And it continues…
The public bus that I had arranged to take me on the first long part of my journey out of LBJ of course never showed. Shocking , I know. So with the help of several lovely people, I was put on another crammed (but nowhere near Africa crammed) bus and the long ass journey began. At one point several hours in, we stopped in a town for lunch and the bus driver started to insist that I get out as he had arranged for a private car to take me to the town I wanted to go to. He wasn’t going to Bajawa, but this car would take me. For a price. No, no, no. You said you would take me. I’m not getting out. He tried to involve the other locals, all of whom quietly kept to themselves, so he kept driving. And the bus got emptier. Don’t worry miss, Bajawa, Bajawa. Damn straight Bajawa. You’re not dropping me off on some random side of the road.
Then the bus was empty. We were in some small, strange town, and another big surprise, this wasn’t Bajawa. Oh for f**k sake! You WILL find me transportation to where you said we were going. Sorry, holiday, no bus. I don’t care. Find someone. Something. Do it. Now. I had been on his bus for 8 hours by this point. So we drove, and we drove, and we drove. And he got crazier and crazier and crazier. He swung from … screaming, ranting angry… no bus! no bus! to … you stay with me? at my house? we can be friends. to… spitting, slurring, crazy tourist! no bus! holiday! to … please, come sit beside me, I need you to help me stay awake, I want to be friends. I (thankfully) had stayed in my seat behind him, out of arm’s reach and made no moves to join him in the front. Did I mention it was pouring rain by this point and I was in the middle of a jungle mountain road on this side of nowhere? With no phone credit? Yeah, smart.
FINALLY, after a couple of hours and several mood swings, he drops me in another random small town on the other side of nowhere where he had convinced a semi-truck driver to take me to where I was going. So up I hopped, into the big cab, smushed between the sweet driver and his two co-drivers, while his wife and son were perched up in the sleeping area behind the cab. Okay. It’ll do. We did not exceed 20 km/hr, it took us an hour and a half to go 35kms. I kid you not. Oh dear GAWD!
I roll into the town I had set out for 12 hours after I began and although it was only 7pm, I was done, out, ready to call it quits, and I think, slightly traumatized. I took a walking, orient myself cruise through this tiny town, in the dark, and saw the NYE party preparation in full swing. One shop, all invited. Chatted with a few local tour guides at my guesthouse who were all on driving trips with other travelers and said I was going to take a nap and be up to see midnight. The random fireworks had already started, it was going to be a gong show. *** side note*** fireworks are legal here, the bigger, the better. Buckets and buckets and buckets of mass amounts of fire power at the hands of every man, woman, and child. Ummm… yeah, that’s a great idea!
Needless to say, as WWIII exploded outside of my room, I let midnight pass me by, curled up in my bed, avoiding injury and probably a much better story to tell. The first time ever I was not up to ring in the New Year. Shame on me. Shame. Shame. Shame.
And my plans of moving on to the next town the next day? Yeah, it was January 1st. No chance. One of the tour guides from the night before had arranged to take me on a motorbike trip to see some of the local villages, yeah, he didn’t show either, (are you catching the recurring theme, here) and so the other two guides still hanging around the hotel bantered back and forth with me and some other travelers about plans for the day stuck in Bajawa.
I went with one to see a couple of local villages and love, love, loved it. What I imagine parts of South America might look like, these incredibly bizarre, exceptionally well thought out small areas cleared and cut out of the side of thick, jungle-filled mountains. Gorgeous, ancient, and very, very poor. On the tourist circuit so hopefully some money coming in somewhere but very, very poor.
Resigned to staying put for the rest of the day and was quite happy wandering around town. Until the rain started. And it started. As is the season, early afternoon until early evenings then again overnight, it pours and pours and pours. So I walked when I could, read when I couldn’t and hoped I would catch a break in the weather at some point. That was a silly, silly hope.
The next morning, a lovely French couple and I made arrangements with one of the tour guides, who didn’t have guests, to take us to our next destination. Another long, slow day in the car. The roads we were travelling were narrow mountain switch backs. I don’t think we ever got above 40 kms/hr. Oh so painful. But we arrived, in the rain, and settled in for the evening, in the rain. Lovely, strange town of Moni, very, very quiet.
French couple decided to stay a couple of days, I was, as always, undecided. Tour guide said he had to get to the town I was going to, regardless of tourists, so he would take me to see some volcanic lakes I wanted to see and to Maumere for a very reasonable price. Okay. Deal.
Got up the next morning, he’s nowhere to be found. Why, why, why do I bother? Wandered around a fabulous morning market until he was ready to go. We were going to see these three coloured volcanic lakes at Kalimutu then would come back to get our stuff and head to Maumere. No problem. Oh yeah, one problem. Rain. Big rain. So we drive, painfully slowly up this wrecked road in the pouring rain in a vehicle with terrifyingly bald tires. Arrive at the entrance to the path for the lakes, wall of rain. I don’t care. I want to see this. Down side, no pictures as it was chucking it down, good side, there wasn’t another person in sight.
Don’t know how to describe Kalimutu, you’re just going to have to google it. You follow a path up and along the ridge of a volcano where you can peer down into three different lakes of three different craters, all three of them different colours. One was a turquoise green, one was a milky white/blue, and the third was jet black. Strange, beautiful, amazing. As I’m hiking up above the treeline, following a dirt path that leads up a rocky trail to a peak that overlooks all three craters, it is dark, very, very dark. Thunder is crackling and lightning is flashing all around me. The rain is coming down in straight sheets and there is no one in sight. Local folklore has it that when someone dies, their souls come to rest in these lakes. I swear, this was a horror movie in the making. I could almost see the ghosts rising out of those coloured lakes as the misty rain clouds drifted around me. I was sure I was going to be lifted up by some unseen spirit and chucked into one of those murky pools, never to be seen again, left to haunt the hills of Flores for all of eternity. Yes, yes, it sounds ridiculous but you should have seen this place! You’d believe me if you could have seen it.
I was standing on the top of the world, nothing but rock and dirt and volcanic craters sloping steeply all around me as the thunder got louder and the lightning more frequent. Half in jest and half in fear I said out loud, “Okay! Okay! I’m going! I’m going!” and started hauling ass down the slippery steps. I kid you not, the rain eased off, the thunder stopped and the lightning disappeared. I AM NOT LYING!!! So I stopped, just inside the trees, to take a look back at where I had come from; standing alone at the top of that rocky peak, three craters falling to the sides, could have been on another planet, when !!!CRACK!!! the sky ripped open with an ear-splitting rip of thunder. Yep, didn’t stop moving until I got back to the car.
Dry clothes and we’re on our way to Maumere, my final destination. By this time, it has been 4 days of slow, nausea-inducing driving and heavy rain. Done, done, done. 4 days to cover 550kms. Kill me now. Get to Maumere, check in at some dingy guesthouse, driver is waiting around. I know what’s coming, I know it, I know it, I know it. I ask him if everything’s okay, and remind him of the money I gave him in the morning. He says, no, that was only for taking me to the lakes. I laugh, sit down, and shake my head. I tell him with a smile on my face and an edge to my voice, that HE had asked me to come on the last leg of the trip that he HAD to do so that he could return the car, and HE was the one who told me how much it would cost to see the lakes and get to Maumere. I would have been quite happy to take the public bus. His face falls. No, no, do you remember that conversation? Do you remember saying those things to me? Oh, yes, well, I forgot. Thank you for getting me here but I have already paid you, right? Oh, yes, right. Okay, now I have a plane ticket to book to get the HELL out of Flores!!!
I struggled with my journey through Flores, as most people told me I would. Indonesia has some very poor regions and this entire island is exceptionally so. Travelling places not set up for tourism is most often something I seek out, local life is what I want to see, but here, it’s rough. While not set up for tourism, they see foreigners coming through so I was often approached with aggressive, rude, or obscene intentions. They want money (understandable) but seem to feel that you have it so you should give it to them. Lots of swindling, outright lying, and demanding attention interactions. I haven’t had to feel “constantly on my guard” in a long time but this trip re-ignited that sense in me. Every little gesture was done with hand out and insistent glare. Very disappointing. Of course this wasn’t the whole trip and I did meet some lovely folks along the way but for the most part, it was a hectic journey. I’m glad I did it, I’m always thrilled to see something new, but I don’t think I’d do it again. EXHAUSTING!
So two hours after my eternal road trip ended, I had a plane ticket booked for the next day to go back to quiet, peaceful, sunny Meno, island home of the friend I went to see in October. Get me outta here!
Darryn had no idea I was coming as I had no idea I was going so despite a few snags (like getting stuck overnight on the mainland and sleeping over at the house of a friend of a person I met on the plane. Yes, things you would NEVER do at home are commonplace here) I showed up at the dive shop as he was heading out, SURPRISE! hugs and smiles and high fives, and I did nothing but beach and sun and chilled company for the last two days of my holiday. Much needed, much loved, much perfect. Two weeks travelling in Indo, please don’t make me go back to work. Oh, what’s that? Only two and a half more months until my next holiday? Oh, okay then. Thanks!
Monday, January 30, 2012
Christmas diving & dragons
A two week holiday could lead to an endlessly excessive and as always, very verbose blog entry so I’m going to do what I can to hit the highlights, keep it to the bare minimum, or break it up into a few manageable bits. I like telling stories. So yes, it was an adventure, some great moments, some not so great moments, and I continue to lead a very fun life. How on earth could anyone ever expect me to stop this wandering? There’s just so much going on out here!
Main point of all of my holidays… diving. Destination… Komodo. On recommendations of a friend of a friend (thank you Deb, thank you Josh!) we had arranged for 6 days of diving in Komodo. After much head scratching and internetting (is that a word??) it all finally made sense. There are no dive companies on Komodo, it is a bare, rugged, undeveloped piece of rock and trees. There are a few places to stay and wander around, but the dive companies are based out of Labuan Bajo, in Flores, the big, main island. You fly into LBJ then either do a liveaboard trip (which we could NOT afford) or simply put in the hours on a boat to and fro the dive sites every day, like we did. Komodo is the signature island; it’s not where anyone spends any of their time, but the name draws us all in. Dragons, and for those of us in the loop, diving. I like being in the diving loop.
So blah, blah, blah, a long travel day and an unorganized arrival but Jon, Kat, and I arrive Christmas Eve, settle in to this permanently rough and under construction port town, and are keen to spend Christmas Day under the sea. The weather was looking splendidly sunny, word on the street was that diving had been off the charts, and Santa was heading our way. Let’s go diving.
