What fun is being an expat if you don’t take advantage of the opportunities to explore as much as possible? Indonesia makes it a bit tricky… it’s either an issue of time or money given the island state. Boats vs. Planes.
Thus, since VSO was footing the transport bill to Kupang, I made it a long weekend.
Burying my anti-social tendencies, I found myself engulfed by a gaggle of Filipinos and a duo of Ugandans. Our travel plans coinciding. Rationalizing that getting from point A to point B in Indonesia is easier done with a posse than solo, I crashed their holiday. Admittedly, prior to this Asian adventure, I had minimal exposure to the Filipino culture. My Ag Comm TA at OSU was Filipino… we were all fairly convinced that she was certifiable (crazy). However, now, in all my wisdom, it was most likely just a cultural disparity. A Filipino thing… or is that an American thing? The boundless energy. The constant need for group activities. Kindof like traveling with a group of excitable, sugar-high teenagers. Exhausting. Nevertheless fun… for a short few days.
Rote.
Renowned for it’s surf and beaches. Rightly so.
Hoping off the boat (we made it! I was holding my breath as this crossing hasn’t always been successful, 2006 the ferry sank) we made a beeline for the white beach village of Nemberala… almost. First lunch. Then snacks. Then shopping in the market. Where is so-and-so? And so-and-so? All collected and fed, we bounded south.
The road barely a rocky dirt path. The landscape thirsty. Peppered with towering lontar palm trees. The source of sweet liquid that is fermented into a juicy, white palm wine that is both tasty and strangely reminiscent of vinegar. The hovering green palm canopy in sharp contrast to the ridged grey trunks planted in the spongy sand. Seemingly another level of the world somewhere between the dull colors of the earth and vivid blues of the sky. On Flores the cattle and buffalo are singularly tethered roadside. On Rote they wander the dusty savannahs in small herds. The pristine beaches, as if cut from calendar pages, entirely vacant except for my playful comrades… and numerous families of rooting pigs. They (both the Filipinos and the pigs) leave furrows in the white powdered sand that seems to stretch endlessly around every bend. A peculiar picture of carefree pigs and scampering foreigners. Boats anchored just a few feet off shore. Locals searching the coast for every strand of marooned seaweed that is their livelihood. Val and I borrow a canoe to paddle out to swim among the floating ropes of the seaweed plots. A paddle that was easier said than done! Round and round and round we go…
We spend our couple of days exploring the beaches of Bo’a and Oeseli. Nothing but sand, pigs, and the rare surfer. This is where the waters of Indonesia and Australia merge. The later having islands close enough that crossing wouldn’t prove difficult for a strong swimmer. As the tide goes out the beach morphs into a vision of another planet. Perhaps a moonscape. Cratered. Massive freestanding rocks that could only have come from the depths of the universe or an act of God.
We spend our nights in the company of the echoing pounding waves and the three men staying in our homestay. Surfers. But far from the hordes that bound to Kuta. These surfers are 40-50ish. Their hair grey and faces weathered from years of waves and sun. Meals part of the hotel deal since there aren’t any other choices in ‘town’. Family style, beachside. We chat and share personal philosophies. Roll out maps and linger over where we are, where we’ve been, and where we want to be. The orange glow of a bonfire constructed from the hulls of coconuts. The ceaseless dark night sky painted with the ribbons of the Milky way Galaxy. Streaked by shooting stars. Fingers and toes digging into the sand. The waves thundering through the night.
Back tomorrow. To reality?
Thus, since VSO was footing the transport bill to Kupang, I made it a long weekend.
Burying my anti-social tendencies, I found myself engulfed by a gaggle of Filipinos and a duo of Ugandans. Our travel plans coinciding. Rationalizing that getting from point A to point B in Indonesia is easier done with a posse than solo, I crashed their holiday. Admittedly, prior to this Asian adventure, I had minimal exposure to the Filipino culture. My Ag Comm TA at OSU was Filipino… we were all fairly convinced that she was certifiable (crazy). However, now, in all my wisdom, it was most likely just a cultural disparity. A Filipino thing… or is that an American thing? The boundless energy. The constant need for group activities. Kindof like traveling with a group of excitable, sugar-high teenagers. Exhausting. Nevertheless fun… for a short few days.
Rote.
Renowned for it’s surf and beaches. Rightly so.
Hoping off the boat (we made it! I was holding my breath as this crossing hasn’t always been successful, 2006 the ferry sank) we made a beeline for the white beach village of Nemberala… almost. First lunch. Then snacks. Then shopping in the market. Where is so-and-so? And so-and-so? All collected and fed, we bounded south.
The road barely a rocky dirt path. The landscape thirsty. Peppered with towering lontar palm trees. The source of sweet liquid that is fermented into a juicy, white palm wine that is both tasty and strangely reminiscent of vinegar. The hovering green palm canopy in sharp contrast to the ridged grey trunks planted in the spongy sand. Seemingly another level of the world somewhere between the dull colors of the earth and vivid blues of the sky. On Flores the cattle and buffalo are singularly tethered roadside. On Rote they wander the dusty savannahs in small herds. The pristine beaches, as if cut from calendar pages, entirely vacant except for my playful comrades… and numerous families of rooting pigs. They (both the Filipinos and the pigs) leave furrows in the white powdered sand that seems to stretch endlessly around every bend. A peculiar picture of carefree pigs and scampering foreigners. Boats anchored just a few feet off shore. Locals searching the coast for every strand of marooned seaweed that is their livelihood. Val and I borrow a canoe to paddle out to swim among the floating ropes of the seaweed plots. A paddle that was easier said than done! Round and round and round we go…
We spend our couple of days exploring the beaches of Bo’a and Oeseli. Nothing but sand, pigs, and the rare surfer. This is where the waters of Indonesia and Australia merge. The later having islands close enough that crossing wouldn’t prove difficult for a strong swimmer. As the tide goes out the beach morphs into a vision of another planet. Perhaps a moonscape. Cratered. Massive freestanding rocks that could only have come from the depths of the universe or an act of God.
We spend our nights in the company of the echoing pounding waves and the three men staying in our homestay. Surfers. But far from the hordes that bound to Kuta. These surfers are 40-50ish. Their hair grey and faces weathered from years of waves and sun. Meals part of the hotel deal since there aren’t any other choices in ‘town’. Family style, beachside. We chat and share personal philosophies. Roll out maps and linger over where we are, where we’ve been, and where we want to be. The orange glow of a bonfire constructed from the hulls of coconuts. The ceaseless dark night sky painted with the ribbons of the Milky way Galaxy. Streaked by shooting stars. Fingers and toes digging into the sand. The waves thundering through the night.
Back tomorrow. To reality?
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