Category: Bali-Indonesia-Komodo-2008

Bats! June 28th

Breakfast is less than stellar, but I appreciate that yesterday, Mansor picked up plain rolls for this mornings breakfast. A thin wrapped piece of processed cheese rests in the center of each of our plates and cold fried eggs are in a covered serving dish. We spread magenta jelly and margarine on the rolls, and sandwich our egg and cheese in between. I wash it all down with two cups of the strong grainy coffee.

Cita drives us to the dock and we board a small wooden boat, much smaller than the craft we took to Komodo and Rinca. I am surprised when a pretty 30+ year old blond woman climbs onboard until Mansor explains that she lives in Ruing and has made the arrangements. She owns a bungalow complex for travelers and has left the high presser banking world of Switzerland to make Ruing her home. Two boys make up our crew; one of the boys is about Johns age and the other is 11 or 12 years old. We motor across calm clear water and I squint from the reflection of bright sky and full sun bouncing off of the water and pull my hat down low to shelter my eyes. We sail pass small golden carpeted islands, floating mirages on the glassy ocean. We are going to the Pulau Kalong nature preserve to see the bats. As we near the bat colony we can hear the high pitched chatter of the millions of bats. They are resting in the tops of the mangrove trees surrounding the island and the trees are paved black with their bodies. As the motor of our boat disturbs them their calls crescendo and many take flight. The Swiss woman and the two boys begin beating the boat with stick and yelling to make all of the bats take flight, but it is difficult to focus my camera on the moving targets and we regret that our crew has been so inconsiderate of the bats well-being. With Art’s backing, I eventually get courage to suggest that they not do this, and as the bats settle back into their roosts on the trees, we motor in for a closer look and I am able to take some amazing photographs of this most remarkable and magical bat colony.

We watch the bats for nearly an hour before motoring a short distance away to the Pulau Tujuh Belas nature preserve, a small island where we will snorkel and a have a picnic lunch. As we near the island, we see the white crescent of pristine beach with intoxicating turquoise water off its shore. We moor up onto the sandy beach and wade ashore. The fine white sand crunches softy beneath our feet and we stow our belongings under the minimal shade of a small covered thatched table. The blond woman, points to a snorkeling spot at the curve of the island and John is off in a flash. I watch him wade slowly into the ocean, his swim trunks a flash of red against the turquoise of the water and the cloudless sky. He adjusts his mask and snorkel, submerges, and is off to explore the magic of this reef. I feel an immense love, great joy in this moment, and fear for the fragility of life.

After struggling with my mask and snorkel, I wade offshore into the calm and tepid ocean, swim a short ways out to join John, and float easily above an underwater garden of living coral, brilliant fish and spiny sea urchins. There is almost no current and the water is only a few feet deep. We watch territorial clown fish protectively guard anemones from the masked monsters floating above. Clown fish actually darts up towards John’s mask in an effort to chase him away. Beds of spiny sea urchins cluster on the sandy bottom and colonies are wedged between coral formations. I make note to be careful where I might step, since their 8″ spines are threatening and most certainly toxic. We see small tridachnid clams, their scalloped edges fringed purple to lure unsuspecting guests into a deadly trap. Psychedelic star fish decorate the reef and the reflected sunlight shimmers off the beds of pastel coral. Art still sits on the shore and I surface and implore him to join us. Reluctantly, he dons his mask and snorkel and is soon captivated by the beauty of this living reef. Time seems to stand still and I imagine that I could float over this reef indefinitely but the trance is broken when we are called to lunch. Surfacing, I wonder whose hands and fingers are attached to my wrists, my fingers puckered and my skin a mottled blue-white. While we snorkeled, the Swiss woman barbecued marinated pieces of fresh squid and we sit together in the shade of our thatched table and eat our lunch. The squid is chewy and flavorful, and she has prepared a Juliann salad and rice.

After lunch, John and I walk around to the far side of the island, where mangrove trees meet the sandy shore, and he finds hermit crabs scurrying in the sandy mud between the roots of the mangroves. We watch the antics of these crabs and John picks up several and blows his hot breath into their shells, urging them to make an appearance. The crabs here are all small, but we remember with fondness, the giant hermit crabs we found on the beaches of Okinawa. We loose track of the time and when I glance up I see Mansor pacing at the curve of the beach and we hurriedly walk back and climb aboard the wooden boat for the return trip to Ruing.

