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.
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