I'm tired of snorkeling, biking around the island and having to walk the bike through the thick soft sand every few hundred feet, going to bars, and coming up with excuses not to go to parties. I'm living on a gorgeous island even if it is littered to no end with trash. I like the island, but I hate being unemployed. I am going out of my mind without anything concrete to do. I've already nearly exhausted the money I made from teaching the three open water courses my first few days here about two weeks ago. The “bookstores” are stocked with only whatever books travelers come with and don't want anymore, and most of them are Swedish, German, and French anyway. Anywhere I see books, I stop to look in hopes to find Walden or any Thoreau waiting for me, always to no avail.
My first thought every morning when I wake up is “only 8 more days until Singapore,” “only 7 more days til I leave for Singapore,” “I'll be in Singapore in 6 more days,” etc. If I was here with a friend, I think I would be having the time of my life. Unfortunately, I feel like as if I'm not appreciating my time here as much as I should. It just goes to show my need for constant stimulation whether a good friend or something new and exciting. I'll have a guitar by Tuesday so that will be a serious change for the better. However, the rainy season is late so it will probably start pouring any day now and I won't be able to take the guitar up to the top of the hill and play in the empty expanse under a tree like I was initially planning to do.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Robbie's Guide to Gili Trawangan
As I did with Sabang, I feel qualified to give a brief subjective overview of the tiny island I now consider my temporary home.
General Overview:
There are many things that make the Gili Islands very unique. These three islands in a line off the western coast of Lombok are all very small. Trawangan lying farthest west is the largest having a perimeter of about 4 miles. Meno, the smallest island located in the middle of three is separated on either side by about 800 yards. Gili Air is the closest to Lombok and though marginally larger than Meno, has the smallest population. What makes these three islands particularly special is that there are no motored vehicles allowed. As a result there are no paved roads; the cement sections of some streets are falling apart and otherwise the more common dirt roads are rarely packed and require a dismount from any bicycle. All construction is done by hand, all transportation is either by bike or by horse, and thus air pollution is cut to nothing at all.
However, there is a serious trash problem here. (I am from now on only speaking specifically about Trawangan.) Despite the well-placed trash receptacles, the streets, primarily the streets in the village away from the tourists, are strewn with piles plastic wrappers and bottles of all shapes and sizes, perhaps the most depressing thing about the island. The only important tidbit to know about all three islands is that fresh water is a commodity. It can only be found bottled as drinking water in stores or on taps in only some of the fancier resorts. Otherwise, all sinks and showers provide the user with brackish salt water.
People:
Try as hard as you can; it will be nearly impossible to find friendlier more hospitable people willing to help strangers for nothing in return. It seems to be an unspoken island policy to greet any passersby on the road and chat for a moment or two. On an island where time is of no real value, it is of no consequence to stop and return the greeting and continue the conversation.
Housing:
There are plenty of options for most budgets here on the island, excluding the extreme high rollers. The most expensive suites max out around $200/night. Backpackers lodges are plentiful but should be booked upon arrival, not before. The best strategy is to walk around the island asking locals about places to stay (everyone on the island has several friends running homestays or bungalows). Compare prices and locations a bit, and after an hour or so depending on how picky you choose to be and how much bargaining is done, you will be happily housed at a good price, possibly as low as $4/night for two people.
Food:
Local food can be found all over the island in what are called Warungs. These tiny shops which all double as convenience or hardware stores have a small display of food in bowls. I haven't determined if it has a name but the person behind the display, usually hidden behind the food on the shelves, takes one scoop from every bowl and places each one carefully separated onto a pile of white rice. The dish is a smorgasbord of vegetables, sometimes fruits, tempeh, sometimes tofu, corn, chicken, occasionally fish, and often other foods that aren't discernible to me. Ranging anywhere from 1-2 dollars, these anytime and anywhere meals are perfect for the mouth and wallet.
More expensive versions of the traditional food can be found in the many restaurants scattered across the busy eastern stretch of the island, but these places are generally frequented for their popular western foods. Pizzas, burgers, pastas, omlettes, Mexican food, sandwiches, wraps, and more can be found at these restaurants, no single dish ever seeming to exceed $10 before the 20% tax and service charges are added. With a constant international population on the island, the restaurants have actually done a very good job at perfecting these dishes.