We have 15 minutes to shower and pack before beginning the 6 hour drive to Moni. It is 1:15 P.M. when we start our drive. We drive along the southern coast of Flores Island, our driver competently maneuvering around pot holes and ditches, avoiding children and live stock, motor scooters and buses. Our car is not equipped with seat belts, but we feel surprisingly safe as Cita speeds along the obstacle course unfolding at every turn. He drives by honking, speeds around the many blind turns and passes buses and motors-scooters on the single lane road. I grow anxious as daylight turns to night, but John and I sing folk songs and then the theme songs to some of the classical T.V. sitcoms. John asks questions about the early T.V. programs that Art and I watched as children and the conversation flows easily in the darkness of the car, the road jostling beneath our seats. Shortly before 8:00 P.M., we pull into our hotel in Moni. The facade and entrance is under construction and we duck under scaffolding and enter an inner courtyard. The hotel is very weird, but we have become accustom to this and I try to be appreciative of our room. The room is very large and appointed with a rickety king sized bed. The windows are covered with voluminous ruffled curtains and the walls of the bathroom are paved with the same blue pebbles we saw collected on the beach several days ago. Someone brings in a mattress and makes up a makeshift bed on the floor for John. There is only cold water, but the water doesn’t run in the sink or the toilet. A deep tiled tub, already filled with water and a plastic scoop sits beside the toilet for flushing. We have a late dinner in the hotel’s vacant restaurant and order fried noodles, but they are out of noodles. We change our order to rice, but are informed that the rice isn’t cooked, so we settle on bowls of chicken soup with mixed vegetables and return to our room to sleep.

Sunrise at Kelimutu – Sunday, June 29th

My alarm goes off at 4:00 A.M. and I turn it off and crawl back into bed curling up beside Art. I have a few precious more minutes to sleep before John and I will go with our driver and guide to watch the sunrise from Kelimutu Volcano. At precisely 4:30, Mansor knocks on our door and
John and I follow him to the waiting car. This early morning excursion feels a bit eerie, and Art walks with us to the car to see us off. He tells us to smile, and with our back up camera he takes photos of us all. He returns to the warmth of the bed, anticipating a leisurely and solitary morning.

John sleeps in the back seat and I doze, my head against the cold window as we drive over bumpy roads, the 45 minutes to the base of the volcano. Mansor, John and I begin a 30 minute hike up an uneven pathway in the dark. I find it disconcerting that Mansor is not prepared with flashlights, since this excursion is on our printed itinerary, but Tabra has lent us flashlights and John and I use these to navigate the trail. Mansor uses his cell phone to light his path. Mansor and John hike quickly and I do my best to keep pace with them, but as the trail steepens, I fall behind. Stopping to catch my breath, I notice that dawn is casting a faint light on the trail beneath my feet. With renewed enthusiasm, I stride ahead and reach the summit. A 20 food diameter, tiered cement platform, crowned with an obelisk is erected between two of the volcanic craters. We climb the circular stairs to sit and wait, anticipating the sunrise.

The pre-dawn sky is blossoming with vermilion and orange. I rest my camera on one of the cement risers and take time exposures of the horizon and sky. This is not my expertise, but I hope that the captured images will be half as striking as what is unfolding before our eyes. A weathered man appears from nowhere wearing a hand woven Ikat sarong and carrying the makings for coffee in a grimy Ikat shoulder bag. He gestures, asking if we would like coffee and I accept enthusiastically. The man spoons finely ground Bali coffee into two smeared glasses and adds hot water from a thermos. He passes us a jar filled with clumped sugar and I spoon some into the hot mixture. The tepid grainy coffee is some of the best I have ever tasted, and we sit and watch. I notice that other travelers have joined us at the summit and my emotions surge when I see a young woman in her wheel chair and her partner together, at the edge of the crater. The two men, hired to carry her the long distance up to the summit rest beside us. The lovers sit together, hand in hand, watching the sunrise. There is a crater on either side of us, one filled with morning mist, the other a pool of opaque turquoise water. As I understand it, the black lake, covered with mist is the resting place for spirits who die in old age. The turquoise lake is the resting place for those who die young, and the brown lake, that we hiked passed earlier, is for all of the other spirits. We are two of a dozen multicultural travelers, reverently watching the dawn break.

The trail to the Volcano Kelimutu

Others have gathered to watch the sunrise and drink the strong coffee carried to the mountain by this villager. John sits on top of the obelisk overseeing it all.