A rough start to the morning as the dive shop appeared to be fantastically disorganized but it’s Christmas and we’re going diving, it’s all going to be okay. Side note of importance. Most national parks in Indonesia have park fees, all of which seem to be bizarrely expensive and obviously go straight into some corrupted official’s back pocket. Every stretch of land and water seems to be a “national park”. Komodo area was no different. There were fees for going out to the sea, fees for diving in the sea, fees for stopping at an island, fees for going ON an island… oh good grief… so much money to be made. Thankfully, thankfully, THANKFULLY our Indonesian work visas got us in for local rates, literally 10% of the foreigner fees. Saved $100 easily. Easy. Thank you, KELT!
Boat trips out to the dive sites took about 1.5 to 2 hours EACH WAY so long days on the water. What does that mean for me, folks? Come on, you remember. Yep. Blech! While I managed to not vomit AT ALL during the six days of back and forth, I was pretty useless on board. A nice enough boat, big and fairly steady, but yeah, I’m just a whiny bag of mush who was too long out of practice. Under the sea, however, under the sea, well, it all just came together.
Again, boring and pointless for me to go on and on about the one thing in the world that still makes my heart beat a little faster every single time. It can still scare me silly or feel like home, it takes my breath away and demands that I pay attention, it feels like it’s brand new and that I’ve been doing it forever. Oh how I love being under that sea. Komodo was meant to be wild and wicked, some of the most dangerous and devilish currents in the sea; I wasn’t sure if I was up for the challenge. The dive team however, was incredible; not one second of worry or concern. Currents and dive sites were navigated without problems and it was the stuff legends are made of all around. Truly heaven.
I can’t really explain why I dive, why I love it so much, why I want it to consume all of my free time, but I do know there are some people who get it, and some who don’t. There’s a look, there’s something in those who get it, who get what I feel, but I can’t explain it. I love watching new divers experience the sights and sensations for the first time and I love the look I see in experienced divers’ eyes, the ones who have been diving for far longer than I could ever imagine, who dive for the same reasons that I do. I’ve been diving with divers who have logged hundreds of dives, but I would never choose to dive with them again. I’ve been under the water with others who are brand new and in some of those eyes, I know they just get it. I miss diving with that Tofo crowd, the ones who feel what I feel, who have that same look in their eyes. But I love that I’ve seen some things I’ll never see anywhere else. I don’t dive to compete; to one up numbers or challenges, places or experiences. I don’t dive to see the underwater world through a camera lens so know that as divers, me and people with cameras (with a very few and select exceptions) are a bad combo. I don’t dive to be the best or in control of it all or responsible to anyone else. I get lost in my own world down there sometimes and that’s the reason I love it. I got so lost in love on a dive filled with mantas that when I finally turned away from a beauty I was watching, my group was gone. Minor panic, a big ocean all by myself, but crisis averted and we all found each other on the surface at the end of the dive. I could have stayed down there forever. Our guide’s comment to the rest of the group regarding my disappearance? “She’s with the manta, she knows what she’s doing, she’ll be fine.” Yes, my girl, good answer.
Our dive guide was brilliant and beautiful and absolutely got it. She was so generous with her time that on a couple of occasions when the conditions were calm enough and others had gone up because they had run out of air, she stayed under with me, showing me more things, letting me find things, and just diving. Yeah, she got it. 12 dives, more mantas than I could count, sharks, and an endless list of amazing creatures to fill my dreams. Dive Komodo. Do it. Now. I want to go back.
So that was week number one. Diving and silly fun for Christmas Day then a blissfully exhausting blur of dive after dive after spectacular dive.
Oh yeah. I almost forgot the dragons.
On Christmas day, on our way back from a day of delightful diving, we stopped to see the dragons. There are two islands, Komodo and Rinca, that have komodo dragons on them but for whatever reason, most trips dump you on Rinca to see them. It’s a shuffle along process where you have to follow a goon in a uniform (oh how they love their uniforms here) to an office where they make you pay more money (again, thank you KELT working visa!) and then a local ragmuffin with a big stick walks you along a path where “maybe you see dragon!” Yeah, unlikely.
There are ranger huts and a few places where visitors can stay as soon as you get on to the island. This is where the dragons hang out, because why? Because that’s where the food is. We kinda stumbled upon them, sleeping, dozing, and strolling all in one area under the “kitchen hut” so the “wild” aspect was kinda lost. They look like big ole monitor lizards, the ones that used to scare the poop out of me as we would cross paths in the jungle, me on my way to my dive shop in Malaysia, them out for an early morning sniff around. THOSE were wild dragons! These guys were pretty used to people and although they got a bit edgy when we got a little too curious, they were fairly mellow. Not the slobbering, attacking, vicious National Geographic dragons I was expecting.
Their big bellies, complacent nature, and a bizarre lack of wildlife on this primarily uninhabited island makes one wonder. Rangers swear that the dragons are no longer fed by them . Really? REEEALLY? Highly unlikely. So shame, the experience was a bit like a walk to the zoo but the island itself, very wild and dinosaur Land Before Time like, really special. And I did get to hang out with dragons for a while, no matter how staged it may have been. How many people can say that?!
So la de dah, New Year’s Eve came and Jon & Kat went to Bali, I went to explore Flores. I had been warned and warned and warned. Don’t travel Flores overland by public transport. It’s dodgy, it will take forever, just don’t do it. How often do I listen? Apparently never. And it shows. End of week one. Take a break. Week two, to be continued…
Main point of all of my holidays… diving. Destination… Komodo. On recommendations of a friend of a friend (thank you Deb, thank you Josh!) we had arranged for 6 days of diving in Komodo. After much head scratching and internetting (is that a word??) it all finally made sense. There are no dive companies on Komodo, it is a bare, rugged, undeveloped piece of rock and trees. There are a few places to stay and wander around, but the dive companies are based out of Labuan Bajo, in Flores, the big, main island. You fly into LBJ then either do a liveaboard trip (which we could NOT afford) or simply put in the hours on a boat to and fro the dive sites every day, like we did. Komodo is the signature island; it’s not where anyone spends any of their time, but the name draws us all in. Dragons, and for those of us in the loop, diving. I like being in the diving loop.
So blah, blah, blah, a long travel day and an unorganized arrival but Jon, Kat, and I arrive Christmas Eve, settle in to this permanently rough and under construction port town, and are keen to spend Christmas Day under the sea. The weather was looking splendidly sunny, word on the street was that diving had been off the charts, and Santa was heading our way. Let’s go diving.
A rough start to the morning as the dive shop appeared to be fantastically disorganized but it’s Christmas and we’re going diving, it’s all going to be okay. Side note of importance. Most national parks in Indonesia have park fees, all of which seem to be bizarrely expensive and obviously go straight into some corrupted official’s back pocket. Every stretch of land and water seems to be a “national park”. Komodo area was no different. There were fees for going out to the sea, fees for diving in the sea, fees for stopping at an island, fees for going ON an island… oh good grief… so much money to be made. Thankfully, thankfully, THANKFULLY our Indonesian work visas got us in for local rates, literally 10% of the foreigner fees. Saved $100 easily. Easy. Thank you, KELT!
Boat trips out to the dive sites took about 1.5 to 2 hours EACH WAY so long days on the water. What does that mean for me, folks? Come on, you remember. Yep. Blech! While I managed to not vomit AT ALL during the six days of back and forth, I was pretty useless on board. A nice enough boat, big and fairly steady, but yeah, I’m just a whiny bag of mush who was too long out of practice. Under the sea, however, under the sea, well, it all just came together.
Again, boring and pointless for me to go on and on about the one thing in the world that still makes my heart beat a little faster every single time. It can still scare me silly or feel like home, it takes my breath away and demands that I pay attention, it feels like it’s brand new and that I’ve been doing it forever. Oh how I love being under that sea. Komodo was meant to be wild and wicked, some of the most dangerous and devilish currents in the sea; I wasn’t sure if I was up for the challenge. The dive team however, was incredible; not one second of worry or concern. Currents and dive sites were navigated without problems and it was the stuff legends are made of all around. Truly heaven.
I can’t really explain why I dive, why I love it so much, why I want it to consume all of my free time, but I do know there are some people who get it, and some who don’t. There’s a look, there’s something in those who get it, who get what I feel, but I can’t explain it. I love watching new divers experience the sights and sensations for the first time and I love the look I see in experienced divers’ eyes, the ones who have been diving for far longer than I could ever imagine, who dive for the same reasons that I do. I’ve been diving with divers who have logged hundreds of dives, but I would never choose to dive with them again. I’ve been under the water with others who are brand new and in some of those eyes, I know they just get it. I miss diving with that Tofo crowd, the ones who feel what I feel, who have that same look in their eyes. But I love that I’ve seen some things I’ll never see anywhere else. I don’t dive to compete; to one up numbers or challenges, places or experiences. I don’t dive to see the underwater world through a camera lens so know that as divers, me and people with cameras (with a very few and select exceptions) are a bad combo. I don’t dive to be the best or in control of it all or responsible to anyone else. I get lost in my own world down there sometimes and that’s the reason I love it. I got so lost in love on a dive filled with mantas that when I finally turned away from a beauty I was watching, my group was gone. Minor panic, a big ocean all by myself, but crisis averted and we all found each other on the surface at the end of the dive. I could have stayed down there forever. Our guide’s comment to the rest of the group regarding my disappearance? “She’s with the manta, she knows what she’s doing, she’ll be fine.” Yes, my girl, good answer.
Our dive guide was brilliant and beautiful and absolutely got it. She was so generous with her time that on a couple of occasions when the conditions were calm enough and others had gone up because they had run out of air, she stayed under with me, showing me more things, letting me find things, and just diving. Yeah, she got it. 12 dives, more mantas than I could count, sharks, and an endless list of amazing creatures to fill my dreams. Dive Komodo. Do it. Now. I want to go back.
So that was week number one. Diving and silly fun for Christmas Day then a blissfully exhausting blur of dive after dive after spectacular dive.
Oh yeah. I almost forgot the dragons.
On Christmas day, on our way back from a day of delightful diving, we stopped to see the dragons. There are two islands, Komodo and Rinca, that have komodo dragons on them but for whatever reason, most trips dump you on Rinca to see them. It’s a shuffle along process where you have to follow a goon in a uniform (oh how they love their uniforms here) to an office where they make you pay more money (again, thank you KELT working visa!) and then a local ragmuffin with a big stick walks you along a path where “maybe you see dragon!” Yeah, unlikely.
There are ranger huts and a few places where visitors can stay as soon as you get on to the island. This is where the dragons hang out, because why? Because that’s where the food is. We kinda stumbled upon them, sleeping, dozing, and strolling all in one area under the “kitchen hut” so the “wild” aspect was kinda lost. They look like big ole monitor lizards, the ones that used to scare the poop out of me as we would cross paths in the jungle, me on my way to my dive shop in Malaysia, them out for an early morning sniff around. THOSE were wild dragons! These guys were pretty used to people and although they got a bit edgy when we got a little too curious, they were fairly mellow. Not the slobbering, attacking, vicious National Geographic dragons I was expecting.
