At 5:30 a.m. the sun was just beginning to break through the dark morning and a few cars were emerging on the road. Vendors were gearing up for another day, women were shopping for fruit and veggies at the markets and slowly the day was filling with life.
I was driving my motorbike to Ubud, a town two hours north of where I was staying in Bingin beach, with Maxi (pronounced Mashi), a guy from the Basque country in northern Spain who was staying in the same losmen (cheap, basic accommodation) as me. We were taking a day trip inland to see the rice paddies, arts and culture of Ubud and taking a break from the beach.
We rolled into town before the information center was open. The men were still sitting around drinking coffee when in we came, dripping in soggy cloths -- It rained most of the day and the red of my dress bled into the white flower pattern turning it pink and staining my skin so I looked like a had a slight sunburn.
For two hours we walked through rice paddies, slogging through the muddy paths and by the end of our walk my feet were so dirty that when I sunk into the mud my feet came out of the mess looking the same as when they entered. I said good morning to the old women walking barefoot and carrying huge baskets on their heads and men working in the rice paddies. Ducks were roaming about, enjoying the constant rain.
We emerged just as the shower turned into a downpour and we made for an awning to wait out the worst of it. When it didn’t show signs of stopping we hopped on our motorbikes and headed out for food.
We feasted in a restaurant where we were seated in a raised platform with a roof and lots of pillows. We sat and ate veggie pizza, curry, rotti and mango salsa and smoothies for two hours while the rained continued. I had coffee and talked; Maxi had an extra smoothie and mostly listened because he said his brain was tired from talking in English.
The rest of the day we drove down random streets, took photos of locals and followed bus loads of Koreans on a tour through a temple, and finally drove back to Bingin by 7 p.m.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Moving to France
I’ve made a decision about the next twelve months of my life…more or less.
The Grenet family, who live in Aubagne 18 km outside of Marseille, France, have hired me as their au pair.
From August 2010 to July 2011 I will live with Marie, a pediatrician who studied child development in Boston, Roland, who works in alternative energy, Delphine, 20, who is studying in Paris, Lucie, 17, who is now at the lycée (final year of high school), François, 14, who is in his third year of collège (high school), and Claire, 12, who is in her first year of collège.
Marie Grenet contacted me after I set up a profile on aupair-world.net, which links au pairs with families around the world.
They will pay me 400 euros a month, in addition to covering all my living expenses, to be a “big sister” to the kids and and “assistant” to Marie. I will take care of the kids after school and encourage their English skills. I will participate in family activities and help with all household matters such as cooking and doing my part to keep the house tidy.
I will also be taking French classes in the city a couple times a week.
According to Marie, with whom I have been corresponding for two weeks, their house was built in 1650 and is located in a large park with everything for horse riding , and a swimming pool. The have four dogs, three horses and two cats.
I have the luxury of having my own independent room that is separate from the main house and includes a kitchen, bathroom and TV.
They have a house cleaner, Annie and a gardener Michel also who live with them who help around the house and property and take the kids to school when either Roland or Marie can’t. Since I don’t have an international license I won’t be able to do any carpooling.
They are a Catholic family, have a flat in Paris and a flat in the alps, enjoy music, sailing and horse-back riding and they have had au pairs since Delphine, the oldest child, was born.
I have skyped for a couple hours with Marie – Francois and Claire also made an appearance – and they seem to be a wonderful family. Best of all they are very excited to have me as their au pair.
It is comforting to know I now have a “plan” but the decision was difficult. There were many great families who contacted me and one in particular that caught my interest, but in the end my instinct took over and I’m going with the Grenets.
Now I will continue to enjoy Indonesia until July 14 when I will fly to Europe and meet my companions for the next 12 months.
This is a long commitment , but I’m thrilled about this upcoming experience. I’m planning on going home for a couple weeks around Christmas so I will be home again before too long.
Now I’m off to get paperwork and visas in order!
The Grenet family, who live in Aubagne 18 km outside of Marseille, France, have hired me as their au pair.
From August 2010 to July 2011 I will live with Marie, a pediatrician who studied child development in Boston, Roland, who works in alternative energy, Delphine, 20, who is studying in Paris, Lucie, 17, who is now at the lycée (final year of high school), François, 14, who is in his third year of collège (high school), and Claire, 12, who is in her first year of collège.
Marie Grenet contacted me after I set up a profile on aupair-world.net, which links au pairs with families around the world.
