I felt pains of social irresponsibility. The rising sun shimmied across the water, giving a golden depth. 6 am. Four of us sitting in a front-facing line. The boat narrow and lean. Cobra. Our Captain, Made, seemingly skipped over the safety instructions. Perhaps attributed to the lack of emergency plan. No place to stow life vest in the wooden planks. A motor propped up against one side. Runners at either side. The kind of boat that has been used for generations… with the addition of a motor. Lovina is famous for it’s dolphins. A tourist draw. Both domestic and foreign… tourist not dolphins. Nearly 20 boats swarmed upon a patch of sea. Outwardly nothing special, but beneath a morning playground for the notorious residence. They surface in two’s. The boats leaping to get their customers’ the best photo opts. Zipping across the water, literally on top of our aquatic friends. The dolphins disappear. Like a game of cat and mouse. Taunting and playing. The motors roar louder and faster as the dolphins jump higher.
We have come to the north coast of Bali, to Lovina, for the dolphins, for snorkeling, for the near by hot springs.
Three pools of various sizes and depths set in lush. green. tropical. Water flowing into the pools through stone carved faced-fountains. A river flowing a couple hundred feet below. The hot springs. Sounding lovely, relaxing, and wholesome in the Lonely Planet. Perhaps on another day. Another morning. But not this afternoon. We knew better. A public holiday for the Balinese. Nevertheless, we chanced it. As did several hundred Balinese. We stood out. The only white people. The only people in swim suits. The locals jumped and crowded in the shallows fully dressed. Shorts and t-shirts. My bikini and white skin stark. The water brown and cloudy. The temperature of urine. Sonia, a doctor, assured us that urine was at least sterile and likely better than what was really lurking in the murkiness. Girls giggled and chatted with us. Asking if we liked this and if we like that. Trying not to open our mouths too wide for fear of the slashing teens. We navigated to the less crowded deeper parts as few people seemingly knew how to swim.
While indeed the dolphins and hot springs were pivotal to the weekend, the main event was the Nyepi celebration. Nyepi is the Balianese Day of Silence / Lunar New Year. As Bali is laced with a strong presence of spirituality, the day (and activities leading up to it) pays respect to the Gods and harmonize with nature. Why not in line with our western new year’s celebration? Nyepi falls of on the day following the dark moon of the spring equinox.
Villages and neighborhoods labor night and day to produce elaborate ‘Ogoh-Ogoh’. These are gianormous representations of the evil spirits that live amongst us. Vivid colors, bulging eyes, wild hair, fangs, fierce claws, and corpulent figures. I think I much prefer to think that not-so vicious creatures roam about the spiritual realm!
Through out the day prior to Nyepi, the people take offerings to their local temples… fruit, nuts, rice. Strategically and beautifully arranged ridiculously high. On the eve of Nyepi, the Ogoh-Ogoh’s are parade through the community after prayer in the temple. Carried by groups of young boys dressed in sarongs and t-shirts, the effigies are twirled, shaken, and danced about in the streets. People congregate at the main intersection of the village for an ‘exorcism’ as this is the meeting place for the bad energy / evil spirits… of course I am sure you all knew that!
The noise literally deafening. Fireworks. Homemade cannon like fire blowers. Drums of pots and bottles. Cheers and screams. To the beach (at least in the coastal villages of Lovina). The Ogoh-Ogoh’s are doused in gasoline and blazed. The evil spirits vanquished.
Nyepi it’s self is celebrated in sharp contrasted. A day of silence, fasting, and meditation.
No lights.
No noise.
No traveling.
No cooking.
No entertainment.
No working.
No tourist exceptions (except for activities within a hotel complex… so I guess a bit of rule bending)
The airport even closes.
To leave the house in cases of emergency the special ‘cultural police’ must first be consulted.
Hence we lounge about the pool of the hotel studying our Bahasa Indonesia. The only occupants… except for the mosquitoes.
The next day, a fresh start.
explore
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Monday, March 03, 2008
Hanging Ten
I am keeping the phone line open. Expecting a call to be in the sequel to the movie ‘Blue Crush’. Haven’t seen it? A surfer chick movie that is admittedly much better than anticipated… not quite Oscar worthy but close.
Exchanged the nearly un-crossable streets of Denpasar for the sands of Kuta. Kuta is Bali. At least in tourist terms. It’s the beach. It’s the surfing. It’s the shopping. It’s the Australians. Like the Bahamas is to Americans, Kuta is to Aussies.
