Jogjakarta was the highlight of the Java trip both for my daughter and me but getting there was a nightmare. It was the Christmas weekend. Not a problem in Muslim Indonesia, I thought. Wrong. Every train and bus was booked with mostly students returning home. The only possible route out of Bogor, was a taxi to Bandung. From there we caught a jam-packed train to Jogjakarta standing in the isle for hours. After this journey, my daughter started counting the days before we’d be back home. “Twenty-one days to go,” she moaned as we wearily dumped out packs in our room. At least I scored one point landing in a hotel with a swimming pool. Even though she wasn’t enjoying the congestion of Java, the stinky cloves cigarette smoke, the friendly people tweaking her cheeks saying how cute she was, she didn’t complain. It was a bonus travelling with her. No one harassed me. Everyone was friendly, respectful and curious about a dark haired child travelling with her mum.