Marty Magic Travel – Page 27 – Around the world with Marty

Fishing for Dorado

Art, John and I walk over to the marina at 6:00 A.M. and Arturo is waiting with hot coffee as promised. Art is uncertain if he will go with us, but Arturo assures him that the ocean will be calm today and after paying $13.00 each for three fishing licenses we board our super panga and meet our captain, Pata. I guess him to be in his late 50’s , but his weathered skin and heavy jowls make him look much older. We motor out of the marina in the gray morning light, clear sky above and a thick cloud bank against the horizon. We have layered our clothing to keep warm and we pull our jackets tightly around us bracing against the wind. We head west towards a distant point where a dozen small boats are jigging for bait. One small panga pulls up beside ours and the fishermen scoop several net-fulls of sardines into our live bait tank. Pata hands him a folded bill in exchange. We turn back around and head East, the wind chill factor more intense. We motor for 45 minutes until we are just off shore of Punta Gorda. In the distance, I can see the house that we spent the first night in and recall, Michael, telling me that one of the best fishing spots, the Gordo Banks, was just off shore in front of the house. Pata is not a talkative man and with thick fingers, he ties and baits hooks and sets the lines for us. John watches the fish finding screen, excited to see the virtual fish swimming across the monitor. Within a few minutes I have a bite and 20 minutes later, after quite a fight, I have landed a glistening gold, yellow and blue, 15 pound Dorado. I have not planned to fish, only take photos, and when the fish first bites, I start to hand the pole to John but Art encourages me to play it out. Now as the captain congratulates me, I don’t feel proud, only sad to have caught this fish.

As the morning warms we shed our layers, get a few more nibbles, but hook nothing. I am worried that John might not catch a fish. Pata motors the panga to a different fishing spot and another two hours pass with little action. Suddenly, Art gets a bite, and seconds later, John too has a fish on his line. Both have caught 3 foot needle fish that put up a good fight. We ask Pata to release them and he aptly removes the hooks from their long serrated snouts and pushes each forcefully back down into the sea, forcing water through their gills so that they survive. Each fish swims off, a silver blue streak beneath the water. In the next 30 minutes, Art and John catch three more needle fish, all of which we release. Our fish monitor starts to indicate more action and Pata chums the water, tossing a few of the live sardines overboard. John gets another bite, that we think is a Dorado, not another needle fish. John patiently works the fish, letting out line, pulling up and back on his pole and reeling in; releasing more line, pulling up and back and reeling in. We see the fish jump and confirm that it is a Dorado. A few minutes later, Art also hooks a Dorado. Both of my men have an excited twinkle in their eyes and for the next 45 minutes, I watch and take photos of the process. John brings his fish in first and I am again awed by the beauty of this pelagic fish, glistening gold and pink with brilliant blue fins. Dorado is a fitting name for this fish, better known back home as Mahi Mahi. When the fish is along side of the boat, Pata quickly hooks it and clubs the fish to kill it quickly. This shocks me and I turn away, saddened again that we have caught this fish. Art plans to release his fish, but when he
brings it along side of the boat, Pata asks if he can have it and we concede that he may.

Our fishing trip is at an end and Pata motors the boat back to the marina where our three fish are taken by wheel barrow, up to one of many covered fish cleaning stations; large square cement counters equipped with double sinks. Other boats have come in with their catches and the efficiency of the fish filleting is remarkable. I watch as a man slices diagonally just below the head and tears back the skin with one confident pull. He fillets one side of the fish, flips the fish over and repeats the process with the other side, making sure to stack all of one fish together. Another man stands beside the one wielding the fillet knife, scooping the heads and skin into a bucket, thus keeping the counter clean. The fillets from each fish are stacked in plastic bags and the counter sprayed clean with fresh water. Our three Dorado are filleted in the matter of minutes and Art tips the men for their service. We hand one bag of fish to Pata and return to our hotel giving the kitchen a large fresh fillet to cook for us this evening. The remainder we freeze in the hotels freezer intent on taking it home.