They will pay me 400 euros a month, in addition to covering all my living expenses, to be a “big sister” to the kids and and “assistant” to Marie. I will take care of the kids after school and encourage their English skills. I will participate in family activities and help with all household matters such as cooking and doing my part to keep the house tidy.
I will also be taking French classes in the city a couple times a week.
According to Marie, with whom I have been corresponding for two weeks, their house was built in 1650 and is located in a large park with everything for horse riding , and a swimming pool. The have four dogs, three horses and two cats.
I have the luxury of having my own independent room that is separate from the main house and includes a kitchen, bathroom and TV.
They have a house cleaner, Annie and a gardener Michel also who live with them who help around the house and property and take the kids to school when either Roland or Marie can’t. Since I don’t have an international license I won’t be able to do any carpooling.
They are a Catholic family, have a flat in Paris and a flat in the alps, enjoy music, sailing and horse-back riding and they have had au pairs since Delphine, the oldest child, was born.
I have skyped for a couple hours with Marie – Francois and Claire also made an appearance – and they seem to be a wonderful family. Best of all they are very excited to have me as their au pair.
It is comforting to know I now have a “plan” but the decision was difficult. There were many great families who contacted me and one in particular that caught my interest, but in the end my instinct took over and I’m going with the Grenets.
Now I will continue to enjoy Indonesia until July 14 when I will fly to Europe and meet my companions for the next 12 months.
This is a long commitment , but I’m thrilled about this upcoming experience. I’m planning on going home for a couple weeks around Christmas so I will be home again before too long.
Now I’m off to get paperwork and visas in order!
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Board Blues
After only four days of surfing I’m not the owner of a seven-foot faded turquoise long board.
I bought the surfboard today, because I broke it, or rather the waves broke me and the board across a big pile of rocks.
The board is repairable, but the owner was going to charge me for “irreversible damages” so it was almost cheaper for me to buy it, which I did with the hope of selling when I’m ready to leave Bali.
Maybe this is the travel companion I’ve been looking for? It barely fits in my motorbike board rack (it’s a rack and bungie cords attached to the left side of my bike).
I bought the surfboard today, because I broke it, or rather the waves broke me and the board across a big pile of rocks.
The board is repairable, but the owner was going to charge me for “irreversible damages” so it was almost cheaper for me to buy it, which I did with the hope of selling when I’m ready to leave Bali.
Maybe this is the travel companion I’ve been looking for? It barely fits in my motorbike board rack (it’s a rack and bungie cords attached to the left side of my bike).
Sunday, May 23, 2010
A Traditional Balinese Hindu Performance
Last night I went to a Hindu temple to watch a traditional Balinese dance.
The “Kecak Ramayana and Fire Dance” was a combination of ancient ritual, dance, drama, a choir of chanting Balinese men dressed in black pants covered in a black and white checkered skirt, a few women elaborately costumed and painted, a man in a monkey suit and some audience participation.
I was invited to the event by Wayan, who I rented my surf board from and who happens to be a member of the chanting party.
The whole performance was in the out-door auditorium section of the temple which sits a top a cliff looking out over the ocean with neighboring cliffs banking the view to the right and left. The show started at 6 p.m. just as the sun was setting. The view was the best part of the evening.
The hour-long dance, which is more of a five-act drama, told the story of the goddess Sita being tricked into captivity by the god Rhawana and then being saved by her beloved god Rama. (The tale is also told in the movie “The Little Princess” by the main character.)
I had a hard time telling where one act ended and the next began and I never would have understood what was going on if I didn’t have a brochure of information. The costumes were impressive and they chanting continued through the hour—I’m shocked anyone here could have the lung capacity for such a task! They smoke like chimneys starting at the age of eight. My first day in Indonesia I sat with two local guys in an internet café for two hours (there was a routine power outage) and they smoked a whole pack between them. Yes, there are ash trays at every computer and smoking anywhere you want is legal. Your taxi driver will probably be smoking with the windows up and the air-conditioning on.
The performance was colorful, but a bit cheesy at times when they tried to include the audience in the act. I prefer to see a performance stand on it’s own without my or the obnoxious Aussie teenager’s help. But for 70,000 rupee ($7) I experienced some traditional Balinese culture and I felt good about getting off the beach for an hour to enhance my cultural experience.
The “Kecak Ramayana and Fire Dance” was a combination of ancient ritual, dance, drama, a choir of chanting Balinese men dressed in black pants covered in a black and white checkered skirt, a few women elaborately costumed and painted, a man in a monkey suit and some audience participation.
I was invited to the event by Wayan, who I rented my surf board from and who happens to be a member of the chanting party.
