Triumph at 2240 meters. (24 Agustus 2008)

It’s exciting and exhilarating. The body screams and the mind craves. You can’t stop the adrenaline, fuel that pushes you to the boundaries. Physically and mentally. It’s pain with the most unbelievable rewards. Rewards relatively unaltered by time. Natural and organic. Exhausted and filthy, it’s looking up, filled with an untamable sense of pleasure. Hell yeah!! I just climbed a mountain!

Volcano number two. Gunung Inerie. Check. Poignantly lumbering on the south of Bajawa in solitude. Without natural companionship. A magnificent cone. Menacing, yet perversely enticing.





Friday night I found myself thinking, “What would Jen do? What would she take?”. Always prepared for the unexpected. Always pointing out my ignorance of the outdoors. I didn’t want to disappoint. I aspire to be a wilderness girl… an eager pupil, nevertheless not quite yet equipped with sufficient familiarity of natural world. Thus, trying to crawl into the mind of someone I admire, someone more knowledgeable than I.

The feeling of accomplishment is sweet but always sweeter when shared. Geoff, also a VSO volunteer on Flores, made the mere 10 hour trip inland to mount the living, beating beast. Setting out with the stars still hanging in the night sky at 4 am, our local guide (notably comical, he wore a ski mask and carried a machete) led the two aspiring adventurers… up. Up for hours. The stars seemed to be spin through the sky. Trippy. Seriously trippy. Just as pink and orange begun to streak the sky, we were engulfed by the white wetness of cloud cover. Hair and skin dripping with the surprisingly abundant condensation. Proving to be more than a steady incline, this was a true climb to the summit. More arduous than either Geoff or I anticipated… not that we thought it would be a walk in the park. Every foot placement required consideration. The ground was pebbly and loose. It was a gritty. It was riveted with veins of ire.

The clouds remained wrapped around Inerie, perhaps for the better, canceling the outward view of what could be either splendor or horror. The final leg to the top was a sheer rock face. Hugging the solid earth as wind whipped ruthlessly about. Admittedly, we’ve all had moments of exaggeration, thinking that the wind would blow us away. But on this morning, I was seriously filled with the fear of being propelled from the mountain by a gust of wind. Never have I experienced anything like it. Death by being blown off a volcano didn’t seem so unrealistic. An invisible strength unleashed from the mouth, the crater of the volcano. As if it was blowing out with all of the force Mother Nature could muster. We laughed at the reality of it all as our passionfruit rinds were caught by the gust and whisked far into the white abyss when ordinarily they would merely fall at our feet.

Triumph.



The wind enlivened three crosses made of hallow pipe at the apex of the journey. A musical climax, the soundtrack of our conquest. As if to say well done, the clouds parted briefly, reveling a spectacular blue sky with a string of clouds off into the horizon. Fluffy tops with heavy flat bottoms. We sat in awe gazing down at the clouds. Entranced by the ceaseless blue above. Truly atop of the world.

Stocking up. (19 August 2008)

Last night in tropical paradise, before heading back to the realities of life in a developing country. Night out in a club? To the beach? To Kuta or Legian booming with people and life? No. I go grocery shopping. And it’s fantastic! Partially fueled by the lack of pre-packaged goods from abroad in the local markets. Partially fueled by my (admittedly bizarre) love of grocery shopping. I stock up on little ‘luxuries’ like granola, dried fruits, capers, olives, and heaps of dark chocolates (which was probably devoured much too quickly). Whole black peppers and pepper mill. I buy boxes of Weet-bix and grainy crackers. Coffee that’s not powdered or freeze dried. Green teas. Nutella and rich honey, yum! And whole wheat bread. Bread is something I’d buy in bulk in the states. One for the trip home from the supermarket or bakery, two for later. I stared longingly at the cheeses and yoghurts, but resisted the irrational temptations. Nevertheless, I did allow myself to purchase a supply of soy milk for the days when powdered milk just won’t cut it. And The Economist, to catch up on the outside world. Dusted off the visa card (when was the last time someone swiped this thing?) as not to feel too guilty for spending nearly an entire monthly allowance in one go at the check-out counter.

I’m giddy with excitement.