About 15 minutes away but a world different. The atmosphere less traditional. The locals heavily ‘Australian-ized’ … from boardshorts to expressions to food. Even most things stocked on the shelves of the Circle K convenience stores are imported to cater to the southern neighbors. This is where the 2002 Bali bombings occurred. The site of a hopping club, now a memorial.
My travel companions, the typical bunch.
Rachel and Andy, early 30’s married couple from England, spending the next year on West Timor working as hospital management advisors. Amiable and excited to explore.
Sonia, also 30-something English, an ob-gyn. West Timor bound. Although just for a brief 6 month stint as this is a re-placement location after being evacuated from Kenya earlier in the year. Candid and adventurous.
We all seemingly share the notion of making the most out of this Indonesian experience.
While Rachel and Andy sought out a lush hotel with pool, Sonia and I took off for an ally. True, we live just minutes away, but the transport costs add up quickly. So a cheapy dive it was. The price drops quickly without modern amenities. No need for a pool with the sea at the door. No need for topsheet and blanket. No need for hot water… only when we went to shower, we realize no hot water translated into no any water.
While Rachel and Andy frolicked in their crystal blue pool, Sonia and I took to find a surf school. Tumbling into the waves, the surf board tugged on the ankle strap. The sun hot and water warm. Salt on my skin. Salt in my mouth and nose. I seemingly gulp in the entire sea. Learning to surf was top of my ‘to do in indonesia’ list before even arriving. Check…….. still working on perfecting the standing part.
Exchanged the nearly un-crossable streets of Denpasar for the sands of Kuta. Kuta is Bali. At least in tourist terms. It’s the beach. It’s the surfing. It’s the shopping. It’s the Australians. Like the Bahamas is to Americans, Kuta is to Aussies.
About 15 minutes away but a world different. The atmosphere less traditional. The locals heavily ‘Australian-ized’ … from boardshorts to expressions to food. Even most things stocked on the shelves of the Circle K convenience stores are imported to cater to the southern neighbors. This is where the 2002 Bali bombings occurred. The site of a hopping club, now a memorial.
My travel companions, the typical bunch.
Rachel and Andy, early 30’s married couple from England, spending the next year on West Timor working as hospital management advisors. Amiable and excited to explore.
Sonia, also 30-something English, an ob-gyn. West Timor bound. Although just for a brief 6 month stint as this is a re-placement location after being evacuated from Kenya earlier in the year. Candid and adventurous.
We all seemingly share the notion of making the most out of this Indonesian experience.
While Rachel and Andy sought out a lush hotel with pool, Sonia and I took off for an ally. True, we live just minutes away, but the transport costs add up quickly. So a cheapy dive it was. The price drops quickly without modern amenities. No need for a pool with the sea at the door. No need for topsheet and blanket. No need for hot water… only when we went to shower, we realize no hot water translated into no any water.
While Rachel and Andy frolicked in their crystal blue pool, Sonia and I took to find a surf school. Tumbling into the waves, the surf board tugged on the ankle strap. The sun hot and water warm. Salt on my skin. Salt in my mouth and nose. I seemingly gulp in the entire sea. Learning to surf was top of my ‘to do in indonesia’ list before even arriving. Check…….. still working on perfecting the standing part.
Lost in Translation
Our words are in Bahasa Indonesia yet the response time after time is a look of horror followed with a murmured “I don’t speak English”. Though the pronunciation and word choice may seemingly be corrected it is indistinguishably similar to my ears. Yet, the Balinese people are warm and helpful. They shout greetings of “hello, how are you” and “good morning”… the later even in the dark of night. I have even had people start counting in English when I pass by their curbside perch.
After dinner a couple of nights ago, several of us went to track down a local bar for a study-break drink. Away from the copious tourist hotspots of Kuta, Legion, Ubud, Sanur, and Nusa Dua, the watering hole options are sparse. The supermarket seems to be the chief purveyor of beer. Nevertheless, we were triumphant!
After dinner a couple of nights ago, several of us went to track down a local bar for a study-break drink. Away from the copious tourist hotspots of Kuta, Legion, Ubud, Sanur, and Nusa Dua, the watering hole options are sparse. The supermarket seems to be the chief purveyor of beer. Nevertheless, we were triumphant!
*******************
Bir Bintang
Karaoke
*****************************
Bir Bintang
Karaoke
*****************************
Admittedly not so interested in Karaoke but beggars can’t be choosers… right. The dim of the street and glowing sign above light the façade. The shadowy exterior gives way to a deep night darkness. No illumination. One by one, we stumble down the three steps. Searching for a sign of life. A female voice and another. They grab our hands and lead us to a lounge table. The music deafening. Seriously deafening. Scantily clad girls, a contrast to the conservative traditional, come over to shake our hands and sit around our table. We laugh and exchange looks. This place definitely offers more than beer and karaoke! One of the girls gives our sole male companion, Andy, a menu and holds a flashlight so he can read. Rp. 30,000 ($3.50) for a bottle of beer. Nearly twice what one may expect to pay elsewhere. It’s a treat.