We rest for two hours, tired from the early morning, the sun and the sea. The hotels’ outdoor cafe is only open between 9:00- 5:00 so we enjoy a late afternoon meal. They prepare the fish perfectly, sauted in butter and garlic, but perhaps it would be hard to go wrong with such a fresh catch.

We need to figure out our plans for the New Year and Art suggests that we at least check into the possibility of celebrating at one of the all inclusive hotels near bye. 4 years ago, we spent a week at Hotel Intercontinental, El Presidente. At that time we were with my parents and it was a good place for three generations to be together. We walk into the familiar lobby and inquire at reception. The man behind the desk asks us where we are currently staying and Art tells him at a house in Zacatitas. We find out that the New Years’ Eve party, including dinner is $125.00 per person or that we can buy a day pass for $66.00. I ask how much it would cost to spend the night and he mentions a figure in the mid $350.00 for all of us, but suggests that it might be less than that. We thank him and leave to walk on the beach and ponder our options. Returning an hour later we wait for the same desk attendant and ask him for his best rate. He punches his computer, makes a phone call and performs his magic. He offers us the “local” rate of $258.00 all inclusive which we gladly accept. We will return in the morning. John will be able to use the pools, play volley ball and meet other kids, while Art and I relax in the elegant bubble of the hotel.

It is dark by the time we drive into old town San Jose Del Cabo to poke around the shops and get a light bite to eat. The Zocolo is festive with holiday lighting and we sit on a wrought iron bench eating ice creams and people watching.

Happy Birthday, John! December 29, 2008

I wake to the gray light of dawn and survey our house in the soft morning light. The house sits a few lots from the beach and it has a 360 degree view of the ocean and the mountains behind. I am able to light the propane stove and boil water for coffee. I packed coffee filters, freshly ground coffee, powered coco, tea and sugar. I also brought along 6 small scones for John’s birthday breakfast. I drink my coffee, rich with the thick cream that we purchased at the tiny Mexican market yesterday. The house has been empty for three years but apart from a bit of dust and sand upon the floor, it is clean. The problematic issue is the lack of water and I wish for a shower and a means to flush the toilet. All three of us have “watered” the cacti behind the house in lieu of working plumbing. Art and John continue to sleep while I read and ponder the day ahead of us.

At 8:30 A.M. an S.U.V. pulls up our driveway and parks. A man steps out, our age, and climbs up the stairway to our house. I assume it is Herb, the caretaker of this house, and I wake Art before stepping out onto the deck to greet our visitor. He is accompanied by a pit bull puppy and I greet both man and dog with pleasure. I am hopeful that he can solve the water issue. Herb is a character, formerly from Santa Cruz, but now firmly ensconced in this expatriac community. We learn that he is in a band, manages numerous properties in the area, and that last night, when we went to bed hungry, he sat eating and drinking with half the community, in an unmarked restaurant, just across the road. The mystery is now solved as to where the people in the neighboring houses disappeared to. I think wistfully, how different last night’s experience would have been had we known about the restaurant. Herb also tells us that we should have driven the well graded mountain road, not the coastal road that was washed out and damaged during the winter storms. John crawls out of his sleeping cocoon, awakened by kisses from the puppy. We share ownership of our daughters Pit Bull and the wiggly greeting from this dog, was one that John welcomed on the morning of his 16th birthday. Herbs’ visit is short, but he promises to order water that may or may not be delivered “manana.” There is also the question of who will pay for its delivery, so the water issue remains unclear. After Herb departs, I serve John a gourmet breakfast of hot coco and scones. Spoiled by the frothy mochas back at home, John shows little appreciation in the drink that I set before him. When I pull out the scones, both Art and John question why I didn’t serve the scones for “dinner” last night?