The whole performance was in the out-door auditorium section of the temple which sits a top a cliff looking out over the ocean with neighboring cliffs banking the view to the right and left. The show started at 6 p.m. just as the sun was setting. The view was the best part of the evening.
The hour-long dance, which is more of a five-act drama, told the story of the goddess Sita being tricked into captivity by the god Rhawana and then being saved by her beloved god Rama. (The tale is also told in the movie “The Little Princess” by the main character.)
I had a hard time telling where one act ended and the next began and I never would have understood what was going on if I didn’t have a brochure of information. The costumes were impressive and they chanting continued through the hour—I’m shocked anyone here could have the lung capacity for such a task! They smoke like chimneys starting at the age of eight. My first day in Indonesia I sat with two local guys in an internet café for two hours (there was a routine power outage) and they smoked a whole pack between them. Yes, there are ash trays at every computer and smoking anywhere you want is legal. Your taxi driver will probably be smoking with the windows up and the air-conditioning on.
The performance was colorful, but a bit cheesy at times when they tried to include the audience in the act. I prefer to see a performance stand on it’s own without my or the obnoxious Aussie teenager’s help. But for 70,000 rupee ($7) I experienced some traditional Balinese culture and I felt good about getting off the beach for an hour to enhance my cultural experience.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Resting in Bingin
From my balcony I have a panoramic view of the ocean that is flanked by rocky cliffs. About 50 ft. separate me from the sandy shore below.
I’m paying 50,000 rupee (about $5) a night for this beach front paradise with queen-sized bed, mosquito net, fan, and two chairs and a table on the balcony. My perch offers a spectacular view of the surf and the tanned and toned beach boys enjoying the waves.
My first night I hired a board and a local Indonesian boy to teach me to surf and from sunset to dark we took on the waves. I’ve secured the board and the boy’s assistance for a week.
This morning, my first here on Bingin beach, the sun gently woke me by lighting through the gauzy white curtains and mosquito net in my bamboo, thatched room. The ocean breeze and fan-generated wind was cool, so I layed in the giant bed for an extra hour enjoying the first morning in months that I was alone.
I have my second surf lesson at 2 p.m. and until then I’m free to wander about.
So far Bali is being good to me.
I’m paying 50,000 rupee (about $5) a night for this beach front paradise with queen-sized bed, mosquito net, fan, and two chairs and a table on the balcony. My perch offers a spectacular view of the surf and the tanned and toned beach boys enjoying the waves.
My first night I hired a board and a local Indonesian boy to teach me to surf and from sunset to dark we took on the waves. I’ve secured the board and the boy’s assistance for a week.
This morning, my first here on Bingin beach, the sun gently woke me by lighting through the gauzy white curtains and mosquito net in my bamboo, thatched room. The ocean breeze and fan-generated wind was cool, so I layed in the giant bed for an extra hour enjoying the first morning in months that I was alone.
I have my second surf lesson at 2 p.m. and until then I’m free to wander about.
So far Bali is being good to me.
Beginning in Bali
The sun was setting I lugged my backpack out of the Denpensar airport in Bali. I phoned James, an English guy I prearranged to couchsurf with (I contacted him while I was at my friend Kristin’s in Jakarta), but he was tied up until 9 p.m. with work and couldn’t pick me up. My second call for help was to Tianri, James’ Indonesian English teacher, she was also busy and recommended I hang out in Kuta beach until she or James was free.
No problem . I got a taxi and headed for the beach front.
These things are always easier in theory than practice. First I had no idea the lay of the land, where I could just “sit and wait” and if I was even going to have a place to stay the night after all.
The cab dumped me on the water front road of glitzy, glamorous and oozing tourism Kuta. I tramped along the sidewalk with my red shell of a bag, weary from a day of commuting, while girls in high heels and miniskirts strutted with cocktails in tow.
I chatted up a roadside information stand and Jack, the proprietor, let me set my bag with him for a few hours while I walked around making a plan.
The windy narrow streets crowded with vendors and motorbikes all looked alike and I scoured the town for a cheap room (I was forming a backup plan if staying at James’ fell through).
An hour of wandering and I stumbled upon a hotel driveway where a surfer (tan with shoulder-length sun-bleached hair) was chatting in Bahasa Indonesian with the local security guards.
“Excuse me, but do you speak English?” I asked upon approach. “I’m looking for a cheap cheap place to stay. Can you help?”
“Sure. I’m waiting for my friend Joana, then I can take you to a cheap place.”
And so my friendship with Diego from Peru was formed.