On the back of the menu are ‘packages’. Four beers and 2 private ‘waitress’ for 500,000. The eyes adjust. Just the four of us. One older man. And perhaps 10 girls, who may or may not be in the sex trade industry.
We can’t talk because of the loudness. We can’t see because of the darkness. So we sing. Beatles. Oasis. Frank Sinatra. Whatever English cheese pops up onto the wall projection.
All this fun and home before 10:00.
On the back of the menu are ‘packages’. Four beers and 2 private ‘waitress’ for 500,000. The eyes adjust. Just the four of us. One older man. And perhaps 10 girls, who may or may not be in the sex trade industry.
We can’t talk because of the loudness. We can’t see because of the darkness. So we sing. Beatles. Oasis. Frank Sinatra. Whatever English cheese pops up onto the wall projection.
All this fun and home before 10:00.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Escaping the city
Friday evening I bought a ‘hand phone’ aka. cell phone. Not an easy task for a non-Indonesian speaker. Thought it best to have one for communicating prior to the weekend thus decided to do a bit of shopping on the walk home. Cell phone shops are plentiful. Luckily.
Shop one.
Couldn’t understand my Indonesian nor I theirs. No English.
Shop two.
Couldn’t understand my Indonesian nor I theirs. No English
Shop three.
Couldn’t understand my Indonesian nor I theirs. No English
I sat on the stool along the glass case displaying the phones. Contemplating how to communicate my needs. No doubt looking completely lost as I just stared at the sales guy (who was no older than 15). A group of guys happened by who I recognized from the language school. Did they speak English? No, but were learning and I wanted to help! From Papua on scholarships to study in Bali before heading to Australia, they proved great liaisons! A phone and study help… bonus!
Thus, if you get the urge to make a call I have digits. +62 81 353 189 559
And FYI… My address for the next couple of months:
Jl Tukad Ayung No. 36
Renon-Denpasar 80226
Bali
Indonesia
Four of us escaped north from Denpasar to Ubud for the weekend. A tourist hotspot. Nevertheless, a bit of ‘western’ food and ‘luxuries’ where indeed welcomed! A hot shower. Western ** flush ** toilets. Toilet paper… most places.
Saturday we wondered along one of the Lonely Planet’s suggested walks. It led us through local villages and green rice fields. Children and adults alike wanted to chat. To try out their English. A portion of the walk looped though the Sacred Monkey Sanctuary. I was expecting a few monkeys in the trees… but these were copious and aggressive! Happy for my rabies vaccination! People brought bananas and fruits for the monkeys… which the monkeys seemingly have learned to anticipate as they would prey at pockets, bags, and purses if your hand went in the general area. Some even leapt onto people’s shoulders. Seemingly playful and family centered. They lied about like lazy dogs or pampered cats.
A lotus pond behind us. A temple in front. The dancers and musicians close enough to touch. The Balinese dance is lavish. Expressing a story through music, dance, and costumes. No talking. Beautiful and colorful. Shimmering. Slightly creepy. The performers eyes bulge and roll. Their fingers quiver and shake.
Shop one.
Couldn’t understand my Indonesian nor I theirs. No English.
Shop two.
Couldn’t understand my Indonesian nor I theirs. No English
Shop three.
Couldn’t understand my Indonesian nor I theirs. No English
I sat on the stool along the glass case displaying the phones. Contemplating how to communicate my needs. No doubt looking completely lost as I just stared at the sales guy (who was no older than 15). A group of guys happened by who I recognized from the language school. Did they speak English? No, but were learning and I wanted to help! From Papua on scholarships to study in Bali before heading to Australia, they proved great liaisons! A phone and study help… bonus!
Thus, if you get the urge to make a call I have digits. +62 81 353 189 559
And FYI… My address for the next couple of months:
Jl Tukad Ayung No. 36
Renon-Denpasar 80226
Bali
Indonesia
Four of us escaped north from Denpasar to Ubud for the weekend. A tourist hotspot. Nevertheless, a bit of ‘western’ food and ‘luxuries’ where indeed welcomed! A hot shower. Western ** flush ** toilets. Toilet paper… most places.