Getting beyond all this, the three of us walk down to the beach beyond. I have left footprints on beaches around the world, but this pristine beach ranks as one of the most beautiful. Although the shoreline is steep, the fine white sand is soft on my feet and gentle waves wash up onto the beach leaving their foam tipped patterns on the sand. Weathered granite beds, tilted and layered with quartz veining jut along the shore line. Art comments that the rock formations look like an Andy Goldsworthy installation, perfectly aligned with striped delineations. Were we at Disneyland, we might think that they were artificial. We walk a mile up the beach to Punta Gorda, a small mountain rising up sharply from the oceans’ edge; the bookend, marking this end of the long curved shoreline. A dozen stylish homes line this mile of beach, several quite architecturally stunning. Most have beautiful gardens, lush with palms and bougainvilleas, and all have stairways descending from terraces, down to the beach. We retrace our steps, greeting a few other beach combers, fishermen, and kayakers enjoying this remarkable strip of sand and water. We pack up our things, cleaning up as best as we can and load them into our tiny red car. As I do the final room check, I imagine that lacking reverse,we will need to coast back down the drive way, and need to push the car to turn it around. I find Art sitting in the drivers seat, reading the cars’ user manual in Spanish. We are all relieved when he comes to the transmission diagram and discovers that there is a ring on the gear shift that must first be lifted in order for the car to engage in reverse. We drive over to the near-bye restaurant to check it out and Angel, one of the owners, invites us inside. She and her husband are from Oregon and just this past October, opened this restaurant to the cheers of all who live in the area. We expect we will return on another night during this trip to enjoy the restaurants ambience, the food and the tropical drinks. Art takes the high mountain road back towards San Jose Del Cabo. Although the road is dirt, it is wide and well graded except for one steep incline. The desert terrain is dotted with an array of cacti, while osprey and buzzards circle the bright blue sky above. I am delighted and amused by the nipple shaped mountains, conical, pastel cut outs, shaping the horizon. Although the drive back into town takes 40 minutes, happily, it is uneventful.

It is past noon and we are all hungry when we pull into the new marina, intent on reserving a fishing panga boat for tomorrow. We are approached by several different “booking” agents and we inquire about the sizes and pricing of the various boats. The choices are confusing so I tuck several cards into my pocket and we defer making our decision until after lunch. After an unmemorable lunch at the marina’s Barefoot Cafe, we drive the short distance into San Jose Del Cabo with the intent of exchanging money. 4 years ago, we were here with my parents and the lay out of the city is familiar but new jewelry shops have sprouted up, most of them selling Mexican fire opals. John and I are quickly absorbed in looking at opals, but Art quickly glazes over and agrees to go to the bank on his own while John and I continue to shop for the perfect stone. There are thousands of opals within a few block radius and the pricing and quality is all over the place. Almost every shop has a handful of remarkable stones, plus trays of clear
orange opals and opal doublets. These unexciting, tourist quality, stones are of no interest to us, but the struggling merchants, judging us from our crumpled appearance, do their best to interest us in these mundane opals. Art returns with pesos and we tear ourselves away from the eye candy opals and return to the Marina to secure a panga for the morning.

It’s after 4:00 P.M. when we walk into the courtyard of Gorda Banks Panga, intent on giving them $270.00 to reserve a fishing trip on one of their 25 ft. super pangas. We are disappointed to find that all of their boats have already been reserved so we drive down to the marina in search of Arturo. I spot him quickly, a tall, thin man with weathered features and crooked yellow teeth. He flashes us an eager toothy smile, and we walk along a line of pangas moored in the marina. He makes several hopeful calls, but all of the boats are reserved. He suggests a smaller panga, but John has his heart set on a larger one, and with three of us aboard, the super panga with a steel railing encircling the boat gives me the illusion of being more stable and sea worthy. After several failed attempts at finding us an available panga and captain, Arturo is successful and we seal the $275.00 reservation with a $20.00 bill and a handshake. He promises me his best hot coffee in the morning when we will meet, at 6:00 A.M.

