The air is pregnant with the smell of incense burnt by locals making the daily offering to the Hindu gods. Women and men dressed in long sarongs and belts shuffle along the side of the road bearing their gifts of flowers, fruits, biscuits and cigarettes held in green banana leaf baskets the size of two adult hands cupped together. The women carry the offerings on trays atop their heads. Their stable necks bear the burden effortlessly after years of practice. Men place the gifts on alters, temples and idols on every street corner.
The ceremonial offering is conducted daily and as I’m driving by ritual I wonder who is giving to appease a deity and who is giving to worship. Or is it an automated activity with much of it’s meaning lost, like brushing your teeth or getting dressed in the morning?
Regardless of motivation, the fragrant ritual is beautiful to behold. It seems wrong that motorbikes and feet will squash many of the scattered offerings by evening. Ants will carry away bits of biscuits and the flowers will wilt on the hot pavement. The woven baskets will be flattened and look like litter tossed aside.
Good thing they are replaced every morning.
The smells and thoughts accompany me this morning on my drive north toward Munduk, an area with rolling mountains and lakes. The temperature is shockingly cool as my bike climbs higher altitudes and the crisp mountain air reminds me of autumn in Ohio when the sun is shining but the chilled air gives me goose bumps and raises the hair on my arms.
I left Seminyak, an area in the south of Bali where I’m staying with Diana, a local girl I met through couchsurfing, at 9 a.m. to make the two hour drive before noon. I intend to spend the afternoon driving around and exploring the rolling hills, lakes, villages and rice paddies before dark, which would make the return trip more challenging because road signs are sporadic and not very informative. Often they fail to mention some upcoming towns and most of the existing signs are conveniently tucked behind trees and none are lit at night. I find that asking locals is the surest way of getting around.
Looking for somewhere to stop and eat and local drives next to me (locals don’t find it bothersome to drive side-by-side on the roads and have conversations).
“Hello Miss where are you going?”
“I’m just here to explore Munduk, no plans really, but I could use some lunch.”
“you want to see a giant tree near my village?”
“Sure.”
The conversation doesn’t make much sense, but that’s how it goes when I know a whopping ten words of Bahasa Indoneisan and he speaks a bit of English.
Acutally, Gede’s English is pretty good and he tells me – over a plate of noodles – that he works for a cruise that leaves from Miami, which he doesn’t really like and is shocked by American prices.
“I bought noodles that cost me $8!, “ he explained as I enjoyed by food that cost 80 cents.
Next we drove toward his village, 4 km outside of Munduk, and met his family who were in the midst of a five-day cremation ceremony. They gave me tea and traditional sweets – pastries filled with sugar and coconut and sweet sticky rice that was black and caramel colored -- and we all smiled at one another in lieu of words.
Four families were participating in the ceremony (four people had died around the same time so the families join together to share the ceremony and costs), and like most family gatherings everyone was dressed up, circling the food tables and passing around small children.
I met Gede’s wife, Madi, and their six-year-old son. Madi’s younger brother had been killed four months earlier in a motorbike accident and this was a celebration for him (and the three other deceased who were all elderly). I also met Gede’s younger brother who drove me up to see the giant tree while Gede changed into his ceremonial wardrobe- a long sarong, shirt with belt and a head scarf.
Two hours later I left the gathering with promises to return. In two days they would conclude the ceremony by taking the bodies and the boxes that housed their spirits up a hill to be released. I was honored to be included, but hesitant about making the long commute again. Gede and Madi offered to house me, but I didn’t want to impose during their time with family and friends.
On the drive back I stopped to photograph some of the lakes and hills that I’d passed on my way into Munduk and decided this is definitely a place I could revisit, so why not see some spirits set free?
Showing posts with label Indonesia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Indonesia. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Monday, June 7, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Life's a party in Kuta
In need of change from the solitude and quiet of Bingin Beach, I moved to the noisy, dirty, tourism capital of Bali: Kuta, where shops line every inch of the windy roads and drunken 20 year olds can be found at any hour of day or night. Kuta is chaos
wearing a bikini and a party hat. But I didn’t feel my trip to Bali would be complete without experiencing the epicenter of Bali tourism.