Saturday we wondered along one of the Lonely Planet’s suggested walks. It led us through local villages and green rice fields. Children and adults alike wanted to chat. To try out their English. A portion of the walk looped though the Sacred Monkey Sanctuary. I was expecting a few monkeys in the trees… but these were copious and aggressive! Happy for my rabies vaccination! People brought bananas and fruits for the monkeys… which the monkeys seemingly have learned to anticipate as they would prey at pockets, bags, and purses if your hand went in the general area. Some even leapt onto people’s shoulders. Seemingly playful and family centered. They lied about like lazy dogs or pampered cats.
A lotus pond behind us. A temple in front. The dancers and musicians close enough to touch. The Balinese dance is lavish. Expressing a story through music, dance, and costumes. No talking. Beautiful and colorful. Shimmering. Slightly creepy. The performers eyes bulge and roll. Their fingers quiver and shake.
Friday, February 22, 2008
The Art of Questioning
Nama saya Mikal. Saya berasal dari Amerika. Saya tinggal di Denpasar, Bali. Umur saya dua puluh enam tahun. Saya Belum Menikah.
A bombardment of questions. Walk alone. Forget it. The Balinese seemingly have an art of rapid fire questions.
What’s your name?
Where are you from?
How long are you in Bali?
Where do you stay?
Are you on honeymoon?
Are you married?
Would you like to see my shop?
Would you like a message, manicure?
I have a motorbike/taxi, can I take you somewhere?
They survive on us. Tourist. A tourist industry that has only been on the decline since the Bali bombs and ‘Boxing Day’ Tsunami. We have only just arrived thus have yet to properly begin to explore the Bali, one of 17,508 islands (although a mere 6,000 are inhabited). Nevertheless, do indeed plan to traverse the sprawling country in the ‘ring of fire’. To intake the lush greenery, hidden underwater world, smoking volcanoes, and glimpse the unrivalled Komodo dragon. Thus a tourist.
Yet, not forgetting my purpose.
Much like the Peace Corps, VSO is dedicated to strengthening development initiatives. However, they work with local partners to build (in my opinion) more sustainable projects. Rather than being part of a government, the volunteers are employed by the local organizations with VSO providing support and training. It’s funny to think that I work in the hopes of not being need in the future. That the local people will be able to fulfill my place.
This is rainy season. The tourist crowds are not plentiful here, now. Just a handful of expats lie glutinously on the pale sandy beaches. They wear their tiny swimsuits. Indonesians wear their clothes into the turquoise tie-dye of the Indian Ocean. By contrast the locals are copious. Indonesia has a mounting population of over 234,000,000. The islands range from overpopulated to not. Bali is booming. The streets are a constant traffic jam of motorbikes and ‘Bemos’ (the local public transport vans). The motorbikes zip in. zip out. no cares. Children and babies ride along. Sometimes two. Sometimes the whole family. The roads are a bit of a free for all. The whistles and horns endless. Traffic patterns seemingly sporadic. Median and edge lines erratic.
Perhaps just as treacherous are the sidewalks. Rumpled like the clothes pulled from my overstuffed suitcase, lost in transit for two days. The brick walks uneven and jagged. Missing. Holes that look as if they would swallow me. Seemingly bottomless. On my walk home today I saw a rat dart into one of the holes. Moments later another. No, my mistake. A monkey tethered to a posted plays in. out. in. out.
The street is perfumed with the exotic mix of exhaust fumes and incense. My lungs strain to find the oxygen amongst the overabundant carbon monoxide. High heat and humidity adds weight to the air. North. South. East. West. In each direction my eyes rest upon a temple or shrine. A plethora of spiritual symbols. Each home, each place of business, pays homage. Offerings are placed outside of homes and at shrines. Mini woven baskets of leaves filled with various gifts of flowers and food. They are underfoot before you even have time to dodge them in the path. This is the ‘Island of Gods’. The people in Bali are predominately Hindu. Unlike the islands to the west, Muslim, and the islands to the east, Christian. The religious mix translates into loads of public holidays!
The toilets and shower situation will take a bit of getting used to. No doubt after 2 years, I will welcome flush western style commodes and a shower. Most toilets are squats. A bucket and water source near by to ‘flush’… the same to bath. I carry my supply of toilet paper and hand sanitizer without shame!
These past few days have been spent mainly in the VSO office with yesterday and today at the language school. Difficult to grasp the newness of the language. Nothing familiar. Still find myself wanting to toss out Spanish words from my last trip to Ecuador and Peru! Nevertheless, VSO keeps emphasizing the importance, as I will be working with many farmers who don’t speak English. The pressure is on!
A bombardment of questions. Walk alone. Forget it. The Balinese seemingly have an art of rapid fire questions.