Diego had lived in Bali since 1996 and he was seasoned in all things Bali and worked for a surf camp off the coast of Java.
We waited for awhile for his friend, who was a actually his Brazilian ex-wife and his daughter Sophia, who never showed, before bouncing and going to a restaurant for a beer.
Diego, who I discovered was prone to rapid decisions and changing his mind, decided I could just couchsurf and his place.
“You can just stay at my place if you want. And stay as long as you need.”
So we grabbed my things from Jack, and drove away on his motorbike to the upstairs of a traditional open and multi building Balinese house he rented from an elderly couple who lived below.
We drove around that night for hours meeting up with hundreds of his local friends, until I could barely keep my eyes open.
I was finally able to get in touch with James, but since I was secured in a place I offered to meet him another day.
For the next four days I joined Diego along the road of his crazy life. Driving to check out a boat with his Australian boss, swimming while he surfed in the advanced waves and promoted his surf camp, and touring around local eateries.
Friday morning I packed my bags and left in search of my own place. Diego helped direct me and put me in contact with helpful folks and by the end of the day I had my own motorbike, room on the beach and cell phone.
Independence at last.
No problem . I got a taxi and headed for the beach front.
These things are always easier in theory than practice. First I had no idea the lay of the land, where I could just “sit and wait” and if I was even going to have a place to stay the night after all.
The cab dumped me on the water front road of glitzy, glamorous and oozing tourism Kuta. I tramped along the sidewalk with my red shell of a bag, weary from a day of commuting, while girls in high heels and miniskirts strutted with cocktails in tow.
I chatted up a roadside information stand and Jack, the proprietor, let me set my bag with him for a few hours while I walked around making a plan.
The windy narrow streets crowded with vendors and motorbikes all looked alike and I scoured the town for a cheap room (I was forming a backup plan if staying at James’ fell through).
An hour of wandering and I stumbled upon a hotel driveway where a surfer (tan with shoulder-length sun-bleached hair) was chatting in Bahasa Indonesian with the local security guards.
“Excuse me, but do you speak English?” I asked upon approach. “I’m looking for a cheap cheap place to stay. Can you help?”
“Sure. I’m waiting for my friend Joana, then I can take you to a cheap place.”
And so my friendship with Diego from Peru was formed.
Diego had lived in Bali since 1996 and he was seasoned in all things Bali and worked for a surf camp off the coast of Java.
We waited for awhile for his friend, who was a actually his Brazilian ex-wife and his daughter Sophia, who never showed, before bouncing and going to a restaurant for a beer.
Diego, who I discovered was prone to rapid decisions and changing his mind, decided I could just couchsurf and his place.
“You can just stay at my place if you want. And stay as long as you need.”
So we grabbed my things from Jack, and drove away on his motorbike to the upstairs of a traditional open and multi building Balinese house he rented from an elderly couple who lived below.
We drove around that night for hours meeting up with hundreds of his local friends, until I could barely keep my eyes open.
I was finally able to get in touch with James, but since I was secured in a place I offered to meet him another day.
For the next four days I joined Diego along the road of his crazy life. Driving to check out a boat with his Australian boss, swimming while he surfed in the advanced waves and promoted his surf camp, and touring around local eateries.
Friday morning I packed my bags and left in search of my own place. Diego helped direct me and put me in contact with helpful folks and by the end of the day I had my own motorbike, room on the beach and cell phone.
Independence at last.
Pit stop in Jakarta
On my way to Bali I had a 4 day stop-over in Jakarta , a city of over 10 million people, where my friend from university, Kristin, is living and teaching English.
Jakarta is a dirty, noisy, obnoxiously hot and sticky. It is a city built out instead of up and hazardous to anyone on the road. Pedestrian walk-ways are nonexistent and brand new malls are erected adjacent to crumbling piles of cement.
Kristin, Erin, her roommate, and I spent our days catching up, being lazy around the apartment and eating a lot of Indonesian cuisine: satay ayam/kempang (sp?) chicken and goat grilled on sticks over a roadside fire and covered in peanut sauce and Matabak, a giant greasy pancake about two inches thick filled with chocolate.
We went to the wedding ceremony of Kristin’s friend and I spent hours on the computer (free!) applying to be an au pair in France (the responses have been positive), and I hope to have a position secured by June.
The brief visit was nice, but I was eager to get out of the city and head to Bali, so Monday morning I grabbed a taxi to the airport and bought the first ticket out to Bali.
Two hours later I awoke to the lush greenery of Bali.
