My rational self says that I should not be on this bus going 10 hours away from my home. But there is an adventure to be had! There are whalers to be discovered! Do I sit and wait for the latest visa info from VSO to be delivered… which will inevitably be another email of uncertainty. Or… carpe diem? Due to impending visa changes, VSO maybe sending us home. Perhaps temporarily. Perhaps indefinitely, sans return tickets… so why not squeeze the life out what could be my last days of Indonesia life? Why accept the laissez-faire ‘waiting game’ that Indonesians seem to play so well? I’ve nearly forgotten the sense of empowerment derived from being proactive!
So let me tell you a whale of a story. At least that is what we set out in search of. Lembata is an island, a couple of hours by boat, off the very eastern tip of Flores. It also is home to a village what happens to be the only place on the planet where fisherman still go hunting for the big catch with spares. The really big catch. Whales.
By bus. By boat. By motorcycle. By truck. Nearly 20 hours divvied up over three days… each begun before dawn. I swung my legs out of the back of our ride, a truck lined with benches and crowded with fruits, vegetables, chickens, goats, people, plants, trees, and everything else stitched in sacks. With an aching bum and ringing ears from the deafening music (Seriously, I wear earplugs on all forms of public transportation!), I had arrived.
Paying the boys at the base of the steps seemed like a better idea than heaving my pack on to my back all the way up to the homestay. And believe me, it was money well spent. 32 steps later, I was sitting in a family’s house overlooking the beach. The town. The green mountains that seemed to continue straight into the depths of the cobalt blue sea. Starkly simple accommodation with a stellar view. The town doesn’t get loads of tourists… I was number 52 of the year to stay with this family. I know from the log book. And my guess is the only other place in town doesn’t have too many more… especially since it doesn’t have the view. Or the 32 gigantic steps.
The morning sun stretched shadows across the beach. The night shift rolled in with the waves, leaving their triumphant catch to be covered in sand. Butchered on the spot. Dolphins, sharks, and manta ray. Big indeed. And prize worthy. However, it’s with the sun overhead that the really big guys are caught.
The men worked in unison. Serious and steadfast. Each with a function. The captain. The rowers. The lookouts. Those that put up the sail. Those that guide the direction. And of course the man who stands at the front, ready to leap, to thrust himself, spear in hand, upon the would be catch of the day. Their livelihoods at stake. The wooden boat looks neither big enough nor strong enough to carry these men (and me!) to meet the powerful sea… let alone if it should meet a whale! The wind catching the handmade sail woven intricately from sundried palms. A few dolphins playfully leaping in and out of the water. Eight hours of maritime adventure… and a bottle of sunscreen to shield the burning reflection of the sun. But no whale. No catch. I am both happy and regretful. A curious dichotomy of emotion.
Back on land. A late lunch in the homestay. Rice accompanied with dried, tough, fried… dolphin. It was the same as breakfast. It was the same as dinner last night. And I have a feeling it will make another appearance for dinner this evening. Book this accommodation for the view… not the food.
The bus picks me up on it’s way by at 3 am. Sleeping on the trek back? Not a chance.
So let me tell you a whale of a story. At least that is what we set out in search of. Lembata is an island, a couple of hours by boat, off the very eastern tip of Flores. It also is home to a village what happens to be the only place on the planet where fisherman still go hunting for the big catch with spares. The really big catch. Whales.
By bus. By boat. By motorcycle. By truck. Nearly 20 hours divvied up over three days… each begun before dawn. I swung my legs out of the back of our ride, a truck lined with benches and crowded with fruits, vegetables, chickens, goats, people, plants, trees, and everything else stitched in sacks. With an aching bum and ringing ears from the deafening music (Seriously, I wear earplugs on all forms of public transportation!), I had arrived.
Paying the boys at the base of the steps seemed like a better idea than heaving my pack on to my back all the way up to the homestay. And believe me, it was money well spent. 32 steps later, I was sitting in a family’s house overlooking the beach. The town. The green mountains that seemed to continue straight into the depths of the cobalt blue sea. Starkly simple accommodation with a stellar view. The town doesn’t get loads of tourists… I was number 52 of the year to stay with this family. I know from the log book. And my guess is the only other place in town doesn’t have too many more… especially since it doesn’t have the view. Or the 32 gigantic steps.
The morning sun stretched shadows across the beach. The night shift rolled in with the waves, leaving their triumphant catch to be covered in sand. Butchered on the spot. Dolphins, sharks, and manta ray. Big indeed. And prize worthy. However, it’s with the sun overhead that the really big guys are caught.
The men worked in unison. Serious and steadfast. Each with a function. The captain. The rowers. The lookouts. Those that put up the sail. Those that guide the direction. And of course the man who stands at the front, ready to leap, to thrust himself, spear in hand, upon the would be catch of the day. Their livelihoods at stake. The wooden boat looks neither big enough nor strong enough to carry these men (and me!) to meet the powerful sea… let alone if it should meet a whale! The wind catching the handmade sail woven intricately from sundried palms. A few dolphins playfully leaping in and out of the water. Eight hours of maritime adventure… and a bottle of sunscreen to shield the burning reflection of the sun. But no whale. No catch. I am both happy and regretful. A curious dichotomy of emotion.
Back on land. A late lunch in the homestay. Rice accompanied with dried, tough, fried… dolphin. It was the same as breakfast. It was the same as dinner last night. And I have a feeling it will make another appearance for dinner this evening. Book this accommodation for the view… not the food.
The bus picks me up on it’s way by at 3 am. Sleeping on the trek back? Not a chance.
***
I lay on the bamboo platform out front of my bamboo bungalow. Roof woven from the copious palm leaves. The water sparkles in the mid day sun. Lapping softly onto the dark sand and rocky beach. Nearly reaching the curved trunks of the shady coconut trees under which recline. I spy 5 islands at various distances off the north coast of Flores. Sprouting volcanic peaks from the mysterious and endless sea. Me, the sea, and the sand crabs that dance across the beach. It is peace. Before flying to Bali to face my ‘deportation’, I spend an evening in a set of secluded beachfront bungalows just outside of Maumere. I make a mental note to shave my legs in preparation for re-entry into modern western society, as I walk back to my bungalow to retrieve my snorkel and mask for a mid-morning peak beneath the peaceful surface of the sea. On these island adventures, I never leave home with out my snorkeling gear. Terribly practical, indeed! Unwinding from what could quite possibly be my last Flores adventure. Time for blogging. Time for snorkeling.
Banishment from Indonesia sucks.
I lay on the bamboo platform out front of my bamboo bungalow. Roof woven from the copious palm leaves. The water sparkles in the mid day sun. Lapping softly onto the dark sand and rocky beach. Nearly reaching the curved trunks of the shady coconut trees under which recline. I spy 5 islands at various distances off the north coast of Flores. Sprouting volcanic peaks from the mysterious and endless sea. Me, the sea, and the sand crabs that dance across the beach. It is peace. Before flying to Bali to face my ‘deportation’, I spend an evening in a set of secluded beachfront bungalows just outside of Maumere. I make a mental note to shave my legs in preparation for re-entry into modern western society, as I walk back to my bungalow to retrieve my snorkel and mask for a mid-morning peak beneath the peaceful surface of the sea. On these island adventures, I never leave home with out my snorkeling gear. Terribly practical, indeed! Unwinding from what could quite possibly be my last Flores adventure. Time for blogging. Time for snorkeling.
Banishment from Indonesia sucks.
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