Exotic and Erotic. (18 August 2008)

The bamboo cabanas weren’t bursting with people, but the sandy mangrove hideout offered up a mellow vibe of tropical bliss(despite the techno beat bumping from the speakers). Europeans and Aussies. Chat about the surf. Tabletops inundated with emerald bottles of Bintang brew… not that there’s much choice in Indonesia. Not even for the tourista.

“She’s exotic and erotic” (referencing yours truly) said with a classic inebriated surfer Aussie accent. Regrettably I merely pray for such enlightened phrases. I put it down with the “do you like me down there?”. In my next life I hope to be that poetic. I am neither, but this was indeed the recipe for the exotic and the erotic served up to those making the extra effort. The simplicity. The beauty. The world of carefree. It ignites the feeling of wanting to toss life into the wind. To abandon responsibility. To toss the passport into the blue and seek refuge in a forgotten corner, in a forgotten beach paradise.

Unfortunately such rapture is unsustainable. As classically portrayed by Hollywood heartthrob turned ‘green’ activist, Leo, in The Beach. But tonight we’ll take it. A motley crew, sharing the location of the moment. Away from home. Away from routine and normality. She’s 20. He’s 30... plus. In Indonesia, age gives status. One year makes a significant difference. The older are served, the younger are the servers. At 26, I am fairly low on the totem pole. Nevertheless, gratefully, I get bonus credit for being from the west. This element of cultural status makes people seem old. They loose the softness of youth. They loose their smiles. It’s differences like this that we fail to anticipate. I knew I’d miss chocolate, wireless internet, and CSI but this is an unforeseen craving of unconcern. So, this evening it’s refreshing to be with people where age doesn’t matter. The differences, a non-issue. It’s all youthful and carefree. Sharing the experience, not the digits. Age is but a number that helps to dictate life experience. With each day added to the year of my birth, I am grateful for the lessons learned. The things accomplished. The people encountered. The new experiences… and those relived. Sure the years may gives us wrinkles. But it’s these lines that reveal our history. Our mystery. Our happiness.

If I ever happen along a genie in magic lamp, I ask him (or her) to take me back.

Not only do I get a dose of western life, but also a bit of Indonesian culture. An island cremation ceremony. The locals and the near local and definite tourist. The later in bikinis. The former wrapped up vibrantly in sarongs… island style with t-shirts, flips, and sunnies. Trading in the waves for a bit of culture, the handful of part-time neighborhood ‘bule’ (white person) make a good show of the traditional dress. My island host noticeably non-indo. Nevertheless, working the threads. Elaborate edifices paraded. Balinese music clamors. The sun and the fire sizzle as the cremated are blessed before blazed to a char. Paraded about for the better part of the day before the ashes are transported via boat beyond the reef and left. Swallowed by the sea, ready for whatever awaits after life.

Nusa Lembongan in Pix

Excuses.

I am a super-duper blogger slacker as of late. I'll attribute it to a mere 4 days at home in Bajawa over the past 2 months... excuses, excuses. Nevertheless, loads to share. A few post now, a few older ones later.

Shouldn't it be what I want? (19 Agustus 2008)

Off to Singapore for a new Indonesian visa. It’s been fun to catch-up with the VSO posse that arrived together back in February, at the beginning of this story. Dinner in Little India. Rightly satisfying. 24 hours is just too quick. How do we know when we will happen onto these walks again? I kick it solo for two more days. Two more days of everything Flores isn’t. Two more days of fulfilling the cravings. Internet. Lattes. Beers (no Bintang! IPA’s, wheats, stouts… Tiger and micro-brews). Ice cream. People. Buildings. Shopping Malls.

There was a time when I’d wonder why someone would travel alone. But that was then and this is now. In these days of maturity, I relish flying solo. It’s freedom. It’s adventure. It’s liberating. And it’s utterly whatever I want. Perhaps in ‘normal life’ I give into to the whims of others. I’ll take one for the team. Make the sacrifice for the sake of the ‘greater good’. But to travel independently, I get to decide. I get to decide to watch the world go by as I sip a coffee. I get to decide to eat cake and ice cream for breakfast. I get to decide where to go for dinner and what time to dine. Cake and ice cream again, no problem. I get to decide to visit just half of the museum. I get to decide to go back to the same shop 3 times before making a purchase. I get to decide to stay an extra day or leave a day early. Where to next? I decide. It’s also the augmented sense of adventure that sets in when lost or confused. Nevertheless, even us recluses need someone in which to confide. To share frustrations and trails. To share a beer or two. To share stories from the road. It can be a friendless road if one lets it. Thus, we turn to our fellow travelers. It’s a fraternity. Initiated by stepping on to the first flight, waving goodbye to safety and security.