Jakarta is a dirty, noisy, obnoxiously hot and sticky. It is a city built out instead of up and hazardous to anyone on the road. Pedestrian walk-ways are nonexistent and brand new malls are erected adjacent to crumbling piles of cement.
Kristin, Erin, her roommate, and I spent our days catching up, being lazy around the apartment and eating a lot of Indonesian cuisine: satay ayam/kempang (sp?) chicken and goat grilled on sticks over a roadside fire and covered in peanut sauce and Matabak, a giant greasy pancake about two inches thick filled with chocolate.
We went to the wedding ceremony of Kristin’s friend and I spent hours on the computer (free!) applying to be an au pair in France (the responses have been positive), and I hope to have a position secured by June.
The brief visit was nice, but I was eager to get out of the city and head to Bali, so Monday morning I grabbed a taxi to the airport and bought the first ticket out to Bali.
Two hours later I awoke to the lush greenery of Bali.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Back on Land making my vvay to Bali
The air was thick with heat and made the hair around my face curl irratically. I tucked as many of the frizzy rogue hairs as would reach behind my ears and wiped the sweat from my upper lip and forhead with the back of my hand. Humidity is never kind to my looks and at this particular time I definitely vvasn't particulary put-together. I had spent my final night after five vveeks of sleeping on the sailboat, vvhere I bathed vvith vvater-bottle of rainvvater to rinse off the accumulating sea-salt and svveat and my hair vvas drained of color and moisture from the sun. The culmination of stagnant heat, exhaustion from the 18 hours of sailing, and ill ease about what my next step would be was weighing me down more than the 15 kg backpack caring all my posessions.
Since April 6 I had cruised along on a surfing trip with Kevin, a man I'd met through a Web site for sailors and crew called 7knots.com and now I vvas walking solo around an airport in my first Indonesian city: Pedang.
It had been a remarkable and challenging trip. One I was both grateful for and eager to get away from. I love having my independence and life aboard someone else's boat offered little personal liberty. Especially when the trip revolved around surfing and I'm not an advanced surfer to tackle the Mentavvise island's vvaves. I spent my days swimming, walking, reading and snacking (hundreds of peanuts and bags of popcorn had been consumed in an effort for entertainment), but all activities were conducted in accordance with the vveather and Kevin's surf schedule. VVe anchored in swimmable waters, near walkable beaches or in proximity to reefs, which offered viable snorkling grounds, when and vvhere surf vvas up. I accepted the scenario because I felt priveleged to be immersed in the remote islands and majestic isolation that few have the opportunity to enjoy, but I was ready to break free of the boat and strike out solo again.
Kevin and I had parted vvays in tovvn and I took a taxi 20 km north of tovvn to the airport. Traffic was jammed and cars were pushing their way in and out of a round-about, roadside vendors were sweating over huge pots of curry and unidentifiable meat on sticks, families of five were crammed on motorbikes making their way through the city congestion, the smell of garbage hung in the air and shouts rang out from faceless perpetrators landing on anyone in earshot. Car horns began barking like a pack of dogs.
I closed my eyes, took and deep breath in and smiled. After two months of quiet isolation it was nice to be among the cauos of civilization.
I arrived at the airport by 9:30 a.m. and bought the next ticket out to Jakarta vvith Garuda airlines, vvhich left at 12:30.
I vvas on my vvay to Jakarta to spend the vvekend vvith my friend from Ohio University, Kristin, vvho has been teaching English there since September, before catching another flight to Bali.
Since April 6 I had cruised along on a surfing trip with Kevin, a man I'd met through a Web site for sailors and crew called 7knots.com and now I vvas walking solo around an airport in my first Indonesian city: Pedang.
It had been a remarkable and challenging trip. One I was both grateful for and eager to get away from. I love having my independence and life aboard someone else's boat offered little personal liberty. Especially when the trip revolved around surfing and I'm not an advanced surfer to tackle the Mentavvise island's vvaves. I spent my days swimming, walking, reading and snacking (hundreds of peanuts and bags of popcorn had been consumed in an effort for entertainment), but all activities were conducted in accordance with the vveather and Kevin's surf schedule. VVe anchored in swimmable waters, near walkable beaches or in proximity to reefs, which offered viable snorkling grounds, when and vvhere surf vvas up. I accepted the scenario because I felt priveleged to be immersed in the remote islands and majestic isolation that few have the opportunity to enjoy, but I was ready to break free of the boat and strike out solo again.
