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.
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