

"It's pretty sophisticated," notes Rossi, "it's the guilt thing again."

"About 20 minutes later," Jones concludes, "we're in a completely different part of town, and some little kid comes up to us and says, 'Excuse me, what is racism?'"

Jones and Rossi are now searching for work in the States and a place to reestablish their careers and begin a family. "I didn't settle any big-picture issues in terms of internal questions or conflicts," says Rossi. "It was a good look at how the rest of the world lives. I think we got a better idea of where we stand relative to the rest of the world, and what might change in terms of that. We always talk about this global economy thing and everyone moving together, but I don't know that we're all going to follow the same path. There are real cultural differences that just won't go away. Some of the stuff they do is better, and some things it'd be a shame to lose."

"I learned, on the Laos bus, that we're too uptight and too efficiency oriented," reports Jones.

"And we want our space," adds Rossi. "We all have definite borders with each other."

"Yeah," she goes on. "We often can't share and be nice to other people. It's OK to slow down; it's nice to be patient. If somebody needs some extra room, well, move over on the bus. Those are the lessons I learned. As for the big questions?--pfuff!" She blows dismissively in the air as if such matters had the weight and substance of a feather. "No, it was just a really fun thing to do."

Now that she's back where she is no longer a stranger, though, Jones confides that it's hard to suppress the urge to offer only $14 for a pair of pants marked $29.