Something about the place is appealing, for a short while at least.
Here I can find Gado-Gado, one of my favorite dishes that is sautéed
veggies with a creamy peanut sauce, tofu and tempe (fermented and
fried soy beans) for less than one dollar, knock-offs of every brand
and gadget and more foreigners than locals.
The crowded beach, endless streets of vendors and the buffets of parties was entertaining for a few days, and while I was in town I made some local friends through the Indonesian couchsurfing network. They showed me some local spots including a salsa club and introduced me to arrack- local liquor that is similar to vodka and made out of coconut.
I shared accommodation in a swanky resort with a pool and free breakfast with Maxi, my friend from Bingin and his two friends from the Basque country (northern Spain) and together we took on the town.
Now for me the party is over and I’m taking the ferry to Lombok – the island below Bali.
I will take my motorbike, surf board and backpack and hit the road in search of the island’s beautiful beaches, local culture and maybe a hike up a volcano.
wearing a bikini and a party hat. But I didn’t feel my trip to Bali would be complete without experiencing the epicenter of Bali tourism.
Something about the place is appealing, for a short while at least.
Here I can find Gado-Gado, one of my favorite dishes that is sautéed
veggies with a creamy peanut sauce, tofu and tempe (fermented and
fried soy beans) for less than one dollar, knock-offs of every brand
and gadget and more foreigners than locals.
The crowded beach, endless streets of vendors and the buffets of parties was entertaining for a few days, and while I was in town I made some local friends through the Indonesian couchsurfing network. They showed me some local spots including a salsa club and introduced me to arrack- local liquor that is similar to vodka and made out of coconut.
I shared accommodation in a swanky resort with a pool and free breakfast with Maxi, my friend from Bingin and his two friends from the Basque country (northern Spain) and together we took on the town.
Now for me the party is over and I’m taking the ferry to Lombok – the island below Bali.
I will take my motorbike, surf board and backpack and hit the road in search of the island’s beautiful beaches, local culture and maybe a hike up a volcano.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Day Trip to Ubud
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.
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Sailing Itinerary:Phuket to Indonesia
My sailing itinerary…
Tuesday April 6, 2010 we leave Phuket, Thailand at dawn and begin ourtwo month journey to Padang,Indonesia
First we will cross the Malacca Straight to Banda Aceh, but not for a stop. Instead we will anchor in a small town at the tip of Western Sumatra called Sadu on Thursday April 8. Then we will be sailing 50 miles south to another small town for one night’s rest before heading to the first island chain, where Kevin will be surfing, called Banyacks. The next islands are Nias (mecca for surfers), Tellos, Mentuaki and finally to the Mentawias for remainder of May.
I will not have internet or phone access during the next two months, unless I can find some in one of the surfing camps- not likely though.
So I will update my blog as soon as possible!
I intend keep a detailed account of my experience and I look forward to sharing with everyone the challenges, discoveries, beauty and pain I experience. I see this as a time for self-relection and I hope I surface in Indonesia a stronger and more self-assured version of me.
I appreciate your audiance and support.
Tuesday April 6, 2010 we leave Phuket, Thailand at dawn and begin ourtwo month journey to Padang,Indonesia
First we will cross the Malacca Straight to Banda Aceh, but not for a stop. Instead we will anchor in a small town at the tip of Western Sumatra called Sadu on Thursday April 8. Then we will be sailing 50 miles south to another small town for one night’s rest before heading to the first island chain, where Kevin will be surfing, called Banyacks. The next islands are Nias (mecca for surfers), Tellos, Mentuaki and finally to the Mentawias for remainder of May.
I will not have internet or phone access during the next two months, unless I can find some in one of the surfing camps- not likely though.
So I will update my blog as soon as possible!
I intend keep a detailed account of my experience and I look forward to sharing with everyone the challenges, discoveries, beauty and pain I experience. I see this as a time for self-relection and I hope I surface in Indonesia a stronger and more self-assured version of me.
I appreciate your audiance and support.
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