The La Playita Hotel sits steps away from the marina. We checked their rates earlier today and now walk over hoping that there are still rooms available. A smiling Kelly, welcomes us back and checks us in. She is a cherubic woman in her late 40’s with a sing song voice. Her wavy dyed blond hair is perfectly coiffed and she wears a full, white embroidered cotton dress. John notices a photo of an iguana in her office and we inquire about the photo? She beams and we are soon meeting her pet, Charlotte, a juvinel green iguana. Our spacious room is upstairs, overlooking a courtyard, a small pool below. The room has two queen beds, a terracotta tile floor and high ceilings. Best of all there is hot water with good water pressure and I am the first of us into the shower washing away two days’ grime.

After resting we drive into San Jose Del Cabo for John’s birthday dinner. He gets to choose the restaurant and we spend an hour wandering the quaint back streets before he picks Morgains, an upscale restaurant with candle lit tables clustered in a courtyard. We are seated upstairs on the balcony overlooking the courtyard and although there is an open fire place beside us, our table is too dark. We share a mussel appetizer and John, true to form, orders the most expensive item on the menu, filet and shrimp. Although the food is reasonably good, it’s quality doesn’t match the prices, so we are all somewhat disappointed in the birthday extravaganza. After dinner we poke into a few stores and John and I educate Art on some of the finer points of Mexican Fire Opals. In one of the better shops, John spots a smallish green and orange stone, blazing with fire and the zealous sales man takes it out to show us. It is breathtaking; 7 carats and $7,500. Art begins to catch the opal fever and to understand how challenging the
search for these Mexican Fire Opals can be.

Escaping to Baja

Our family is spending a few days in San Jose Del Cabo, between Christmas and the first few days in January, 2009. We land late afternoon on Sunday, December 28th. Escaping to Baja is relatively easy from Santa Cruz, California, and there is no jet lag to deal with. Growing up as a geologist’s daughter provided me with many trips into Mexico and even though my Spanish is almost non existent, I always feel comfortable, welcome and happy to be in Mexico.

Although I have reserved a rental car in advance, renting the shiny red, sardine can, is stressful. I’m not 100% certain that our auto insurance back home will cover an accident, and I am confused and pressured to buy the extra Mexican insurance. Paperwork finally completed, Art navigates us out of the airport, anxious over the unfamiliar road signs, traffic, and rental car, muttering many 4 letter words that I won’t document here. Our plan is to stay at a friends beach house in Zacatitis, but the directions to the house are vague. Several days earlier, Art searched for the house via google satalite and mapped out the route as best as possible. It is already after 5:00 P.M. and the sun is low on the horizon when we come to what we surmise is turn off towards the new Marina and ultimately the dirt road that will take us 9 miles to the house. There are several identical round-a-bouts leading to the marina and we take the first one; the wrong one. We circle back, and around again, drive a short distance to a second round about with a vertical row of directional signs, one of which points to Zacatitis. Initially, we choose the paved road up towards the mountains when we see two young women walking along the side of the road. Art stops to confirm directions and offers them a ride. Veronica and Stephanie pile into the back seat beside John and draw their version of a map on a piece of scratch paper, while Art courteously drives them back into town. Veronica is 19 and her English is much better than our Spanish. Stephanie is quiet and wide eyed, cautious of the gringos that she is hitching a ride with. We thank them and retrace the road, this time finding the coast road towards Zacatitis. As the sun dips lower on the horizon, my anxiety rises. I want to reach the house before dark so that we will be able to unlock doors and settle into the place before nightfall. We know that there may not be electricity or running water unless we can prime the pump and hook up the generator, a difficult task even during daylight. Initially the road is paved, but as expected, it soon turns to dirt. I keep my eye out for Buzzards Restaurant, a landmark we have been told to look for, just 4 miles before Zacatitis. We plan to return there for dinner after settling into our house. As the road worsens, John gets excited, sensing adventure, while Art and I fear a flat tire and being stranded. We wish for a 4 wheel drive vehicle to navigate the pot holes and washes. We seem to have rented a car with no reverse gear and we are alone on a remote coast road surrounded by cacti and sage brush, the ocean just beyond. The fading sun casts a sensual pink glow on the iridescent water and the setting sun paints the clouds a silver edged salmon. Under most circumstances this would be a magical transitional time of day. We come to a junction in the road and spot Buzzards Restaurant, but are dismayed when we see that it is closed; possibly up for sale? We have come too far to turn around, all the more difficult without a reverse gear, so we continue on the worsening road. Many potholes and another 30 minutes further on, we arrive at an enclave of homes, and spot the white archway, designated as the turn to “our” house. We recognize the house from photos we have seen and pull up the curved dirt driveway. John is out of the car in a flash, upstairs and into the house. Although I have keys, we find the house and the garage unlocked. The 360 degree view is breathtaking and the single upstairs room is divided into sleeping, sitting and kitchen area. A multitude of candelabras sit atop the cement kitchen counter and bar. Before heading out for the house we stopped to pick up jugs of water, a lighter and some cream for the mornings coffee. John lights the existing votive candles and I pull more from my suitcase and soon the room is awash with ambient light. A double futon will sufice for Arts and my bed, but there is no mattress for John. We explore the garage with flashlights and find a cot for John, but ultimately, John chooses the floor for his bed. We have our own sleeping bags and all would be adequate if we only had food and running water. Even if Buzzards were open tonight, it would be dangerous to navigate the return road in the dark, so it seems that we will be going to bed without dinner. John climbs up on the counter and finds a small can of vegetables and two rusted tins of smoked fish. Botchillism is not top on my list so the fish is out. I have brought along a large bag of almonds and three granola bars. In an effort to save the evening, I suggest a walk on the beach. John happily accompanies me and we head off with flashlights. Many of the near bye homes twinkle with lights and I vaguely hope to spot the shadow of a figure out and about. When we arrived, we saw people outside of an elegant home just below ours, but they have vanished, leaving on lights and windows and doors open. John and I drop down the steep sandy bank from the road to the beach. There is only a sliver of a moon tonight so even with our flashlights, we can’t see a lot. We return shortly and I gaze out our upstairs window at lights on the near bye hillside, hopingfor signs of life, but I see none. John eats the remains of a sandwich he bought at the Phoenix airport while I nibble on almonds, washing them down with bottled water. By 7:30 P.M. we are prone, inside our sleeping bags trying to sleep at this early hour. Ordinarily, I am a good sleeper, but this is long night and I hear John and Art toss and turn frequently and wonder how uncomfortable John is, sleeping on the hard floor.