I shack up in a hostel. Dorm room. Mixed gender. It’s the cheapest on the menu... and I am notoriously frugal. But honestly, I don’t plan to spend copious amounts of time here. Just a few hours to snooze. And when in a bunk bed it doesn’t really make a diff who’s below… or above.

Andrew, slept two bunks over, just qualified as a lawyer back in the UK and is exploring before settling into his new career. We meet up for a drink in the trendy Clarke Quay. Happy hour at a microbrewery. Indeed a very happy hour. Then onto Hooters. Yes, Hooters. A classy establishment for sure, but I want chicken wings! Strangely the freedom to show skin is a welcomed change up from Flores, nevertheless, it’s still a bit of moral dilemma to see the coin coming in from the objectification of women. Back at the hostel, Andrew’s bunk buddy, and I nip out to the balcony to escape the intense stares of my strange, middle-aged Pakistani bunk mate. And to let his daughter (maybe?) snooze in quite. Mark shares his relationship woes, career adventure, and perspective on politics at home. A white Zimbabwean with a Filipino girlfriend. Both recently relocating to work in Singapore and stay in the hostel while apartment hunting. With Andrew and Mark, we share the trails of culture. Of new places. Of the unexpected. Confiding in strangers is more economical than a counselor, shrink, or other professional.

Luggage and map in tow, I meet my final (and perhaps most interesting) character at the hostel. Michael, from Congo and accompanied by a heavy French accent. I merely ask how much to expect to pay for a taxi to the airport. A taxi! Darling you must take the train! He offers to guide me to the station since we share a name. Its close he assures me. Flamboyant in every sense of the word. We stroll hand in hand. 45 minutes. I didn’t know walking that slow was humanly possible. Kiss. Kiss. I praise the ease and efficiency of the Singapore airport. No where else on this vast planet would I have made my flight. Admittedly, I was panicked.

Europe, Canada, South America, Indonesia. Random and distant. Nevertheless, I’ve never felt lonely. There always seems to be someone to rescue me from myself. From my tendency to over analyze and rationalize. To be drawn inward. A self proclaimed hopeless realist, I need a save from a stranger. People generally seem more sympathetic to a solo girly. Never a lack of “why?” and “what?”. Invitations and temptations abound.

Without dependents, there’s an amplified tendency to give into whims. It’s fueled by the sense of empowerment, and backed by inspiration from a book given to me several years ago now, by a London flatmate, Yes Man. The embodiment of life leads to the most interesting of destinations. Simply by taking the risk. Taking a chance, an unexplored opportunity. So here I am. Back to the island paradise. A mere four days later. Blog even yet to be completed. I had told the hotel boys, I’d be back. Never thinking quite so soon. I followed the clues, the signs. An invitation. A botched airline ticket. The greater powers that be seemed to be giving me the ‘green-light’. Just 5 hours off the boat, I’d say it was a good decision. Will I feel the same tomorrow?

I do.

Flashback to round 1 of Island Life, Nusa Lembongan.
Shimmy up to the bar for a latte and cake. Indeed, most would order a drink or beer but I need chocolate and caffeine! Conversation turns into a motorcycled island tour (although not a continuous event… sleeping and morning work also took place.) It was fun. It was an ‘all-most’ local perspective on the rocky roads. It gave me the courage, the desire to make the trip back. I truly believe that every person we meet has come into our lives for a purpose. Whether we realize it now or it’s revealed later.

What started at a beach side restaurant ended today as the public boat fired up the engines. Destination, Bali. I can’t tell you much about him except he craves the surf, plays in a band, and comes from the Land Down Under. My host and guide. A local celebrity. Billy. He has the friendliest eyes that crinkle and crease. There’s life behind them. They speak louder than the words as he chats up the locals, the tourist, and just about everyone. He remembers names. And details. And follows up… hence the notoriety. People like to be remembered.