Their big bellies, complacent nature, and a bizarre lack of wildlife on this primarily uninhabited island makes one wonder. Rangers swear that the dragons are no longer fed by them . Really? REEEALLY? Highly unlikely. So shame, the experience was a bit like a walk to the zoo but the island itself, very wild and dinosaur Land Before Time like, really special. And I did get to hang out with dragons for a while, no matter how staged it may have been. How many people can say that?!
So la de dah, New Year’s Eve came and Jon & Kat went to Bali, I went to explore Flores. I had been warned and warned and warned. Don’t travel Flores overland by public transport. It’s dodgy, it will take forever, just don’t do it. How often do I listen? Apparently never. And it shows. End of week one. Take a break. Week two, to be continued…
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Two years on...
Two years, nine random countries, and several lifetimes later I sit in wonder of my world, my universe, my silly, small journey. I have fallen in love with people, places, creatures, and cultures. I’ve been awed and amazed, saddened and scared. I’ve seen death a time or two (my own and others’) and life taken to the edge. I’ve felt time stand still and then pass by in a breath. I’ve held on to what I could and let go of things I never thought I would. I’ve found some answers but mostly more questions. I’ve had my heart touched by moments of pure connection and had it broken by that same thread as goodbyes have been ever present. I’ve had moments of thinking that there was no way in the world that I could do it but I did it anyway. I’ve had moments where I chose to walk away. I’ve had days where I wanted to fight, even when I didn’t know why, but I’ve had more days where I simply wanted to learn and understand. I’ve met people who are changing the world and others who have changed mine. I’ve laughed until I cried and cried because I needed to. I’ve been witness to unbelievable suffering and truly humbling strength; I now doubt my own capacity for both. I’ve been welcomed and shunned, included and turned away but have chosen to take it all as part of the experience. I’ve learned to be okay with having an opinion and I’ve learned to believe that yes, there really is a right and wrong. I’ve learned, I’ve learned, I’ve learned. Two years, nine countries and several lifetimes later, I continue to learn. Thank you, my brilliant universe, for all that I have been given, thank you for continuing to give me these opportunities to learn.
6 girls & 3 motorbikes
Continuing on with the fabulous streak of weekend getaways in Java, a group of six girls boarded a 6am train and made our way to Jogjakarta, cultural centre of Java. Most were going with the intentions of shopping, I just wanted to explore. Easy travel and easy living for the weekend as we checked into a proper, LOVELY hotel / guesthouse complete with… wait for it… HOT WATER!!!! Yes, yes, yes! Hot water how I love you. The bubbles you make when I shampoo my hair, the clean that I feel when you turn my skin from pink to red, oh dear, dear hot water, it is always far too long between our love affair embraces. Oh hot water, I do love you.
Ahem. Sorry about that. Carrying on…
So the girls were up for some frantic shopping but first, some fantastic eating. A small tourist oriented strip with restaurants bursting full of things we just can’t find in Surabaya… like incredibly amazing salads, unbelievable red wine, and Turkish coffee. 10 lbs gained during the two days in Yogya, easy.
Kiosk after kiosk, street stall after street stall, shop after shop of the same same and eventually we all went our separate ways in search of separate things. My wandering confirmed my dislike of batik, the uniquely patterned material used to make clothing, bags, hair accessories, wall hangings, and every other possible thing under the sun. Some pieces are interesting, some are even pretty, but yeah, it’s a take it or leave it kind of thing and on this trip, I was able to confirm that I was a leave it kind of girl. So, I wandered. Walked and people watched and absorbed. I like this place.
Girls reconvened for more incredible food and motorbike rental organization for the road trip the next day. We’re gonna go get us some culture. Well, sorta.
An early rise, six girls on three bikes, and vroom, vroom, we’re off! Can I please just add here that not only did I DRIVE, but I DOUBLED! Mind you, Hannah may be the tiniest human being on the face on the planet, but still, I am in control of this motorbike situation, fully in control. LOVE IT!
So a couple of hours and 50kms later, a whole lot of staring attracted, and we are there, Borobudur Buddhist temple. UNESCO world heritage site, built somewhere around 800AD, massive, masterpiece, google it. So much more than any of us expected. And bonus of the day… showing our Indonesian work permits got us in for $3 instead of the touristy $25. Thank you very much!
We got there early enough to avoid the throngs of local tourists and enjoyed a fairly chaotic free wander around this awesome artifact. I’m kinda a bit of a nerd about these things and could have easily spent the entire day just looking and poking and gazing but after a couple of hours and increasing heat, the group was ready to move on. Fair. It’s close enough that I can always come back when I want to. I just might do that.
A hot and sweaty ride back so a couple of the girls hit the pool at our place, some did a little more shopping, and napped. Our train back wasn’t until 1 AM! So we had loads of time to kill. Vikki and I decided to take the bikes back out and went in search of a nearby volcano, Merapi. A nice drive, despite my utter lack of navigational ability. Unfortunately by the time we arrived at the park entrance, it was closed for the day. Oh well. We wandered for a bit, crashed a kid’s birthday party, had our photos taken, and considered hijacking a piece of cake but restrained ourselves, then made our way back. Sore bums and backs after far too many hours on the bike that day. Solution? Massage!
I have never had luck with these things. Remembering the few isolated incidents in Thailand and Cambodia I was thinking yeah, probably not the best idea for me. I should just sit it out. But it sounded so lovely and it’s SO cheap here! Hmmm… I never learn, never learn, never learn. While my girl poked me with one finger repeatedly, prodded one spot over and over until it bruised, and stopped twice in the 30 minutes, once to chat with her friend and another time to leave and take a phone call, I just gave up. The other girls had success but I just don’t think I’m cut out for the “pampering” thing.
More great food, more great wine, and the wait for that late night train. Early morning return to Surabaya a couple of hours to nap, then back to work. Seriously, you can’t beat the weekends in Indonesia!
Ahem. Sorry about that. Carrying on…
So the girls were up for some frantic shopping but first, some fantastic eating. A small tourist oriented strip with restaurants bursting full of things we just can’t find in Surabaya… like incredibly amazing salads, unbelievable red wine, and Turkish coffee. 10 lbs gained during the two days in Yogya, easy.
Kiosk after kiosk, street stall after street stall, shop after shop of the same same and eventually we all went our separate ways in search of separate things. My wandering confirmed my dislike of batik, the uniquely patterned material used to make clothing, bags, hair accessories, wall hangings, and every other possible thing under the sun. Some pieces are interesting, some are even pretty, but yeah, it’s a take it or leave it kind of thing and on this trip, I was able to confirm that I was a leave it kind of girl. So, I wandered. Walked and people watched and absorbed. I like this place.
Girls reconvened for more incredible food and motorbike rental organization for the road trip the next day. We’re gonna go get us some culture. Well, sorta.
An early rise, six girls on three bikes, and vroom, vroom, we’re off! Can I please just add here that not only did I DRIVE, but I DOUBLED! Mind you, Hannah may be the tiniest human being on the face on the planet, but still, I am in control of this motorbike situation, fully in control. LOVE IT!
So a couple of hours and 50kms later, a whole lot of staring attracted, and we are there, Borobudur Buddhist temple. UNESCO world heritage site, built somewhere around 800AD, massive, masterpiece, google it. So much more than any of us expected. And bonus of the day… showing our Indonesian work permits got us in for $3 instead of the touristy $25. Thank you very much!
We got there early enough to avoid the throngs of local tourists and enjoyed a fairly chaotic free wander around this awesome artifact. I’m kinda a bit of a nerd about these things and could have easily spent the entire day just looking and poking and gazing but after a couple of hours and increasing heat, the group was ready to move on. Fair. It’s close enough that I can always come back when I want to. I just might do that.
A hot and sweaty ride back so a couple of the girls hit the pool at our place, some did a little more shopping, and napped. Our train back wasn’t until 1 AM! So we had loads of time to kill. Vikki and I decided to take the bikes back out and went in search of a nearby volcano, Merapi. A nice drive, despite my utter lack of navigational ability. Unfortunately by the time we arrived at the park entrance, it was closed for the day. Oh well. We wandered for a bit, crashed a kid’s birthday party, had our photos taken, and considered hijacking a piece of cake but restrained ourselves, then made our way back. Sore bums and backs after far too many hours on the bike that day. Solution? Massage!
I have never had luck with these things. Remembering the few isolated incidents in Thailand and Cambodia I was thinking yeah, probably not the best idea for me. I should just sit it out. But it sounded so lovely and it’s SO cheap here! Hmmm… I never learn, never learn, never learn. While my girl poked me with one finger repeatedly, prodded one spot over and over until it bruised, and stopped twice in the 30 minutes, once to chat with her friend and another time to leave and take a phone call, I just gave up. The other girls had success but I just don’t think I’m cut out for the “pampering” thing.
More great food, more great wine, and the wait for that late night train. Early morning return to Surabaya a couple of hours to nap, then back to work. Seriously, you can’t beat the weekends in Indonesia!
Moon Landing
Indonesia, oh fabulous ring of fire, ever present instability. Where every minor ground shake is a tsunami waiting to happen and every pretty mountain is a violently explosive volcano laying in wait. Yes, Indonesia, well done on taking “live for the moment” quite literally, well done indeed.
One fine December weekend without too much going on, I decided it was time to see a volcano. Vikki, one of the new teachers at the school, wanted in on the exploration so a 5am Saturday bus departure from Surabaya and we were off (when the mosques start wailing at anywhere from 3:30am – 4:30am, 5am is not considered an insanely early start). Local bus travel in Indonesia varies from place to place, destination to starting point so aware that even at the bus station there would be various battles to fight, I armed myself with oh so valuable information before setting out. We were assaulted with what is unfortunately the normal tout routine of saying that this is the ONLY bus, this is the ONLY price, that it doesn’t leave until this time but with a bit extra they could leave now, blah, blah, blah. A quick scout around and a few questions asked, the best of the worst vehicles chosen, and lucked out with a more or less comfortable and clean mode of transportation for the same price that the locals were paying for next couple of hours. We were going to see a volcano!
Arrived in the first town, again knowing a bit of what was in store for us. Can’t help but get frustrated by the deliberate lies when trying to navigate through these tourist trap touts. Swarmed by various men insisting that there are absolutely no buses to the next town where we were heading, nothing, no bus, no. But of course they softened the devastating news with generous offers to help us get to where we were going for just the right price. Oh piss off! Walked outside the bus station and found the EXACT mini buses we were looking for that were meant to take us to exactly where we were going for the price I knew it should be. *sigh* Yes, yes, I know, I know. They are just trying to make a living too but sorry, I stand by past rants and rages… I will never ever find a soft spot in my heart for touts who prey on bedraggled travelers stepping into a new place for the first time. Never.