What’s your name?
Where are you from?
How long are you in Bali?
Where do you stay?
Are you on honeymoon?
Are you married?
Would you like to see my shop?
Would you like a message, manicure?
I have a motorbike/taxi, can I take you somewhere?
They survive on us. Tourist. A tourist industry that has only been on the decline since the Bali bombs and ‘Boxing Day’ Tsunami. We have only just arrived thus have yet to properly begin to explore the Bali, one of 17,508 islands (although a mere 6,000 are inhabited). Nevertheless, do indeed plan to traverse the sprawling country in the ‘ring of fire’. To intake the lush greenery, hidden underwater world, smoking volcanoes, and glimpse the unrivalled Komodo dragon. Thus a tourist.
Yet, not forgetting my purpose.
Much like the Peace Corps, VSO is dedicated to strengthening development initiatives. However, they work with local partners to build (in my opinion) more sustainable projects. Rather than being part of a government, the volunteers are employed by the local organizations with VSO providing support and training. It’s funny to think that I work in the hopes of not being need in the future. That the local people will be able to fulfill my place.
This is rainy season. The tourist crowds are not plentiful here, now. Just a handful of expats lie glutinously on the pale sandy beaches. They wear their tiny swimsuits. Indonesians wear their clothes into the turquoise tie-dye of the Indian Ocean. By contrast the locals are copious. Indonesia has a mounting population of over 234,000,000. The islands range from overpopulated to not. Bali is booming. The streets are a constant traffic jam of motorbikes and ‘Bemos’ (the local public transport vans). The motorbikes zip in. zip out. no cares. Children and babies ride along. Sometimes two. Sometimes the whole family. The roads are a bit of a free for all. The whistles and horns endless. Traffic patterns seemingly sporadic. Median and edge lines erratic.
Perhaps just as treacherous are the sidewalks. Rumpled like the clothes pulled from my overstuffed suitcase, lost in transit for two days. The brick walks uneven and jagged. Missing. Holes that look as if they would swallow me. Seemingly bottomless. On my walk home today I saw a rat dart into one of the holes. Moments later another. No, my mistake. A monkey tethered to a posted plays in. out. in. out.
The street is perfumed with the exotic mix of exhaust fumes and incense. My lungs strain to find the oxygen amongst the overabundant carbon monoxide. High heat and humidity adds weight to the air. North. South. East. West. In each direction my eyes rest upon a temple or shrine. A plethora of spiritual symbols. Each home, each place of business, pays homage. Offerings are placed outside of homes and at shrines. Mini woven baskets of leaves filled with various gifts of flowers and food. They are underfoot before you even have time to dodge them in the path. This is the ‘Island of Gods’. The people in Bali are predominately Hindu. Unlike the islands to the west, Muslim, and the islands to the east, Christian. The religious mix translates into loads of public holidays!
The toilets and shower situation will take a bit of getting used to. No doubt after 2 years, I will welcome flush western style commodes and a shower. Most toilets are squats. A bucket and water source near by to ‘flush’… the same to bath. I carry my supply of toilet paper and hand sanitizer without shame!
These past few days have been spent mainly in the VSO office with yesterday and today at the language school. Difficult to grasp the newness of the language. Nothing familiar. Still find myself wanting to toss out Spanish words from my last trip to Ecuador and Peru! Nevertheless, VSO keeps emphasizing the importance, as I will be working with many farmers who don’t speak English. The pressure is on!
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Check
Snow, ice, and the winter wind. When will be the next time I experience an Ohio winter? To admire and loathe the frostiness. Soak it in.
Indonesia is imminent. Yet still a mere apparition.
Am I ready for the jet plane? Physically or mentally? Neither.
Passport and visa... check
VSO training completed in Canada... check
Watching superfluous TMZ, Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood... check
Family festivities... check
Catching up with friends, in person as well as via phone and email... check
Goodbyes... difficult and never complete
Logistics worked out for 2 years abroad... no
Bags packed... of course not
Details.
February 14, Valentine’s Day, Take off. Ready or not.
Indonesia is imminent. Yet still a mere apparition.
Am I ready for the jet plane? Physically or mentally? Neither.
Passport and visa... check
VSO training completed in Canada... check
Watching superfluous TMZ, Entertainment Tonight, Access Hollywood... check
Family festivities... check
Catching up with friends, in person as well as via phone and email... check
Goodbyes... difficult and never complete
Logistics worked out for 2 years abroad... no
Bags packed... of course not
Details.
February 14, Valentine’s Day, Take off. Ready or not.
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