Tim Burton – Down the Rabbit Hole with Alice

Several nights ago, I received a call from an account of mine that carries a smattering of my designs on their web site. The owner had just been contacted by Tim Burton, wanting to purchase my complete Alice in Wonderland Charm collection for his wife, Helena Bonham Carter. I’m not up on pop culture, but I did know who Tim Burton was. I have just learned that he is producing a new film, Alice in Wonderland and that his wife, Helena Bonham Carter will star as Alice. Johnny Depp is playing the Mad Hatter. Perhaps I will sell a gold Mad Hatter to Johnny Depp?

I have been hesitant to post many of my story book charms on my web site not knowing which ones belong to public domain . I now gather that the classic version of Alice in Wonderland is part of the public domain. I created the charm collection in 1983. Later tonight, I hope to post my entire Alice in Wonderland Collection on my web site.

Deck the Halls with Magic

Our home is bustling with holiday chaos but much of the bustle is in getting orders packed and shipped for other’s Christmases. We are thrilled to be so busy and in between the daily trips to the post office we are decking our own halls with Christmas cheer.

Last weekend we drove to Bonny Doon to cut down our Christmas tree at Crest Ranch. We always begin the day with great cheer and expectations. Choosing the perfect Christmas tree should be a joyful and bonding family experience, but seldom can we agree on which tree to cut. This year was no exception and we wandered the forest of trees indecisively. There were many wonderful trees, but one can not choose the first one that calls to you. There might be a tree over the horizon that is even prettier. Tension was growing by the time we found one that the three of us could agree on and Art and John quickly cut it down and carried it back to our car.

Our asymmetrical tree is finally decorated, the star tilting off to one side. Our fat cat, Godzilla, watched her foolish humans play with lights and bobbles

Segue – Bali and Beyond

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.