This little mini bus driver was out to make some cash as well but he went about the right way, convincing the 6 of us waiting for the next part of the journey to pay a little more instead of waiting however much longer for 4 more people to randomly show up so that he had a full bus. This meant he could drop us off and be back to pick up more people faster. Clever and not infuriating. That’s fine.
So up, up, up we went. Leaving concrete life behind as we wound ourselves up vertical, leafy, forested and palm-treed green cliffs carved and etched by tiered rice paddies, vegetable crops, and the occasional bamboo and scrap bits of tin roof houses. I still can’t understand how people are able to build and live on the edges of these steep and cut off parts of the landscape but obviously they hold the secrets that make it all come together. Skyscrapers of glass and metal have nothing on these scenes… pure genius, absolute beauty.
We arrived in this end of the road tourist niche entrance to a national park where “lean” is the word of the weekend. The hills and roads are so steep that standing straight up could have you toppling right back over. Everyone was on constant lean. Mini bus driver went out of his way to drive us around the few options of places to stay and we eventually settled on what appeared to be a quaint little “homestay”; essentially a family’s house, with all their decorations of family photos and personal belongings, but the bedrooms are cleared out for rent. We saw a grandma and a small girl when we dropped off our bags and then that’s it, no other family interaction. Felt a bit weird but whatever, we’ve got a volcano to find!
Not really sure where we were or what we were meant to be doing but from what I had read, there was supposed to be a great view of Bromo, our volcano of choice, from a lookout point somewhere. The town was pretty quiet, a few offers of motorbikes and tours, but pretty laid back even though there weren’t many tourists around. No complaints here, lovely place, lovely quiet. Let’s do some walking around.
We were pointed in the direction of a dirt road that turned into a dirt path that again went up, up, up. A gorgeous walk through farming fields of friendly folks and views that took our breath away (both because of how beautiful it was and the strain of climbing up, up, up). We got to where the trail ended but nowhere near the top top. Found benches and shelters and obvious signs of large gatherings of people (massive amounts of trash and graffiti everywhere. Nice.) but there wasn’t a soul around. Then we looked off in the distance and saw the crater. Bromo off in the distance across a desolate sea of sand (see facebook photos) and decided, yeah, let’s hang out here. That first glimpse of another planet... what the moon just might look like, we had no words. Eerie, amazing, and we felt like the only people in the world. It was mid afternoon by now and a lay-down was high on the priority list so we snoozed and gazed and sighed with the tranquility of no noise, no people, and a clear blue sky. Oh Mother Nature I have missed you.
We meandered our way back down to the little town and fuddled about with what to do next as we wanted to go to the crater, weren’t sure where to be for sunset / sunrise, and yeah, were generally lost and confused. So best thing to do in these kinds of situations? Chat up others who seem to have an idea of what they are doing! We saw a couple who had been on the bus ride up with us and they were chatting with another white face so we saddled up to the conversation and within a few short, chatty minutes, I had us an invitation to join a sunrise trip the next day. The other white face turned out to be a soil scientist (never met one of those before!) who was on contract in Indo but taking a bit of time out to do some exploring. Fantastically friendly Aussie who said we could hop in their hired car to see the sights the next day, sharing the cost all around. Well done fellow travelers, well done!
We hung out with new Aussie friend, his German counterpart, and the couple from the bus, wandering the quaint little town and listening to some great stories. As the sun set and layers of warm clothing were donned, woolly hats were a big seller all around. It’s cold in the mountains at night so I was very pleased with my Canadian-esque new toque. Fleece is my friend.
Another early rise meant an early night so Vikki and I started to make our way back to our cute little homestay. Everything’s different in the dark but we were fairly sure of where we were going. I commented on a house party going on hoping that it wasn’t too close to our house so that we would be able to get a bit of sleep. Vikki stopped, Janice, that’s our place. No it’s not, we haven’t gone far enough. Uh yeah, Janice, I remember this, this is our house. Oh. My. Gosh. As we picked our way over about 20 pairs of scattered shoes on the front porch, we entered a very small front room, the entrance to our rooms, littered with bodies, mattresses, bags, food containers, and just … stuff. True movie style, all fell quiet as we stood open-mouthed in the middle of chaos and all eyes looked our way. You’ve got to be kidding me.
Our homestay was now “home” to about 20 Indo travelers in need of a place to stay for the night. Most of them were piled on top of each other, laying on the floor or each other, squeezed onto small chairs and ledges, all of them simultaneously playing music or games or shows on their phones, laptops, or the one communal TV. Noise was everywhere. Vikki and I didn’t quite know what to say or do. What could we do? I mumbled a few select curse words under my breath then waited in line to brush my teeth in the one bathroom available for all of us. This was a new one. As I locked myself into my now very spacious bedroom, the noise outside the door began to diminish and the earplugs blocked out the rest. We were all going to see the sunrise tomorrow, it’s going to be fine. No more cursing Janice, go to sleep.
My alarm went off around the same time that the stirrings (by stirrings I mean TV on, music on, midday volume voices) started so time to get a move on. Brief wait for the precious bathroom but poor Vik wasn’t so lucky. We were the last ones out of the house as she was last in line for the facilities. As we huffed and puffed our way up the street in the dark to meet our Jeep mates, everyone was awake and moving. Days start far too early here!
We still weren’t entirely sure of where we were going but as our Jeep slowly snaked its way up behind an endless trail of head and taillights, we soon realized that we were heading up to the same lookout point we had visited the day before. Crap! Jeeps stopped half way up… must walk from here. A brief look of I hate you! from Vikki and we joined the throngs of mostly Indonesian sightseers and a random spattering of horses working their way up, up, up. Elbowing and weaving our way up a rocky dirt trail in the pre-dawn dusk, hmmm… I’ve done this before, haven’t I? Not talking about walking the exact same trail the day before, I have been in this moving mass of people in the dark before… Yes, Mount Sinai! A mini Mt. Sinai!
The rest of our crew stopped at a lower viewpoint but I continued on to the place we had made it up to the day before. Not a huge difference in views but if you can keep going up, why stop? Entrepreneurial spirits had set up their little squat kiosks of hot drinks and pot noodles to greet the chilly sunrise seekers and crafty superstition exploiters tried hawking their exquisite floral arrangements as good luck gifts to the volcano gods. A few bewildered white faces flashed through the mostly local crowds, this was kinda fun but Vikki and I were quite happy that we were able to have seen it all, in utter peace & quiet, completely on our own, the day before. The sunrise view was spectacular but pretending that you really are the only people on another planet is pretty damn cool.
The clouds had lifted in the morning so in addition to a brilliant sunrise, a few more mountain (AKA deadly sleeping volcano) peaks were visible in the distance. Chilly, crowded, but worth it, very, very worth it.
Dawn now dawned, far too many photos of the same shot taken, I shoved my way back down to rejoin the group. We made our way back to the Jeep so we could head across that sea of sand to get to the crater and climb up to peer inside exploded Mt. Bromo. Having a soil scientist available was just too perfect as the history / geology lessons were the BEST freebie bonus we could have ever hoped for. YES!
Bromo is still active and it last erupted several months back. Not the flowing lava and hellfire kind of eruption but it WAS spewing boulders the size of cars, shaking the ground with its rumblings and covering its nearby world in layers and layers of thick ash. Some of the teachers here had the chance to see it and said they could actually SEE the sound waves through the ash in the air! JEALOUS! Okay, anyway… steep, sketchy set of stairs had been built up the side of the crater a long time ago so that viewers could take a peek inside. After the beatings of an eruption, the stairs have now crumbled to bits and pieces of steep concrete trampled by thousands and thousands of shaky footsteps. After walking up a fully challenging hill of sand, step – slide, step – slide, this set of stairs was not a welcome sight. Hmmm… death be damned, I’m having a look!
Safety precautions in Indonesia are… ummm… yeah, non-existent pretty much sums it up. You tramp up these scrabbly bits of rubbish cement and then, you’re teetering on the edge, as wide as my two feet, and that’s it. Falling back down the way you came up on one side or tumbling to your death straight into the mouth of the volcano on the other. No rails, no flat patches, and an endless flow of more people coming up. Picking my way, one foot directly in front of the other, I scrambled as far away from the stairs and wobbly gathering of climbers trying to find a place to stand as I could, attempting to avoid being accidently jostled to my demise. People MUST fall in, they MUST! I just can’t explain how teeny tiny treacherous this lip of the volcano is. That being said, and you knowing me, it made me that much more excited. Death, here, almost… love it!
I was desperate for a rumble, a grumble, a something to show me that this underground demon was still alive and kicking… something! I had to settle for a tiny little *poof* of smoke but yes, it was something! Thank you volcano gods, I’ll take it.
As you gaze over the crowds and around the landscape, either looking towards Bromo or out from it, you can’t help but feel a little bit like an extra in a sci-fi movie. Very other worldly, very alien, very moon landing. Dry, cracked, ash-covered landscape, a crumbling crater bubbling with that rotten egg smell, shadows of cragged peaks in the distant haze. Roger Houston, we have landed and there is life here. I like it.
The rest of the morning was spent driving around looking at the drastically different landscape just surrounding the crater and then the long journey home. Aussie soil scientist continued his generosity and we hitched a free ride most of the way in their cushy vehicle, shortening our local bus travel by hours and hours. La-la-la life is good. Home by late afternoon, just another weekend in Indonesia. Not so shabby.
One fine December weekend without too much going on, I decided it was time to see a volcano. Vikki, one of the new teachers at the school, wanted in on the exploration so a 5am Saturday bus departure from Surabaya and we were off (when the mosques start wailing at anywhere from 3:30am – 4:30am, 5am is not considered an insanely early start). Local bus travel in Indonesia varies from place to place, destination to starting point so aware that even at the bus station there would be various battles to fight, I armed myself with oh so valuable information before setting out. We were assaulted with what is unfortunately the normal tout routine of saying that this is the ONLY bus, this is the ONLY price, that it doesn’t leave until this time but with a bit extra they could leave now, blah, blah, blah. A quick scout around and a few questions asked, the best of the worst vehicles chosen, and lucked out with a more or less comfortable and clean mode of transportation for the same price that the locals were paying for next couple of hours. We were going to see a volcano!
Arrived in the first town, again knowing a bit of what was in store for us. Can’t help but get frustrated by the deliberate lies when trying to navigate through these tourist trap touts. Swarmed by various men insisting that there are absolutely no buses to the next town where we were heading, nothing, no bus, no. But of course they softened the devastating news with generous offers to help us get to where we were going for just the right price. Oh piss off! Walked outside the bus station and found the EXACT mini buses we were looking for that were meant to take us to exactly where we were going for the price I knew it should be. *sigh* Yes, yes, I know, I know. They are just trying to make a living too but sorry, I stand by past rants and rages… I will never ever find a soft spot in my heart for touts who prey on bedraggled travelers stepping into a new place for the first time. Never.