The downhill trip to our waiting car, takes only 15 minutes and we see our coffee man walking at the edge of the road. We haven’t passed any villages and I wonder how far he must walk each morning to do his small coffee business? John tells me that after I set my empty glass down, the man picked it up and poured more hot water into the settled grounds, handing the glass to another traveler just arriving. I take comfort that we arrived first at the summit, so even if the glass was not clean, our grounds were at least not recycled. Back at our hotel, we join Art for breakfast and he explains that he took our photos earlier as a precaution. Had he been particularly concerned about our safety, he would have gone with us to the Volcano, but he wanted photos of us, the driver, guide and the license plate just in case.

We have a 5 hour drive ahead of us today before reaching Maumere City. Our first stop is at the Lio Hill tribe to see a traditional thatched ceremonial house. Maria greets us warmly and takes us inside the belly of a large thatched building. She is entrusted to keep the culture and enthusiastically explains the many sacred and official functions of the house. Mansor translates badly, but we get the vague gist of it all. We share a general disappointed with our guide. His English is minimal, his perspective narrow and his preparedness careless.

A dozen IKat weavings hang outside of the ceremonial house and I fall into the trap laid for us. Maria leads me over to them and as I finger the hand woven cloth she nimbly slips a sarong over my head, and ties another around John’s waist. Art, well versed on hand woven Okinawa fabric, asks careful questions about the process and she takes us into her family compound to shows us two looms already tied with the warp, or is it the woof? She will begin the weaving tomorrow, but today is Sunday and the women in the village do not weave on Sunday. John always encourages me to spend money and he helps me choose two pieces of the Ikat cloth. After making our choices, I proceed with the expected bargaining and we agree on a price and then re-negotiate so that John may have a woven strip of the Ikat to wear as a belt or wrap into a head covering.

We continue our drive, watching out of the window as the channels change between the “Chicken and Rooster Channel”, to the “Pig and Goat Channel.” The programing is not quite as compelling as it was to us three days earlier, but we still watch the passing panorama with interest. Many of the goats wear bells and have long sticks tied horizontally under their throats, preventing them from going through gates. It is an ingenious solution to a land with broken fences and we watch with amusement as bewildered goats vainly attempt to fit through small breaks in the fences.

We strolled along a beach outside of Maumere City and soon a dozen teen age boys were following us. We were a curiosity, and John soon made friends with this group of kids.

This is one of my favorite photos. The local kids were doing handstands and somersaults in the sand and soon John was joining in the fun.

After taking each digital photo, I would share the captured image with the kids. The image, frozen inside my camera was a wonderful ice breaker wherever we went.

The beach on our way to Maunere City. John attracted the local kids like a magnet.

We stop at a simple beach front restaurant for a late lunch. Although the restaurant sits on the sand with a view of the beach just steps away, the place is in disrepair. Sections of the thatched roof need replacing and the wooden facade of the restaurant is missing boards. We order from the standard, uninspired menu and dine on stir fry noodles once again, and then stroll onto the beach beyond. The three of us attract attention immediately and within minutes, John has become the “Pied Piper” and a hand full of boys follow us down the beach. John is without his t-shirt and wears his jeans low on his hips, the top of his underwear showing. I notice one of the boys, tug at his pants, settling them lower on his hips. Another group of teen age boys are doing hand stands in the sand and motion to me to take their photos. I happily oblige snapping many pictures and sharing the frozen images with them on the back window of my camera. I am having a wonderful time; my camera and my son connecting us all for a few brief few minutes. Eventually John joins with them doing hand stands, and I capture upside down boys from two different worlds united in play. I am sad to leave this beach and feel the watchful eyes of the many children as we vanish from their lives forever. On this beach, these young lives look idyllic, but I have watched other, just slightly older boys, clinging to the back of buses, going somewhere, going nowhere, searching for a future. The poverty of Flores is overwhelming to my western mind.