Why did we meet? It’s apparent. His band opened for The Waifs. I love The Waifs. Have you heard of them? Name a song? Exactly. That’s why we met.

Evident, indeed. Nevertheless, another reason happened upon me on the boat back (listening to The Waifs on my ipod). No, it’s not my wanting to be the next Blue Crush surfer super star chica (see blog posted March 3). That’s still true, it’s a dream just on hold until I live somewhere with waves. Learning makes me happy. New skills. New ideas. Ok, I’m learning a language. A culture. I’m learning the in’s and out’s of the world of cashews. I’m learning to drive a motorcycle and spice up my nasi ikan (literally rice fish) with a mean chili sambal. But these are necessities. Encountering Billy and friends, awoken my slumber. Thank you. I realize now a sense of having grown stagnate. Blinded by the explicit (and rightly mammoth) learning curve of life on Flores. I need something new. Something for me.

Adventure to Nusa Lembongan (9 Agustus 2008)

It’s the vacation get-away cover photo that entices the readers (and buyers) of magazines such as Leisure and Travel, Travel, Budget Travel. Here I am on the beach. Simply idyllic. A tropical paradise in every sense. The Bali escape. Escaping Bali? Perhaps the best of Bali is a bit more fair. The culture, the surfing, the beaches. The golden sunsets. The shade of palm trees. Minus the people. Minus the heightened commercialism. Minus the pushy sales. Minus the noise.

Nusa Lembongan. Paris Hilton stay home. Not a destination for the high maintained. Thus, perhaps encouraging the interesting (and so often unachievable) dichotomy of the tourist and the local.

The beaches of Sanur faintly visible in the distance. A glow in the dark night. The nooks and crannies of mountainous north Bali appear softly painted, framed by still waters and candy clouds. A handful of yachts and speed boats drop tourist off shore on day trips. To play on the coupled, man made playgrounds floating hideously off shore. Thankfully avoidable. I came by public transport. A considerable savings on a local salary… but more importantly a heightened adventure. Wake up early or you’ll miss the chance to jump across the waves with a boat full of chickens. You come, you stay until tomorrow or better, extending the stay indefinitely. The liveliness of Indonesia bus travel, simply more damp. Wading thigh high out into the water, first I heave my backpack and then my body onto the wooden boat. Leave your roller suitcase at home, if making this trek. Crowing cocks and surfboards are tied to the white planked roof. Where are the lifejackets? Where?

Déjà vu. I think I’ve done this ride at Cedar Point or Disney land. All sitting forward, sandwiched on wooden planked seats. A two hour, nauseating trip, bouncing across the waves. My light grey t-shirt now dark and heavy. Not a dry seat aboard. No one immune to the soaking. A young girl in front of me vomits… twice. Washed below the floor boards by the salty seawater coming in from all sides. A powerful spray from the sea sweeps my flipflop to the same fate below in a stream. (Luckily the boat boy obliged when I asked him to pull up the floor boards upon arrival to the island, the sandal was rescued, and cleaned of all vomit. Footwear, however, is not a necessity on this sandy isle. Proudly, shoe free for 3 days.) ** In disclosure, the next three boat trips to and from prove remarkably calmer. Guess just lucky with this adventure… the blogging gods were looking down on me.

The tourist on Nusa Lembongan are surfers. They’re scuba divers and snorkelers. They’re in search of tranquility and sun on the hidden beaches. The locals are seaweed farmers. Their cockfighters and morning fishermen. Their children fly their homemade kites in the sea air.

The water crystal. Incapable of concealing a secret. The waves breaking offshore. Softly audible. The seaweed farmers at work. They cultivate the sea covered land. A patchwork quilt of various shades of blue, green, and turquoise. Punting, the men push the rainbow hued dinghies back to shore, brimming with their crop. Sea life in dark moist reds and greens and browns. Met on the powdery white sand beach by their feminine counterparts. The team hulls the seaweed into traditional Balinese baskets. The women heave the dripping bundle onto their heads. The men balance two baskets across their shoulders like an oxen. Their small people. Not muscle-y. Not overtly strong. The brimming baskets carried behind the tourist façades of small bungalows and beach front umbrellas, to thatch roof huts. The seaweed dries atop royal blue camping tarps in the intense afternoon sun. The pungent fishy odors only dissipate with distance.