This little mini bus driver was out to make some cash as well but he went about the right way, convincing the 6 of us waiting for the next part of the journey to pay a little more instead of waiting however much longer for 4 more people to randomly show up so that he had a full bus. This meant he could drop us off and be back to pick up more people faster. Clever and not infuriating. That’s fine.
So up, up, up we went. Leaving concrete life behind as we wound ourselves up vertical, leafy, forested and palm-treed green cliffs carved and etched by tiered rice paddies, vegetable crops, and the occasional bamboo and scrap bits of tin roof houses. I still can’t understand how people are able to build and live on the edges of these steep and cut off parts of the landscape but obviously they hold the secrets that make it all come together. Skyscrapers of glass and metal have nothing on these scenes… pure genius, absolute beauty.
We arrived in this end of the road tourist niche entrance to a national park where “lean” is the word of the weekend. The hills and roads are so steep that standing straight up could have you toppling right back over. Everyone was on constant lean. Mini bus driver went out of his way to drive us around the few options of places to stay and we eventually settled on what appeared to be a quaint little “homestay”; essentially a family’s house, with all their decorations of family photos and personal belongings, but the bedrooms are cleared out for rent. We saw a grandma and a small girl when we dropped off our bags and then that’s it, no other family interaction. Felt a bit weird but whatever, we’ve got a volcano to find!
Not really sure where we were or what we were meant to be doing but from what I had read, there was supposed to be a great view of Bromo, our volcano of choice, from a lookout point somewhere. The town was pretty quiet, a few offers of motorbikes and tours, but pretty laid back even though there weren’t many tourists around. No complaints here, lovely place, lovely quiet. Let’s do some walking around.
We were pointed in the direction of a dirt road that turned into a dirt path that again went up, up, up. A gorgeous walk through farming fields of friendly folks and views that took our breath away (both because of how beautiful it was and the strain of climbing up, up, up). We got to where the trail ended but nowhere near the top top. Found benches and shelters and obvious signs of large gatherings of people (massive amounts of trash and graffiti everywhere. Nice.) but there wasn’t a soul around. Then we looked off in the distance and saw the crater. Bromo off in the distance across a desolate sea of sand (see facebook photos) and decided, yeah, let’s hang out here. That first glimpse of another planet... what the moon just might look like, we had no words. Eerie, amazing, and we felt like the only people in the world. It was mid afternoon by now and a lay-down was high on the priority list so we snoozed and gazed and sighed with the tranquility of no noise, no people, and a clear blue sky. Oh Mother Nature I have missed you.
We meandered our way back down to the little town and fuddled about with what to do next as we wanted to go to the crater, weren’t sure where to be for sunset / sunrise, and yeah, were generally lost and confused. So best thing to do in these kinds of situations? Chat up others who seem to have an idea of what they are doing! We saw a couple who had been on the bus ride up with us and they were chatting with another white face so we saddled up to the conversation and within a few short, chatty minutes, I had us an invitation to join a sunrise trip the next day. The other white face turned out to be a soil scientist (never met one of those before!) who was on contract in Indo but taking a bit of time out to do some exploring. Fantastically friendly Aussie who said we could hop in their hired car to see the sights the next day, sharing the cost all around. Well done fellow travelers, well done!
We hung out with new Aussie friend, his German counterpart, and the couple from the bus, wandering the quaint little town and listening to some great stories. As the sun set and layers of warm clothing were donned, woolly hats were a big seller all around. It’s cold in the mountains at night so I was very pleased with my Canadian-esque new toque. Fleece is my friend.
Another early rise meant an early night so Vikki and I started to make our way back to our cute little homestay. Everything’s different in the dark but we were fairly sure of where we were going. I commented on a house party going on hoping that it wasn’t too close to our house so that we would be able to get a bit of sleep. Vikki stopped, Janice, that’s our place. No it’s not, we haven’t gone far enough. Uh yeah, Janice, I remember this, this is our house. Oh. My. Gosh. As we picked our way over about 20 pairs of scattered shoes on the front porch, we entered a very small front room, the entrance to our rooms, littered with bodies, mattresses, bags, food containers, and just … stuff. True movie style, all fell quiet as we stood open-mouthed in the middle of chaos and all eyes looked our way. You’ve got to be kidding me.
Our homestay was now “home” to about 20 Indo travelers in need of a place to stay for the night. Most of them were piled on top of each other, laying on the floor or each other, squeezed onto small chairs and ledges, all of them simultaneously playing music or games or shows on their phones, laptops, or the one communal TV. Noise was everywhere. Vikki and I didn’t quite know what to say or do. What could we do? I mumbled a few select curse words under my breath then waited in line to brush my teeth in the one bathroom available for all of us. This was a new one. As I locked myself into my now very spacious bedroom, the noise outside the door began to diminish and the earplugs blocked out the rest. We were all going to see the sunrise tomorrow, it’s going to be fine. No more cursing Janice, go to sleep.
My alarm went off around the same time that the stirrings (by stirrings I mean TV on, music on, midday volume voices) started so time to get a move on. Brief wait for the precious bathroom but poor Vik wasn’t so lucky. We were the last ones out of the house as she was last in line for the facilities. As we huffed and puffed our way up the street in the dark to meet our Jeep mates, everyone was awake and moving. Days start far too early here!
We still weren’t entirely sure of where we were going but as our Jeep slowly snaked its way up behind an endless trail of head and taillights, we soon realized that we were heading up to the same lookout point we had visited the day before. Crap! Jeeps stopped half way up… must walk from here. A brief look of I hate you! from Vikki and we joined the throngs of mostly Indonesian sightseers and a random spattering of horses working their way up, up, up. Elbowing and weaving our way up a rocky dirt trail in the pre-dawn dusk, hmmm… I’ve done this before, haven’t I? Not talking about walking the exact same trail the day before, I have been in this moving mass of people in the dark before… Yes, Mount Sinai! A mini Mt. Sinai!
The rest of our crew stopped at a lower viewpoint but I continued on to the place we had made it up to the day before. Not a huge difference in views but if you can keep going up, why stop? Entrepreneurial spirits had set up their little squat kiosks of hot drinks and pot noodles to greet the chilly sunrise seekers and crafty superstition exploiters tried hawking their exquisite floral arrangements as good luck gifts to the volcano gods. A few bewildered white faces flashed through the mostly local crowds, this was kinda fun but Vikki and I were quite happy that we were able to have seen it all, in utter peace & quiet, completely on our own, the day before. The sunrise view was spectacular but pretending that you really are the only people on another planet is pretty damn cool.
The clouds had lifted in the morning so in addition to a brilliant sunrise, a few more mountain (AKA deadly sleeping volcano) peaks were visible in the distance. Chilly, crowded, but worth it, very, very worth it.
Dawn now dawned, far too many photos of the same shot taken, I shoved my way back down to rejoin the group. We made our way back to the Jeep so we could head across that sea of sand to get to the crater and climb up to peer inside exploded Mt. Bromo. Having a soil scientist available was just too perfect as the history / geology lessons were the BEST freebie bonus we could have ever hoped for. YES!
Bromo is still active and it last erupted several months back. Not the flowing lava and hellfire kind of eruption but it WAS spewing boulders the size of cars, shaking the ground with its rumblings and covering its nearby world in layers and layers of thick ash. Some of the teachers here had the chance to see it and said they could actually SEE the sound waves through the ash in the air! JEALOUS! Okay, anyway… steep, sketchy set of stairs had been built up the side of the crater a long time ago so that viewers could take a peek inside. After the beatings of an eruption, the stairs have now crumbled to bits and pieces of steep concrete trampled by thousands and thousands of shaky footsteps. After walking up a fully challenging hill of sand, step – slide, step – slide, this set of stairs was not a welcome sight. Hmmm… death be damned, I’m having a look!
Safety precautions in Indonesia are… ummm… yeah, non-existent pretty much sums it up. You tramp up these scrabbly bits of rubbish cement and then, you’re teetering on the edge, as wide as my two feet, and that’s it. Falling back down the way you came up on one side or tumbling to your death straight into the mouth of the volcano on the other. No rails, no flat patches, and an endless flow of more people coming up. Picking my way, one foot directly in front of the other, I scrambled as far away from the stairs and wobbly gathering of climbers trying to find a place to stand as I could, attempting to avoid being accidently jostled to my demise. People MUST fall in, they MUST! I just can’t explain how teeny tiny treacherous this lip of the volcano is. That being said, and you knowing me, it made me that much more excited. Death, here, almost… love it!
I was desperate for a rumble, a grumble, a something to show me that this underground demon was still alive and kicking… something! I had to settle for a tiny little *poof* of smoke but yes, it was something! Thank you volcano gods, I’ll take it.
As you gaze over the crowds and around the landscape, either looking towards Bromo or out from it, you can’t help but feel a little bit like an extra in a sci-fi movie. Very other worldly, very alien, very moon landing. Dry, cracked, ash-covered landscape, a crumbling crater bubbling with that rotten egg smell, shadows of cragged peaks in the distant haze. Roger Houston, we have landed and there is life here. I like it.
The rest of the morning was spent driving around looking at the drastically different landscape just surrounding the crater and then the long journey home. Aussie soil scientist continued his generosity and we hitched a free ride most of the way in their cushy vehicle, shortening our local bus travel by hours and hours. La-la-la life is good. Home by late afternoon, just another weekend in Indonesia. Not so shabby.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Kitty Trauma
Kitty trauma. It had to happen and when it happens, oh wow, it happens. Again, attempting to leave the soap box under the stairs and simply share my stories rather than rant and rave about the heart wrenching maltreatment of animals here. Oops, almost managed to keep it under control. Almost.
Most of the teacher houses here have a cat or two who has been rescued by a soft hearted teacher and inherited by the cleaning girls after that teacher leaves. These cats have very good lives and are very well cared for. Thankfully. The cat at my first house, tiny black & white Chico, playfully wriggled his way into my heart with his howling hellos and his super social I-want-to-love-everybody personality. Just adore him. He, however, is a “he” and as he grew, his balls grew, and I knew that soon there would be more unwanted kittens around. I had promised the cleaning girls, who take very good care of him, that once I got settled into my new house, I would be back to have him taken in for a necessary neutering, sadly, far too uncommon here. Checked with other teachers, borrowed a cat cage, and brought him in for his consultation appointment.
The vet hospital is part of a university so several keen students came to check out a shivering, shaking, clingy Chico, and me, of course. Sweet students and it was encouraging to see that in a country where there seems to be little concern for animals, the veterinary program appears to be thriving. Consultation was a Thursday morning, “castration” was scheduled for Monday morning. Sorry Chico, but it has got to be done.