We continue driving the windy coastal road towards Maumere City, our final overnight destination on Flores Island. Mansor and Cita will drop us off at our hotel and return immediately for the grueling drive back to Labuan Bajo where they will pick up a German couple and begin their trip over again. Maumere is large by Flores standards and we drive through the sprawling dusty town, amid throngs of honking motor scooters and buses, bouncing over potholed streets, past faded and crumbling buildings and open air markets, to our beach hotel. Soa Wisata Cottage sits directly on the beach but as all our other accommodations on Flores, it is in a state of disrepair. Mansor leads us through a large open air lobby, sparsely outfitted with a worn overstuffed couch and chairs, a small television and a ping-pong table. He proudly unlocks the door to our beach front bungalow and shows us our accommodations, a large two room cottage just steps from the sand. In an effort to please him, I smile and effuse enthusiasm, looking past the worn carpets and drapes, sagging beds and the front door lock, which hangs precariously from one wobbly screw. The front room is a sun porch and I note that I will be able to write comfortably at the simple desk, looking out to the beach beyond.

We settle into our cottage quickly and walk back to the lobby to say good bye to Mansor and Cita. It is time to tip our guide and driver and Art and I agonize over what is appropriate, knowing that what we tip them will probably be more than they have been paid for the entire week with our family. Even though we have been less than satisfied with the competency of our guide, we have been more than pleased with our driver and we tip them each generously. It is a relief to finally be on our own, but Art was looking forward to connecting at an internet cafe and he is unhappy to be stuck far away from town in this crumbling beach resort.

John and I walk up to the pool where an Indonesian family is gathered and having a wonderful time. John literally dives right in and within a few minutes the family is taking photos of John alongside of their teen children, arms flung around each other and wide smiles on everyones faces. I attempt to write under the shaded deck alongside the pool, but the chairs are all without cushions and soon my behind grows uncomfortable balancing on the hard struts of the chaise and I return to our sun room to write.

The gecko channel is especially exciting at dinner tonight and John and I watch two varied species of gecko compete for the insects attracted to the bare florescent lights in our open air dining room. Perhaps because we are on the coast and near a large city, the menu here is more varied. Art and John order shrimp and I watch them tear off the legs and shells and am happy that I chose the tuna fillet. John drinks two strawberry Fantas and Art and I wash our meals down sharing a large Bintang Beer and return to our bungalow to read and to write.

I love this photo! I’m not certain what the plight of the chicken is; but this young boy was all smiles.

We saw countless truckloads of young men during our week in Flores. They were packed into every sort of vehicle, often with plastic cans of gasoline tied to the undercarriage of the vehicle.

Maumere City -Monday June 30th

Our plane back to Bali isn’t until late afternoon so we hire a taxi to take us into Mamere. Our destination is the only internet cafe in town and we are dropped off in front of a small and shabby grocery store with an adjoining room housing about a dozen computer stations. Once connected, Art is content in the dimly lit room lost in cyberspace, and John and I leave to explore Maumere. The sun is blinding, the day hot, dry and dusty, the town bustling and noisy. We walk across to the water front and stumble upon an open air fish market, putrid with rotten fish and garbage. A dozen wooden tables stand on the slimy cement floor of the covered fish market, each one offering just a few whole fish and butchered fillets. I see no ice, but the fishermen lazily scoop handfuls of water from buckets to deter the flies and keep the fish fresh. There is not an abundance of fish to be bought or sold and I ponder over the minimal catch. A vegetable market stretches off to one side of the fish market, crowded with women and children, seated on the dusty street, wilted vegetables displayed for sale. The women all look tired and worn. The older ones chew beetle nut, their mouths stained with the red juice, their teeth rotten. The younger women talk among themselves, keeping a watchful eye on their children playing in the trash filled street and watching John and me with curiosity. I want to take their photos, but I hesitate to ask. It has been easy to take photos of the children in the countryside, their innocence and pleasure so obvious when they see their images captured inside my camera, but here, I see abject poverty and the harshness of these peoples lives.

Vendor selling Betel Nut

The streets of Maumere City

Women at the Maumere City vegetable market.

When Art is finished with the internet, we all wander Maumere together. We poke into dark stores crammed with cheaply made household goods, machinery, clothing and bolts of fabric. The shops are relatively cool inside, most without electricity and insulated by thick walls of cement. The sidewalks are uneven and cracked and the drainage ditches along both sides of the road are overflowing with trash and garbage. We are hungry, but afraid to eat at any of the food stands or restaurants, so we eat ice cream bars, drink Fanta and bottled water. The traffic is a sea of motor scooters, small cars and buses. Art points to one of the buses, crammed to capacity with passengers, goods tied to the roof and young men hanging off the back. There are a dozen, 5 gallon plastic jugs of gasoline tied all around the sides of the bus, a disaster waiting to happen. We see that many other buses also carry surplus gasoline tied to their sides to carry them on long trips across Flores.