Kevin and I had parted vvays in tovvn and I took a taxi 20 km north of tovvn to the airport. Traffic was jammed and cars were pushing their way in and out of a round-about, roadside vendors were sweating over huge pots of curry and unidentifiable meat on sticks, families of five were crammed on motorbikes making their way through the city congestion, the smell of garbage hung in the air and shouts rang out from faceless perpetrators landing on anyone in earshot. Car horns began barking like a pack of dogs.
I closed my eyes, took and deep breath in and smiled. After two months of quiet isolation it was nice to be among the cauos of civilization.
I arrived at the airport by 9:30 a.m. and bought the next ticket out to Jakarta vvith Garuda airlines, vvhich left at 12:30.
I vvas on my vvay to Jakarta to spend the vvekend vvith my friend from Ohio University, Kristin, vvho has been teaching English there since September, before catching another flight to Bali.
Concluding the Sailing trip from Thailand to Indonesia
The night air was cool and the sky had been dark for two hours as the boat, Helena, approached the Padang, Indonesia harbor. The smell of wet cement and cinnamon sugar hung in off-shore wind. The city lights, the first I’d seen in five weeks, were abrasive and disconcerting compared to the island tranquility I’d experienced during the sailing trip from Thailand.
We dropped anchor after 18 hours of motoring, and tired from waking at 4:30 a.m. to start the passage, reflecting on the month and half experience and surveying my options for the next chapter of my adventure, I sunk into a seated position on deck. My final leg of Kevin’s surfing safari 2010 had come to an end.
I fell asleep by 9:30 p.m. reflecting on the trip.
Joining Kevin on his yearly surfing trip through the Mentawise islands off the coast of western Sumatra, Indonesia was the right decision. We didn’t get to do much sailing because the winds weren’t favorable, so we motored most of the time, and after hours of fishing we never caught an edible fish (we snagged a barracuda and a guppy and had to throw both back), but I learned a lot about the yachting lifestyle: sleeping with a pillow wedge so you don’t roll off the bed, cooking on a stove that rocks, living in limited space surrounded by an ocean, swimming around unspoiled islands, walking with villagers along white beaches without a resort in sight, watching professional surfers catch world-renowned waves and feeling intimately connected with nature.
My life was heavily dictated my mother nature’s moods. High winds and heavy rains meant I would be bellow deck reading or collecting water above deck for drinking and laundry. Sun and surf meant we were motoring to where the waves were breaking and I would get to swim in the sea, walk along the beach, and paddle around on a surf board. Sun with no wind and no surf was a hot day spent anchored near a bunch of mangrove trees and sitting under the limited shade of the sail awning.
During the trip I did a lot of reading, thinking and planning for what I would do next….
We dropped anchor after 18 hours of motoring, and tired from waking at 4:30 a.m. to start the passage, reflecting on the month and half experience and surveying my options for the next chapter of my adventure, I sunk into a seated position on deck. My final leg of Kevin’s surfing safari 2010 had come to an end.
I fell asleep by 9:30 p.m. reflecting on the trip.
Joining Kevin on his yearly surfing trip through the Mentawise islands off the coast of western Sumatra, Indonesia was the right decision. We didn’t get to do much sailing because the winds weren’t favorable, so we motored most of the time, and after hours of fishing we never caught an edible fish (we snagged a barracuda and a guppy and had to throw both back), but I learned a lot about the yachting lifestyle: sleeping with a pillow wedge so you don’t roll off the bed, cooking on a stove that rocks, living in limited space surrounded by an ocean, swimming around unspoiled islands, walking with villagers along white beaches without a resort in sight, watching professional surfers catch world-renowned waves and feeling intimately connected with nature.
My life was heavily dictated my mother nature’s moods. High winds and heavy rains meant I would be bellow deck reading or collecting water above deck for drinking and laundry. Sun and surf meant we were motoring to where the waves were breaking and I would get to swim in the sea, walk along the beach, and paddle around on a surf board. Sun with no wind and no surf was a hot day spent anchored near a bunch of mangrove trees and sitting under the limited shade of the sail awning.
During the trip I did a lot of reading, thinking and planning for what I would do next….
A bald island
My favorite island in the Mentuis has one resilient coconut tree.
A mere 100 sq feet of golden sand support this lonely piece of vvood from being another flotsome ( a floating log) Kevin maneuvers the boat around.
In an area full of lushly wooded islands with world-class breaking waves, this bald island awkwardly holds its own. The ocean is eroding it from all sides and in a few years it will be a memory.
Nature is constantly changing, but I admire the courage of this piece of land for not going down without a fight.