Thursday night, Hannah gets me out of my bed at around 1am. She and some friends had just gotten in. She had found OUR cat, a beautiful orange and white, slightly aloof but lovely Chica (yes, an “a” instead of an “o”) stuck on the security gate – she had fallen on one of the wrought iron stakes and had impaled herself though the leg. Hannah had gotten her off the stake but she had a good sized hole through her leg, had ripped off a bunch of skin, and was in an obvious state of panic. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Chico, cuddles up and wants to be with people when he is scared, Chica, wants to be alone. So I crawled under the bed where she was hiding and tried to see what the hell she had done to herself. She was in a lot of pain and tending to her injury as best she could; luckily not bleeding . There are no 24 hour vet hospitals and we knew the university hospital would be open in the morning. We tried to make her as comfortable as we could and hoped she would be okay through the night.
The next morning I packed a scared and injured Chica into a cardboard box, as the carrier was at Chico’s house, and got her to the hospital. Strange looks from the familiar staff as I unloaded a very frightened and weak but different cat. Oh, as they exchanged worried looks, oh poor kitty.
Side note. We’ve always had cats growing up. Our last cat, my sweet Petrie, we had for 19 years. 19! We got her my senior year in high school in Germany and she was part of our family until January 2010. I still get teary thinking about her. Anyway! Any time I had to take her to the vet, just for routine vaccinations or minor check-ups, I was a basket case. In tears, melt down, no reason at all. Just cried. My poor baby scared and in pain… I cried. A source of entertainment for the vet, no doubt. Remember my stories of trying to save little Chicken, the newborn kitten we found in Thailand? Yeah, hysterical tears. Now here in Indonesia, why should it be any different? Seriously.
I managed to NOT cry when I brought Chico in for his consultation, got a little choked up but was able to hold it together, but to see Chica in so much pain, yeah, it was over. Trying desperately to hold it together, the students spoke with a vet, who I saw for all of 3 seconds, and they whisked her away to do “surgery”, which meant stitch up her leg. I heard her screaming from down the hall and I had to leave.
The vet hospital is rough, basic, dirty, and there were goats grazing out in the construction / garbage dump area out back but still, better conditions than the people hospitals in Mozambique that I had a chance to see. I kept telling myself that it would be okay, it would be okay, she would be fine. She just needed some stitches, she would be fine.
When she was out of “surgery”, a limp and anesthetized cat was lying on the table. Okay, okay, I’ve seen this before. She’ll be groggy but soon, she’ll be fine. I can take her home and she’ll be fine.
Oh how it all went terribly wrong. As she woke, she was in complete distress. She kept flopping over but was frantic to move. The cleaning girls stayed with her all day as I had to go to school and when I came back at night, my heart leapt from concern to panic. She was still trying desperately to move, but couldn’t, and oh holy shit, she was blind. The poor cleaning girls didn’t know what I was talking about so I brought Hannah down and she agreed with me. What have they done to her?!?! I had the phone number to the vet who was scheduled to do Chico’s neutering on Monday, it was around 9pm and I had to do something. He spoke wonderful English and told me to bring her over to his house, where he has an office as well, right away.
Poor Chica, in so much distress and blind, me useless and emotional. Not a good combo. The vet was lovely but seemed to keep missing my point that I wasn’t concerned about her LEG, but that she was BLIND! He redressed her leg and looked in her eyes, saying that they looked fine. Her pupils were completely dilated, as they had been since the stitching up, but he said they seemed fine. He didn’t know what to tell me as he would have to wait until Monday to talk to the vet who treated her. He gave her another sedative (noooooo!!!) but said it would help her relax as she had been so distressed all day. He said to bring her back to him should anything else change but for now, just give her time. I’m not good at just sitting and waiting, especially when there are no answers! What am I waiting for? How much worse can it get? If she is going to get better, WHEN will it happen? Arrrrrgh!!!
A long, long night of zero sleep as she fought to come out of the second sedative and threw and flopped herself blindly around my bed and room. The sun came up, no improvement. We kept her in one room that was sparely furnished and over a few hours, she seemed to be able to figure her way around it without bumping into things but still couldn’t see. Hannah and I talked about a blind cat living where we live… impossible. I’m an emotional, over-tired wreck. A google search shared several stories of sudden and irreversible blindness due to an overdose of anesthesia… I’ve killed this cat. Tears, tears, tears.
The day passed, then another and slowly, slowly she recovered. Thank every star in the sky, she has regained her sight and her spirit. She is actually seeking out the company of people as I think she has had quite a fright. She has been spending her nights sleeping on my bed and I am A-okay with this. We still have to get those stitches removed but you can be sure, I’ll take them out with my teeth before letting her be sedated again. Oh Chica, thank you for not dying on me!
The story’s not over yet. You didn’t think it was over yet, did you? It couldn’t possibly be over yet!
Remember, I had an appointment to get Chico neutered? Oh yeah, back to the hospital we go. I am in a VERY fragile state come Monday morning. The vet whose house I had taken Chica to on Friday night assured me he would be the one to do Chico’s neutering. He had studied in France, his English was excellent and he was extremely compassionate. He had offered several apologies at his house and at the hospital again on Monday in reference to what happened to Chica. I stood there as he attempted to get information out of the students as to what actually happened to her but he got nothing. He shook his head after talking with them, offered me another apology, and said that while it was his colleague who stitched her up, no one seemed to be able to give him a clear story on dosages, what happened, or why. Scary.
Okay, so Chico. A shaking, clingy boy and yep, of course I’m in tears. In an attempt to ease my anxiety, the vet allowed me to bring Chico into the operating room and I was there as they tied him with ropes, spread eagle on his little back and gave him an injection. The vet ordered and administered everything just to be on the safe side. I watched as Chico’s pupils grew enormous and black then glass over – oh no! Oh no! Oh no! He assured me all was fine. I looked away and paced.
Why am I in this room? I can’t handle this! This shouldn’t be about me but I obviously can’t handle this! Just before he sliced into poor little Chico’s balls, the vet looked up at me, smiled, and said “Be calm.” Too late, buddy, too late.
This poor cat wriggled despite being unable to make a sound and was obviously able to feel what was happening. 30 minutes dragged on for hours. I was thoroughly nauseous at the thought of this sweet cat being needlessly tortured and I was responsible for it. While they all assured me that this was the safest way to treat him, all I could think of was grabbing him and running. I’m sorry, I kept whispering to Chico, I’m so, so sorry.
By the time I got Chico back to his house, he was already starting to wiggle about and seemed to be in a much better state than Chica was. When I came back to check on him that night after school, all was right in his world other than a sore bottom. Follow up visits and reports have all been incredibly positive. He is a very strong little cat and has recovered exceptionally well despite being awake when his balls were sliced off. Oh Chico cat, I’m so, so sorry.
And as I write this, Chica is laid out flat on her back on my bed, four paws in the air, sound asleep. She can run, jump, and see perfectly well. It has been a long week but a shaved and stitched leg are all that remain from her trauma a week ago. Amazing, amazing, amazing. Please, please, please let that be the end of our kitty traumas, my heart can’t take much more.
As for anyone who is interested in becoming a vet, please feel free to set up shop in Indonesia. Wow, are you ever needed here.
Most of the teacher houses here have a cat or two who has been rescued by a soft hearted teacher and inherited by the cleaning girls after that teacher leaves. These cats have very good lives and are very well cared for. Thankfully. The cat at my first house, tiny black & white Chico, playfully wriggled his way into my heart with his howling hellos and his super social I-want-to-love-everybody personality. Just adore him. He, however, is a “he” and as he grew, his balls grew, and I knew that soon there would be more unwanted kittens around. I had promised the cleaning girls, who take very good care of him, that once I got settled into my new house, I would be back to have him taken in for a necessary neutering, sadly, far too uncommon here. Checked with other teachers, borrowed a cat cage, and brought him in for his consultation appointment.
The vet hospital is part of a university so several keen students came to check out a shivering, shaking, clingy Chico, and me, of course. Sweet students and it was encouraging to see that in a country where there seems to be little concern for animals, the veterinary program appears to be thriving. Consultation was a Thursday morning, “castration” was scheduled for Monday morning. Sorry Chico, but it has got to be done.
Thursday night, Hannah gets me out of my bed at around 1am. She and some friends had just gotten in. She had found OUR cat, a beautiful orange and white, slightly aloof but lovely Chica (yes, an “a” instead of an “o”) stuck on the security gate – she had fallen on one of the wrought iron stakes and had impaled herself though the leg. Hannah had gotten her off the stake but she had a good sized hole through her leg, had ripped off a bunch of skin, and was in an obvious state of panic. Oh no, oh no, oh no.
Chico, cuddles up and wants to be with people when he is scared, Chica, wants to be alone. So I crawled under the bed where she was hiding and tried to see what the hell she had done to herself. She was in a lot of pain and tending to her injury as best she could; luckily not bleeding . There are no 24 hour vet hospitals and we knew the university hospital would be open in the morning. We tried to make her as comfortable as we could and hoped she would be okay through the night.
The next morning I packed a scared and injured Chica into a cardboard box, as the carrier was at Chico’s house, and got her to the hospital. Strange looks from the familiar staff as I unloaded a very frightened and weak but different cat. Oh, as they exchanged worried looks, oh poor kitty.
Side note. We’ve always had cats growing up. Our last cat, my sweet Petrie, we had for 19 years. 19! We got her my senior year in high school in Germany and she was part of our family until January 2010. I still get teary thinking about her. Anyway! Any time I had to take her to the vet, just for routine vaccinations or minor check-ups, I was a basket case. In tears, melt down, no reason at all. Just cried. My poor baby scared and in pain… I cried. A source of entertainment for the vet, no doubt. Remember my stories of trying to save little Chicken, the newborn kitten we found in Thailand? Yeah, hysterical tears. Now here in Indonesia, why should it be any different? Seriously.
I managed to NOT cry when I brought Chico in for his consultation, got a little choked up but was able to hold it together, but to see Chica in so much pain, yeah, it was over. Trying desperately to hold it together, the students spoke with a vet, who I saw for all of 3 seconds, and they whisked her away to do “surgery”, which meant stitch up her leg. I heard her screaming from down the hall and I had to leave.
The vet hospital is rough, basic, dirty, and there were goats grazing out in the construction / garbage dump area out back but still, better conditions than the people hospitals in Mozambique that I had a chance to see. I kept telling myself that it would be okay, it would be okay, she would be fine. She just needed some stitches, she would be fine.
When she was out of “surgery”, a limp and anesthetized cat was lying on the table. Okay, okay, I’ve seen this before. She’ll be groggy but soon, she’ll be fine. I can take her home and she’ll be fine.