Our taxi returns for us at the appointed hour, driving us back to our hotel for our luggage and then to the airport. Airport security and check in is simple, but we have an hour and a half to wait and our blood sugar levels are low, and our tempers short. There is very little food to be had so John and I settle for packaged cups of spicy noodle soup, a safe bet when made with boiling water. Art refuses this simple fare, but an hour later, I glance up from my writing and see him on the far side of the waiting room, eating a cup of noodle soup and I know that he will be only too happy to leave Flores behind forever. The plane departs on time, making a short stop on another island before landing in Denpasar Bali. We are met at the airport by a guide and driven through rush hour traffic an hour and a half back to Ubud. We arrive at Tabra’s at 7:00 P.M. happy to be back in the luxury of Bali and among friends. We enjoy a lovely dinner together at an ambient restaurant and Tabra patiently listens to the tales of our adventures told from two different view points.

Our stay in Bali was magical and it was sad to leave paradise. We woke to this glorious rainbow one morning.

A serene morning in Ubud, Bali. I would wake before Art or John; coffee would be delivered to my outdoor terrace and I would write my blog overlooking the lush jungle beyond.

When I returned home from Bali, I hit the ground running. I was still jet lagged when I set up for the Los Altos Art and Wine Festival at 5:00 A.M. on July 12th. I had good intentions of writing about our final week in Bali, but the reality of the summer shows took precedent. I had scheduled 4 shows in a row and by mid August, when I had a momentary break, my memories of Bali had faded.

Many of you know that for over 25 years, I have sold my work at the Maryland Renaissance Fair outside of Annapolis Maryland. This show runs for 9 consecutive weekends from the third week in August through the third week in October. Preparing inventory for the show is a daunting job. Not only must I have the inventory, but also it must be counted, entered onto spreadsheets and tagged. Even with the help of Alisha and Katie, it takes over a month to prepare for the show. The prices of silver and gold were skyrocketing this summer, making it all the more stressful. When I finally shipped the inventory, I was cross-eyed and cranky from it all.

With the Maryland inventory shipped, I had a brief period of time to create new designs, but it never enough. Still, I was able to finish several one of a kind dragons and octopus’ wrapping arounsund shimmery opals and fire agates.

In September, my son John entered 9th grade and with that came a new schedule of homework, tutoring and chauffeuring John to his classes at Pacific Edge Climbing gym. Fall is always my busiest season and September was a blur of back-to-back shows, replenishing the inventory sold at the Maryland show each weekend, and parenting. Alisha and Molly would stop by many afternoons to help, but Molly (at 2 years old) would negate any help that Alisha could lend. Nevertheless, I looked forward to the late afternoons when I would see both my daughter and granddaughter and we would laugh, love, and juggle work and play.

In late September I flew back east to attend a weekend at the Maryland Renaissance Fair, oversee my shop and make my annual appearance. After all these years, I have an enthusiastic following and I look forward to seeing my friends and collectors.

The afternoon joust at the Maryland Renaissance Fair.

The Marty Magic Shop at the Maryland Renaissance Fair.

A collector proudly showing off his newly purchased skull ring. An awesome choice with his flame tattooed hand.

In early October, I managed to squeeze in a mini road trip with my father. He is 91 years old, a little wobbly, but still sharp. He is a geologist and an avid traveler and although he can no longer travel alone, with me as his chauffeur we revisited the Sequoia National Park. The journey was much of the reward and I have vivid memories of the stark and dramatic landscape traversing the passes between Santa Barbara and Sequoia. Seeing the giant redwoods is always awe inspiring, and sharing it with my father was the best. Much of my wanderlust spirit is due to my father and the many amazing, off the grid places that he and my mother took me to as a girl.

A dramatic vista on our road trip to Sequoia National Park

My father in Sequoia National Park.

October morphed into November with craft shows nearly every weekend. My favorite holiday, Halloween passed unceremonious between the shows, special orders and getting my web site ready for the upcoming holidays.

Alisha at the Halloween Parade where she teaches.

Rain, rain, go away! Molly in her ladybug costume with an umbrella that is much too big for her.

Thanks to those of you who encourage me to keep blogging. I’ve just learned how to post photos, so hopefully this will make it more visually interesting. I hope some of you will add comments to my posts.