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.
“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.
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