Oh how it all went terribly wrong. As she woke, she was in complete distress. She kept flopping over but was frantic to move. The cleaning girls stayed with her all day as I had to go to school and when I came back at night, my heart leapt from concern to panic. She was still trying desperately to move, but couldn’t, and oh holy shit, she was blind. The poor cleaning girls didn’t know what I was talking about so I brought Hannah down and she agreed with me. What have they done to her?!?! I had the phone number to the vet who was scheduled to do Chico’s neutering on Monday, it was around 9pm and I had to do something. He spoke wonderful English and told me to bring her over to his house, where he has an office as well, right away.
Poor Chica, in so much distress and blind, me useless and emotional. Not a good combo. The vet was lovely but seemed to keep missing my point that I wasn’t concerned about her LEG, but that she was BLIND! He redressed her leg and looked in her eyes, saying that they looked fine. Her pupils were completely dilated, as they had been since the stitching up, but he said they seemed fine. He didn’t know what to tell me as he would have to wait until Monday to talk to the vet who treated her. He gave her another sedative (noooooo!!!) but said it would help her relax as she had been so distressed all day. He said to bring her back to him should anything else change but for now, just give her time. I’m not good at just sitting and waiting, especially when there are no answers! What am I waiting for? How much worse can it get? If she is going to get better, WHEN will it happen? Arrrrrgh!!!
A long, long night of zero sleep as she fought to come out of the second sedative and threw and flopped herself blindly around my bed and room. The sun came up, no improvement. We kept her in one room that was sparely furnished and over a few hours, she seemed to be able to figure her way around it without bumping into things but still couldn’t see. Hannah and I talked about a blind cat living where we live… impossible. I’m an emotional, over-tired wreck. A google search shared several stories of sudden and irreversible blindness due to an overdose of anesthesia… I’ve killed this cat. Tears, tears, tears.
The day passed, then another and slowly, slowly she recovered. Thank every star in the sky, she has regained her sight and her spirit. She is actually seeking out the company of people as I think she has had quite a fright. She has been spending her nights sleeping on my bed and I am A-okay with this. We still have to get those stitches removed but you can be sure, I’ll take them out with my teeth before letting her be sedated again. Oh Chica, thank you for not dying on me!
The story’s not over yet. You didn’t think it was over yet, did you? It couldn’t possibly be over yet!
Remember, I had an appointment to get Chico neutered? Oh yeah, back to the hospital we go. I am in a VERY fragile state come Monday morning. The vet whose house I had taken Chica to on Friday night assured me he would be the one to do Chico’s neutering. He had studied in France, his English was excellent and he was extremely compassionate. He had offered several apologies at his house and at the hospital again on Monday in reference to what happened to Chica. I stood there as he attempted to get information out of the students as to what actually happened to her but he got nothing. He shook his head after talking with them, offered me another apology, and said that while it was his colleague who stitched her up, no one seemed to be able to give him a clear story on dosages, what happened, or why. Scary.
Okay, so Chico. A shaking, clingy boy and yep, of course I’m in tears. In an attempt to ease my anxiety, the vet allowed me to bring Chico into the operating room and I was there as they tied him with ropes, spread eagle on his little back and gave him an injection. The vet ordered and administered everything just to be on the safe side. I watched as Chico’s pupils grew enormous and black then glass over – oh no! Oh no! Oh no! He assured me all was fine. I looked away and paced.
Why am I in this room? I can’t handle this! This shouldn’t be about me but I obviously can’t handle this! Just before he sliced into poor little Chico’s balls, the vet looked up at me, smiled, and said “Be calm.” Too late, buddy, too late.
This poor cat wriggled despite being unable to make a sound and was obviously able to feel what was happening. 30 minutes dragged on for hours. I was thoroughly nauseous at the thought of this sweet cat being needlessly tortured and I was responsible for it. While they all assured me that this was the safest way to treat him, all I could think of was grabbing him and running. I’m sorry, I kept whispering to Chico, I’m so, so sorry.
By the time I got Chico back to his house, he was already starting to wiggle about and seemed to be in a much better state than Chica was. When I came back to check on him that night after school, all was right in his world other than a sore bottom. Follow up visits and reports have all been incredibly positive. He is a very strong little cat and has recovered exceptionally well despite being awake when his balls were sliced off. Oh Chico cat, I’m so, so sorry.
And as I write this, Chica is laid out flat on her back on my bed, four paws in the air, sound asleep. She can run, jump, and see perfectly well. It has been a long week but a shaved and stitched leg are all that remain from her trauma a week ago. Amazing, amazing, amazing. Please, please, please let that be the end of our kitty traumas, my heart can’t take much more.
As for anyone who is interested in becoming a vet, please feel free to set up shop in Indonesia. Wow, are you ever needed here.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Racing bulls - who knew?
Animals are involved in so many cultural rituals the world over. Some are for good luck, others for entertainment, and others still for food and feasting. I’m not sure that I will ever find peace or a middle ground that will allow me to appreciate a cultural experience without my heart breaking for the animals involved in the process. I continue to be ridiculously fortunate in finding opportunities to be part of truly fascinating experiences so I share my stories and attempt to leave the soap box for a later time. Oh my goodness, I spent a weekend at the bull races.
How can you tell when it’s going to be a fantastic weekend? When it all starts off with a ROAD TRIP and said road trip is my first ever on my motorbike! YESSSSSS!!! Kat & Jon are two adventurer extrordinaires going on their 3rd year here in Surabaya. They had very graciously invited me to check out the (in)famous bull races on the island of Madura, just over that ginormous bridge off the edge of Surabaya where much missed Xenia took me on my very first real motorbike ride (still miss you, Xen!) a few months back. They had been to the races last year and said it is a fascinating, albeit intense, experience, one not to be missed. And yes, we would be taking our bikes. I’m IN!
A brilliant, whizzing 3 hour ride to the far side of Madura zooming over the frightening and exhilarating bridge, along the coast, through small villages, and navigating around jam-packed, traffic stopped local markets full of thoroughly distressed livestock heading towards their demise. My first long ride, my first super speedy ride (well only 80kms/hr but 80 kph on a bike feels like at least double that!), my first real let ‘er loose go on a bike and no big surprise… LOVED IT! I would have been happy enough to turn my baby around and drive all the way back again but no, no, no… we have some fancy cows and bulls to see so hotel found, quick shower had, and we ventured back out to the sweating heat of midday Indonesia to find us some culture. Here we go.
Not sure of the history of it all but essentially it looks like things progressed from a bored farmer gazing at his yoked animals plowing the field and thinking hmmm… fear makes them run, who doesn’t like really loud and varied types of noise, and dressing animals up makes me giggle, SO! let’s make an event of it all. Oh heaven help us, an event has been made of it all.
A short, sweaty walk to the festivities and we pushed and shoved our way into an overcrowded fair ground where several teams had their prized cows (I’m pretty sure they were all cows) dolled up, harnessed up, and on display while they took turns parading and prancing around the grounds (people and animals) showing off their moves and costumes. I really don’t know how to explain it. As the dressed up cows are marched through the crowds, a group of performing musicians and dancers trail behind them in their team outfit / uniforms. Two very made up girls lead the musical, dancing group gyrating, grinding, and swaggering while taking money from outstretched hands. Very sassy, provocative, interesting. Never did get the answer on if they were “dancing” for money or offering other services or where the money ends up going but… wow, Indonesia. Apparently Madura is well known for its “talented” women. Yes, ask someone in Surabaya about the women in Madura and you get a cheeky grin. The women in Madura are very proud of their “talents”.
The noise of these endless performers, the sheer number of people crammed in on top of each other, the pounding heat aggravating the smells of trampled hay and general fairground odors and the nonstop staring, touching, and attempts to photograph the strange white folk was interesting at first, entertaining and amusing, a novelty to be enjoyed, however the endearing nature of it all eventually wore thin as the hours ticked by. After several photos and litres of sweat drained, I was ready for a nap. Culture is fascinating but I needed a break from the endless intensity of it all. Thankfully, Kat was on the same page as me.
A lovely stroll and a much needed cold drink break followed by a comatose like nap and we were ready to explore bullrace Madura by night. After a lovely dinner in a beautiful, newly opened local restaurant where escaping a zombie attack was a main topic of conversation, our evening goal: the Eternal Flame. Not kidding you. So the Bangles tune of the same name was being belted out full volume as we hopped back on the bikes and made our way to where the Flame was to be found. Sadly, the road took us to a florescent lit tourist trap; our sought after amazing natural phenomenon defeated by the commercialism of it all. Gas seeps out of the ground and there are constant orange and blue flames burning and dancing directly out of the dirt. Interesting but sadly diminished by the glaring lights and vendor stands. A few inquiries made and apparently there was SECOND Eternal Flame burning bright in a less public area. 5 minutes down the road and we found ourselves stumbling through the middle of a deserted farmer’s field in the inky dark of night with stars sparkling overhead as we followed the blue glow of … yes!... a real, BLUE Eternal Flame!
Now THIS was cool! No one around as we danced, sang, and jumped around this dusty field that was ON FIRE! Not burning, just small flames flaring out of cracks in the ground. When we poked around with a stick or overturned a rock, there’d be a poof of flame or the direction of the blue would change or it would extinguish itself and escape from another crack in the ground somewhere else. SO eerie! SO amazing! A really, really interesting place. We were there forever as photos were attempted, UFOs were spotted several times overhead, and The Bangles was sung on repeat. Too much fun. Partying at the Gates of Hell… good, good times! Next stop… off to see if the bull race party was still happening…
No small surprise that the intensity of the evening was still full-on as we stopped by to take in the stage performance of dancers and singers. Simple me was happy as could be after finding a true blue cotton candy vendor. So as the three of us munched on sweet, fluffy nothingness, we soaked in hot, sweaty Madura by night. What a full, fun day. And we still have Sunday, the RACES to see yet! WOW!
So Sunday arrives and I think I’m ready for this. Yeah, as always, I was wrong.
The sheer number of people in any given space is suffocating, overwhelming, panic-inducing, utter chaos. Lining up is unheard of, pushing, shoving, stepping on & over, elbowing, grabbing, just barbaric disregard for another is the only way of getting from point A to point B, apparently. I will never, ever get used to this. Never. We didn’t hesitate to pull the white kid privilege card as it got us in a side entrance and out of the smothering crowds. Once inside, the rodeo atmosphere was exciting; dusty, dirty, cowboy town. The hats alone were fantastically entertaining. Just no words. Jon & Kat were on a mission, they knew where they were going and what they wanted to do and see as follow up from last year. I was quite happy to tag along, camera in hand. Again, being white folk, we were invited into people’s tents as they prepared their fancied up bulls for the races, singing and playing music and generally pumping them up (I guess???) The center of the grounds was a massive, football field sized enclosed grassy area where two sets of two bulls raced from one end to the other with a small teenaged boy (!!!) “controlling” them from a latched on piece of flimsy wood dangling behind the two massive creatures. Oh dear gawd… what are we doing here???