Maumere City -Monday June 30th

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.

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.

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.

Bena Village – June 27th

Banana pancake mornings are a distant memory and this mornings breakfast consists of white toast, margarine, and a artificial colored magenta jelly. The coffee is grainy and when I ask for milk, a can of chocolate condensed milk is brought to our table along with three hard boiled eggs. I am grateful for what is provided now that I have grasped that the tourism infrastructure is virtually non existent and that we are being provided the best that is available.

We begin our drive towards Ruing passing through an impressive forest of giant bamboo. We stop to walk along the narrow road, the grove towering above and morning sunlight streaming through the immense stalks. The stalks of bamboo are so thick that one can’t wrap ones hands around them, many with a circumference larger than a basketball.The bamboo forest is on the way to Bena, which according to our itinerary is a traditional village located below an active volcano. I have no great expectations but my breath catches when we round a final curve and see the village in the distance. The unusual steep roofs of the houses are all thatched and surround a central terraced common space. The village is built on a hillside and large blocks of volcanic rock have been quarried to terrace the village and build the formidable rock stairs leading from one level to the next. Megalithic stones point upward at the entrance to the village and it is an effort to ascend the steep uneven stairs. We are the only visitors to the village and our guide explains the meaning of Ngadhu and Bhaga, the male and female symbol erected atop each thatched roof delineating whether a marriageable man or a woman resides within. Two rows of thatched wooden structures, erected on stilts, line both sides of the common space and sets of eyes follow us. The single doorway to each house opens onto a railed bamboo deck and elderly women sit outside, their mouths red with beetle nut juice, their teeth decayed and rotton. I smile and they readily smile in return, their mouths gaping slashes of red, their faces weathered from the elements. The surrounding stones are splashed red with the spittle from the beetle juice. Racks of buffalo horns, displayed after the feast, are hung on the outside walls of the buildings and pigs and chickens take shelter in the shade underneath the houses. A scattering of trinkets are tied to some of the railings and the old women offer me tiny bundles of vanilla for sale. I buy 4 coconut shell dishes and spoons from one old woman and ask if I may take her photo. She seems pleased with my request and when I show her her images in the back of my camera and she is delighted. Other family members seem to want their photo taken also, and I am only too happy to comply, each time showing them the captured image and sharing in their amazement, amusement and delight. I gain confidence as I climb my way further into the village taking photos in all directions. Mansor tells us that this village is 500 years old and has looked very much the same throughout it’s existence. At the far end of the village are stairs leading up to a shrine and a dramatic vista overlooking the valley below and we are surprised to see a 4 foot plaster statue of the Virgin Mary in a sheltered alcove. He tells us the village is Catholic, but still practices it’s traditional beliefs and rituals. Returning down to the village we watch women heating immense vats of water in a common cooking area. They are boiling water for drinking and preparing for todays festival. In the cloistered darkness inside one of the common buildings, I can see the villagers dressing for a ritual dance. Our guide tells us that we are lucky, that this is not a dance for the tourists, but the beginning of a two day celebration. I ask if I may take photos and Mansor tells me to wait and he will ask.

John and Art have vanished and I go to look for them and find them sitting with an elder on his front porch. Art motions me to join them and I climb the wooden stairs to the porch and am offered a block of wood to sit on. Joseph is 81 years old, the oldest member of the village, and he mixes hot water from a thermos with ground coffee into three glasses and pushes them across the bamboo plank floor. He tells us that he is so old because he drinks a mixture of arak, a distilled palm alcohol, special waters and herbs. He speaks little English, but smiles readily and is sharp and wiry. We gather that the few tour groups that come through, must pay the village a small fee which is used to support the village and make it possible to keep their culture. They further supplement the village income with sales from their handicrafts, vanilla and beetle nut. We sit for some time and I listen to Art and Joseph talk all the time watching his family watch us from the far side of the front porch. His family consists of 10 people who all sleep in this 10 x 30 foot, single story house. When it is time to go, I ask if I may take a photo and am again obliged and take photos of his family as well. I finger three unusual pendants hanging from the railing and ask how much one in particular is. It is expensive and he makes no indication of wishing to bargain so I turn my attention to the pretty coconut shell dishes and buy another four, each costing approximately .60 cents each.