The rest of the islands are transforming as well, but instead of mother nature orchestrating the music, it’s man making noise.
The islands in the Mentowise are lush, sandy pictures of paradise and the graceful waves the breach the shores arouse the desire of surfers from around the world and from every socio-economic background. (Well all the islands except my “Charlie Brown” sandbox of an island.)
The Mentowise islands are off the western coast of Sumatra, Indonesia and are renovvned for their vvaves. Surfers flock here by speed boats from Sumatra.
For the budget travelers there are losmans, cheap rooms or homestays that offer basic accommodation including a bed and a mosquito net. Or for a higher price, and level of comfort, resorts offer western conveniences including internet and air-conditioning. Both are mostly catering to the surfers: losmans have walking trails that lead to waves and resorts have speed boats that cart guests around to the happening waves.
In the water it doesn’t seem to matter where you’ve come from because everyone is there for the same dream: to ride a perfect barrel.
The seasonal (about May to September) fleet of buzzing boats and boards is grovving.
Kevin has been coming to the same surf for four years and “I’d be the only one in the water during this time of year,” he says everyday when we pull the boat up to the surf and see 15 guys making a splash.
Things are achangin around here. Word is out about the tropical paradise and the world is moving in.
Around the island Kevin and I frequent, which has waves: bang-bang, ebay, pit stop and napussy, I’ve met (or at least watched through binoculars guys and girls from Canada, USA, Argentina, Japan, France and Australia surfing.
I don't meet many people because I steer clear of the reef-breaking surf, but it's amazing to vvatch people successfully surf these advanced vvaves -- and painful to vvatch them vvipe out.
My hope is that vvhile this place vvill continues to grovv in popularity it can maintain its unspoiled beauty and the "little guys" like my favorite island are overlooked or pushed aside.
A mere 100 sq feet of golden sand support this lonely piece of vvood from being another flotsome ( a floating log) Kevin maneuvers the boat around.
In an area full of lushly wooded islands with world-class breaking waves, this bald island awkwardly holds its own. The ocean is eroding it from all sides and in a few years it will be a memory.
Nature is constantly changing, but I admire the courage of this piece of land for not going down without a fight.
The rest of the islands are transforming as well, but instead of mother nature orchestrating the music, it’s man making noise.
The islands in the Mentowise are lush, sandy pictures of paradise and the graceful waves the breach the shores arouse the desire of surfers from around the world and from every socio-economic background. (Well all the islands except my “Charlie Brown” sandbox of an island.)
The Mentowise islands are off the western coast of Sumatra, Indonesia and are renovvned for their vvaves. Surfers flock here by speed boats from Sumatra.
For the budget travelers there are losmans, cheap rooms or homestays that offer basic accommodation including a bed and a mosquito net. Or for a higher price, and level of comfort, resorts offer western conveniences including internet and air-conditioning. Both are mostly catering to the surfers: losmans have walking trails that lead to waves and resorts have speed boats that cart guests around to the happening waves.
In the water it doesn’t seem to matter where you’ve come from because everyone is there for the same dream: to ride a perfect barrel.
The seasonal (about May to September) fleet of buzzing boats and boards is grovving.
Kevin has been coming to the same surf for four years and “I’d be the only one in the water during this time of year,” he says everyday when we pull the boat up to the surf and see 15 guys making a splash.
Things are achangin around here. Word is out about the tropical paradise and the world is moving in.
Around the island Kevin and I frequent, which has waves: bang-bang, ebay, pit stop and napussy, I’ve met (or at least watched through binoculars guys and girls from Canada, USA, Argentina, Japan, France and Australia surfing.
I don't meet many people because I steer clear of the reef-breaking surf, but it's amazing to vvatch people successfully surf these advanced vvaves -- and painful to vvatch them vvipe out.
My hope is that vvhile this place vvill continues to grovv in popularity it can maintain its unspoiled beauty and the "little guys" like my favorite island are overlooked or pushed aside.
A potential police problem
For what felt like the hundredth time Aloita’s internet server kicked me off and I had to log back into the network to start the email I was typing over again.
On Wednesday, April 28, Kevin and I sailed four hours to Aloita, an island resort with internet access and potentially diesel fuel for our hungry tank.
My plan was to spend the entire day toiling away on Kevin’s lap top completing every item on my internet to-do list, which had been growing during my disconnected three weeks on the boat.
The very kind and very attractive Italian couple, Monique and Marco, who managed the resort set me up in the open-air bar/restaurant with a view out to the ocean, provided me with my own login and password and offered coffee.