Details are irrelevant as of course the bulls are whipped and other various things are done to work them up enough to race full speed the length of the arena (something that they quite obviously don’t naturally do). We were granted special access to the INSIDE of the arena, where the bulls were raced, so we could take photos. At one point, I stopped, looked at Kat, and the full realization of what we were doing smacked me in the head. Should the bulls decide to do their own thing, we were in the middle of a wide open fenced in area surrounded by thousands of people who we would somehow have to climb up and over should there be a need for escape. The coolest place to be, but yeah, definitely the dumbest. Nothing like a little danger to make the atmosphere and photographs worth it. Excellent.
That being said however, we were hanging out at the starting gate. At the very far end of the arena, the finish line, hundreds of people crammed in to stand in the exact spots the racing bulls were rushing towards! In the distance, we could see a ripple in the crowds as they attempted to avoid being trampled by the oncoming train-speed beasts, as stopping them is obviously a bit of an effort. No media or medical care here but there MUST have been injuries if not deaths at that end. There MUST have been. I considered checking out the finish line for about half a second. Ummm… nope… I’m good here, thanks.
A couple of hours in the merciless sun watching these bulls being assaulted in the name of entertainment and my stomach started to churn. Could have been heat stroke setting in or just the sheer sadness of it all. The beasts were well cared for before and after the races; hand washed with cool water and endlessly fed and groomed but the violence and force used to get them to race, yeah, teary me. It was fascinating, I appreciated the intensity of it all, I mean there were thousands and thousands of people there to watch this incredible event, but yeah, it gets to you. Kat & Jon had arranged to speak with one of the owners and jockeys so I left them to get the inside scoop and decided to just take a little wander around the deserted streets.
Some serious elbowing (I have been blessed with superbly sharp and effective elbows) eventually got me through the solid mass of ogling slack-jaws and I was out on the streets. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Too. Many. People.
Wandering the nearly empty streets was perfect. Saw some amazing kids just being kids and enjoyed the relative silence of some domestic back alley ways. Another kind of culture equally as fascinating for me.
Regrouped back at the hotel and a mid afternoon departure back to the big city. Another exhilarating ride on the bike, crossing a beautifully lit up bridge just after the sunset, and tying up a wonderfully interesting weekend with two wonderfully interesting new friends. There is never a shortage of things to do or see here. Lucky, lucky me.
How can you tell when it’s going to be a fantastic weekend? When it all starts off with a ROAD TRIP and said road trip is my first ever on my motorbike! YESSSSSS!!! Kat & Jon are two adventurer extrordinaires going on their 3rd year here in Surabaya. They had very graciously invited me to check out the (in)famous bull races on the island of Madura, just over that ginormous bridge off the edge of Surabaya where much missed Xenia took me on my very first real motorbike ride (still miss you, Xen!) a few months back. They had been to the races last year and said it is a fascinating, albeit intense, experience, one not to be missed. And yes, we would be taking our bikes. I’m IN!
A brilliant, whizzing 3 hour ride to the far side of Madura zooming over the frightening and exhilarating bridge, along the coast, through small villages, and navigating around jam-packed, traffic stopped local markets full of thoroughly distressed livestock heading towards their demise. My first long ride, my first super speedy ride (well only 80kms/hr but 80 kph on a bike feels like at least double that!), my first real let ‘er loose go on a bike and no big surprise… LOVED IT! I would have been happy enough to turn my baby around and drive all the way back again but no, no, no… we have some fancy cows and bulls to see so hotel found, quick shower had, and we ventured back out to the sweating heat of midday Indonesia to find us some culture. Here we go.
Not sure of the history of it all but essentially it looks like things progressed from a bored farmer gazing at his yoked animals plowing the field and thinking hmmm… fear makes them run, who doesn’t like really loud and varied types of noise, and dressing animals up makes me giggle, SO! let’s make an event of it all. Oh heaven help us, an event has been made of it all.
A short, sweaty walk to the festivities and we pushed and shoved our way into an overcrowded fair ground where several teams had their prized cows (I’m pretty sure they were all cows) dolled up, harnessed up, and on display while they took turns parading and prancing around the grounds (people and animals) showing off their moves and costumes. I really don’t know how to explain it. As the dressed up cows are marched through the crowds, a group of performing musicians and dancers trail behind them in their team outfit / uniforms. Two very made up girls lead the musical, dancing group gyrating, grinding, and swaggering while taking money from outstretched hands. Very sassy, provocative, interesting. Never did get the answer on if they were “dancing” for money or offering other services or where the money ends up going but… wow, Indonesia. Apparently Madura is well known for its “talented” women. Yes, ask someone in Surabaya about the women in Madura and you get a cheeky grin. The women in Madura are very proud of their “talents”.
The noise of these endless performers, the sheer number of people crammed in on top of each other, the pounding heat aggravating the smells of trampled hay and general fairground odors and the nonstop staring, touching, and attempts to photograph the strange white folk was interesting at first, entertaining and amusing, a novelty to be enjoyed, however the endearing nature of it all eventually wore thin as the hours ticked by. After several photos and litres of sweat drained, I was ready for a nap. Culture is fascinating but I needed a break from the endless intensity of it all. Thankfully, Kat was on the same page as me.
A lovely stroll and a much needed cold drink break followed by a comatose like nap and we were ready to explore bullrace Madura by night. After a lovely dinner in a beautiful, newly opened local restaurant where escaping a zombie attack was a main topic of conversation, our evening goal: the Eternal Flame. Not kidding you. So the Bangles tune of the same name was being belted out full volume as we hopped back on the bikes and made our way to where the Flame was to be found. Sadly, the road took us to a florescent lit tourist trap; our sought after amazing natural phenomenon defeated by the commercialism of it all. Gas seeps out of the ground and there are constant orange and blue flames burning and dancing directly out of the dirt. Interesting but sadly diminished by the glaring lights and vendor stands. A few inquiries made and apparently there was SECOND Eternal Flame burning bright in a less public area. 5 minutes down the road and we found ourselves stumbling through the middle of a deserted farmer’s field in the inky dark of night with stars sparkling overhead as we followed the blue glow of … yes!... a real, BLUE Eternal Flame!
Now THIS was cool! No one around as we danced, sang, and jumped around this dusty field that was ON FIRE! Not burning, just small flames flaring out of cracks in the ground. When we poked around with a stick or overturned a rock, there’d be a poof of flame or the direction of the blue would change or it would extinguish itself and escape from another crack in the ground somewhere else. SO eerie! SO amazing! A really, really interesting place. We were there forever as photos were attempted, UFOs were spotted several times overhead, and The Bangles was sung on repeat. Too much fun. Partying at the Gates of Hell… good, good times! Next stop… off to see if the bull race party was still happening…
No small surprise that the intensity of the evening was still full-on as we stopped by to take in the stage performance of dancers and singers. Simple me was happy as could be after finding a true blue cotton candy vendor. So as the three of us munched on sweet, fluffy nothingness, we soaked in hot, sweaty Madura by night. What a full, fun day. And we still have Sunday, the RACES to see yet! WOW!
So Sunday arrives and I think I’m ready for this. Yeah, as always, I was wrong.
The sheer number of people in any given space is suffocating, overwhelming, panic-inducing, utter chaos. Lining up is unheard of, pushing, shoving, stepping on & over, elbowing, grabbing, just barbaric disregard for another is the only way of getting from point A to point B, apparently. I will never, ever get used to this. Never. We didn’t hesitate to pull the white kid privilege card as it got us in a side entrance and out of the smothering crowds. Once inside, the rodeo atmosphere was exciting; dusty, dirty, cowboy town. The hats alone were fantastically entertaining. Just no words. Jon & Kat were on a mission, they knew where they were going and what they wanted to do and see as follow up from last year. I was quite happy to tag along, camera in hand. Again, being white folk, we were invited into people’s tents as they prepared their fancied up bulls for the races, singing and playing music and generally pumping them up (I guess???) The center of the grounds was a massive, football field sized enclosed grassy area where two sets of two bulls raced from one end to the other with a small teenaged boy (!!!) “controlling” them from a latched on piece of flimsy wood dangling behind the two massive creatures. Oh dear gawd… what are we doing here???
Details are irrelevant as of course the bulls are whipped and other various things are done to work them up enough to race full speed the length of the arena (something that they quite obviously don’t naturally do). We were granted special access to the INSIDE of the arena, where the bulls were raced, so we could take photos. At one point, I stopped, looked at Kat, and the full realization of what we were doing smacked me in the head. Should the bulls decide to do their own thing, we were in the middle of a wide open fenced in area surrounded by thousands of people who we would somehow have to climb up and over should there be a need for escape. The coolest place to be, but yeah, definitely the dumbest. Nothing like a little danger to make the atmosphere and photographs worth it. Excellent.
That being said however, we were hanging out at the starting gate. At the very far end of the arena, the finish line, hundreds of people crammed in to stand in the exact spots the racing bulls were rushing towards! In the distance, we could see a ripple in the crowds as they attempted to avoid being trampled by the oncoming train-speed beasts, as stopping them is obviously a bit of an effort. No media or medical care here but there MUST have been injuries if not deaths at that end. There MUST have been. I considered checking out the finish line for about half a second. Ummm… nope… I’m good here, thanks.
A couple of hours in the merciless sun watching these bulls being assaulted in the name of entertainment and my stomach started to churn. Could have been heat stroke setting in or just the sheer sadness of it all. The beasts were well cared for before and after the races; hand washed with cool water and endlessly fed and groomed but the violence and force used to get them to race, yeah, teary me. It was fascinating, I appreciated the intensity of it all, I mean there were thousands and thousands of people there to watch this incredible event, but yeah, it gets to you. Kat & Jon had arranged to speak with one of the owners and jockeys so I left them to get the inside scoop and decided to just take a little wander around the deserted streets.
Some serious elbowing (I have been blessed with superbly sharp and effective elbows) eventually got me through the solid mass of ogling slack-jaws and I was out on the streets. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Too. Many. People.
Wandering the nearly empty streets was perfect. Saw some amazing kids just being kids and enjoyed the relative silence of some domestic back alley ways. Another kind of culture equally as fascinating for me.
Regrouped back at the hotel and a mid afternoon departure back to the big city. Another exhilarating ride on the bike, crossing a beautifully lit up bridge just after the sunset, and tying up a wonderfully interesting weekend with two wonderfully interesting new friends. There is never a shortage of things to do or see here. Lucky, lucky me.
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