When I return to the common area the dancing has already started. The men and women are colorfully dressed in tribal attire. The lead male dancer, is middle aged, tall, weathered with chiseled features and he and proudly wears a massive strand of cowrie shells around his neck, a striking headdress and a sarong. He holds a machete sword and the other male dancers follows him in an undulating line. The women follow in the dance, dressed in yellow sarongs, yellow head dresses and with their hair beautifully tied up. Children, fully attired, the boys carrying bamboo swords, dance along in the line and the villagers laugh in delight.
After more than two hours it is regretfully time to leave and we climb back into our waiting car, just as a mini bus with several blond passengers pulls up to the base of the village.

We drive for an hour and come to the Soa hot springs where we are to swim and have a picnic lunch. The grounds are in disrepair, the walkways cracked and crumbling, the grass dry and brown and the hedges unkempt. Litter is strewn on the ground and the vacant hospitality pavilion tilts, seemingly sagging from lack of care and the afternoon heat. We are the only visitors and we make our way towards the hot springs. The hot spring surges up forming a deep clear pool that empties into a rapidly flowing river beyond. Shade trees hang over the pool and Art and John immerse themselves in the hot sulfur water while I watch our belongings having no desire to partake on this sweltering afternoon. We sit on cracked cement stairs to eat our boxed picnic lunch of cold fried rice mixed with vegetables and squid tentacles. Art and John take a quick after lunch dip before returning to the car to drive three more hours to Ruing.

The afternoon drive is an easy one with many photo stops. At one point our guide stops at a simple hut along side of the road so that we can see how arak is distilled. Arak is a liquor made from a palm fruit and this family has it’s own still and sells small recycled plastic bottles filled with the 40 proof liquor for $1.50 each. A small fire heats a large terra-cotta jug filled with arak juice and a long bamboo pipe connected to the steam vent slowly drips the distilled liquor into water bottles. We are offered tastes of the liquor and they set some of the liquor on fire to prove its alcohol strength. To be supportive, we buy one of the small bottles, and I joke with Art and Mansor that we will have to have a party tonight, but notice a disapproving look Mansor’s face and quickly ask if women drink alcohol? He curtly responds that of course, women do not drink, and I retort that that it isn’t fair, immediately regretting my lack of respect for his culture.

We arrive in Ruing about 4:00 P.M. and are pleased with our accommodations. The room is simple and clean and the bathroom has three towels, toilet paper and even soap. Surprisingly, here is air conditioning but no hot water, which I have come not to expect. We navigate our way down to the waterfront. It is low tide and the houses in the fishing village, all built on tall stilts have pigs, chickens and mangy dogs scavenging under their shade. Kids play volley ball with their feet and a group of teen age boys play and sing to a guitar. The afternoon light sets the scene aglow and a distant row of stilt houses is reflected in a shallow inlet of water. We walk out onto the small pier and I am awed by the clear beauty of this afternoon, the ocean, this simple harbor and village. I wish that I could carry the perfection of this moment home with me.

With minimal expectations, we walk a dirt road to an open air restaurant for yet another dinner of fried noodles, gristly chicken pieces and mixed vegetables. The cuisine in Flores is all the same, unimaginative, greasy and bland. Hot sauce does very little to perk up the meal, but John and I have found our entertainment on the ceiling above us. John refers to it as “The Gecko Channel,” and the two of us watch a dozen geckos congregated around the bare light bulbs. The light attracts insects and when a moth flits near a bulb, the geckos tense and stealthily move an inch or two closer. Smaller bugs creep on the ceiling and the geckos freeze and then dart and make snacks of them. The Gecko Channel is a life and death suspense program that throughly entertains us. We’ve been watching this “channel” most nights since arriving on Flores Island, but I neglected to write about it earlier on. I will be sad to return to a world of mainstream television, this is far superior.