Their generosity was lavish, and I felt exceedingly guilty for cursing the internet connection and asking for their assistance every 5 minutes once the network decided to refuse my login information a dozen times in a row.
I was working at a snails pace, racing the poor connection, logging on for a sentence and saving the work before the connection was lost. My “to-dos” weren’t going anywhere.
Soon I was sweating in frustration, although it was very hot for 9 a.m., and the interruptions continued when a boat full of men in uniforms poured onto the resort’s beach.
“We are hosting a banquet for the police tomorrow,” Monique explained.
“Oh so are these all the local officials coming now to help set-up?” I asked instantly concerned about mine and Kevin’s illegal country status (we hadn’t officially checked into the country yet – nor were we planning to for another month – and the officials would quickly notice the missing Indonesian stamps in our passports if they got curious about our standing.) The men, some of whom were sporting weapons, were holding up banners and helping Marco carry chairs.
Super.
I kissed Monique on both cheeks, grabbed all my belongings, and ran to meet Kevin in the dingy.
“We need to go now,” Kevin said. He didn’t need my explanation of the situation and 15 minutes later we were pulling up the anchor and driving away.
I spent almost three hours of broken internet connection responding to emails, corresponding with family and friends and frantically posting to my blog (You may have noticed some erratic writings and more than normal misspellings…I blame it on the lack of time for proof-reading.). At the rate I was going I would have needed another week to work, but unfinished business (even if it was the only internet opportunity I would have until today) was better than landing in an Indonesian jail.
On Wednesday, April 28, Kevin and I sailed four hours to Aloita, an island resort with internet access and potentially diesel fuel for our hungry tank.
My plan was to spend the entire day toiling away on Kevin’s lap top completing every item on my internet to-do list, which had been growing during my disconnected three weeks on the boat.
The very kind and very attractive Italian couple, Monique and Marco, who managed the resort set me up in the open-air bar/restaurant with a view out to the ocean, provided me with my own login and password and offered coffee.
Their generosity was lavish, and I felt exceedingly guilty for cursing the internet connection and asking for their assistance every 5 minutes once the network decided to refuse my login information a dozen times in a row.
I was working at a snails pace, racing the poor connection, logging on for a sentence and saving the work before the connection was lost. My “to-dos” weren’t going anywhere.
Soon I was sweating in frustration, although it was very hot for 9 a.m., and the interruptions continued when a boat full of men in uniforms poured onto the resort’s beach.
“We are hosting a banquet for the police tomorrow,” Monique explained.
“Oh so are these all the local officials coming now to help set-up?” I asked instantly concerned about mine and Kevin’s illegal country status (we hadn’t officially checked into the country yet – nor were we planning to for another month – and the officials would quickly notice the missing Indonesian stamps in our passports if they got curious about our standing.) The men, some of whom were sporting weapons, were holding up banners and helping Marco carry chairs.
Super.
I kissed Monique on both cheeks, grabbed all my belongings, and ran to meet Kevin in the dingy.
“We need to go now,” Kevin said. He didn’t need my explanation of the situation and 15 minutes later we were pulling up the anchor and driving away.
I spent almost three hours of broken internet connection responding to emails, corresponding with family and friends and frantically posting to my blog (You may have noticed some erratic writings and more than normal misspellings…I blame it on the lack of time for proof-reading.). At the rate I was going I would have needed another week to work, but unfinished business (even if it was the only internet opportunity I would have until today) was better than landing in an Indonesian jail.
Not your “mama”
The Indonesians call me “mama,” which to them is a title of endearment and respect, I think. The refer to all foreign women and Indonesian women of a certain age in the same way, but to me and my western background it is less than flattering .
To me a “mama” is a southern broad who has birthed a half dozen kids and who spends her time chasing the rugrats out of her kitchen with a giant wooden spoon and dressed in a mou-mou dress and apron. “Mama” sounds soft and old and feels huggable in a home-comforty.
I’m 22, sometimes stylish and certainly not a parent, and don’t want to be a “mama.”
But since they mean well I smile and accept the label, knowing that the Indonesians don’t identify the same image I’ve associated with the term.
To me a “mama” is a southern broad who has birthed a half dozen kids and who spends her time chasing the rugrats out of her kitchen with a giant wooden spoon and dressed in a mou-mou dress and apron. “Mama” sounds soft and old and feels huggable in a home-comforty.
I’m 22, sometimes stylish and certainly not a parent, and don’t want to be a “mama.”
But since they mean well I smile and accept the label, knowing that the Indonesians don’t identify the same image I’ve associated with the term.
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