Sites/Activities:
It appears that all the activities on the island are centered around the water with a few exceptions. At least 20 shacks along the eastern beach offer rentals for snorkeling gear, boat trips, glass-bottom kayaks, regular kayaks, swimming, sailing, boat trips, multi-day boat trips, scuba diving trips, and many other water-related activities. Other activities offered here include horse rides, watching movies, and renting a bicycle to explore the island. Bicycles can be rented for less than a few dollars a day and are usually in working condition regardless of the age, but understand that the sand and dirt on many of the roads are too loose to pedal across and require the bike to be pushed.
Diving:
The diving around the Gili Islands is not world class. I would consider it mediocre. Even though dynamite fishing ended about 10 years ago, the effects are still obvious. Many of the dive sites have stretches of rubble, expanses of lifeless colorless coral. What was once a thriving underwater wonderworld is now laying in ruin. The few patches of coral that somehow escaped the dynamite are utterly gorgeous and bustling with life but the saving grace of the diving here is the visibility and warm water. The water is maintained at a constant 80F, plus or minus about 5, and the water, particularly the shallows, is nothing short of crystal clear.
Night Life:
Restaurants and resorts reserved nights of the week to throw parties. The Irish Bar claims Wednesday nights, Blue Marlin I believe takes Saturdays, and someone else takes another day. These are generally very well-attended events with a DJ, lights, dancing, a hip international crowd, and plenty to drink. It is this party atmosphere which has helped bring in such a consistent flow of tourists to Gili Trawangan as opposed to the quieter Gili Meno and Gili Air. Music typically plays at full volume until around 4am when the last of the crowd is forced to go to bed.
General Recommendations:
This is a party island popular among the younger crowd but perfectly accommodating to almost all age groups. Non-local children are seldom seen while the elderly either stay home or don't leave their bungalows. Due to the wide range of activities offered and the relaxed inviting atmosphere, accommodating all budgets, this island is perfect for anyone who is fit to ride the ferry either from Bali or Lombok.
General Overview:
There are many things that make the Gili Islands very unique. These three islands in a line off the western coast of Lombok are all very small. Trawangan lying farthest west is the largest having a perimeter of about 4 miles. Meno, the smallest island located in the middle of three is separated on either side by about 800 yards. Gili Air is the closest to Lombok and though marginally larger than Meno, has the smallest population. What makes these three islands particularly special is that there are no motored vehicles allowed. As a result there are no paved roads; the cement sections of some streets are falling apart and otherwise the more common dirt roads are rarely packed and require a dismount from any bicycle. All construction is done by hand, all transportation is either by bike or by horse, and thus air pollution is cut to nothing at all.
However, there is a serious trash problem here. (I am from now on only speaking specifically about Trawangan.) Despite the well-placed trash receptacles, the streets, primarily the streets in the village away from the tourists, are strewn with piles plastic wrappers and bottles of all shapes and sizes, perhaps the most depressing thing about the island. The only important tidbit to know about all three islands is that fresh water is a commodity. It can only be found bottled as drinking water in stores or on taps in only some of the fancier resorts. Otherwise, all sinks and showers provide the user with brackish salt water.
People:
Try as hard as you can; it will be nearly impossible to find friendlier more hospitable people willing to help strangers for nothing in return. It seems to be an unspoken island policy to greet any passersby on the road and chat for a moment or two. On an island where time is of no real value, it is of no consequence to stop and return the greeting and continue the conversation.
Housing:
There are plenty of options for most budgets here on the island, excluding the extreme high rollers. The most expensive suites max out around $200/night. Backpackers lodges are plentiful but should be booked upon arrival, not before. The best strategy is to walk around the island asking locals about places to stay (everyone on the island has several friends running homestays or bungalows). Compare prices and locations a bit, and after an hour or so depending on how picky you choose to be and how much bargaining is done, you will be happily housed at a good price, possibly as low as $4/night for two people.
Food:
Local food can be found all over the island in what are called Warungs. These tiny shops which all double as convenience or hardware stores have a small display of food in bowls. I haven't determined if it has a name but the person behind the display, usually hidden behind the food on the shelves, takes one scoop from every bowl and places each one carefully separated onto a pile of white rice. The dish is a smorgasbord of vegetables, sometimes fruits, tempeh, sometimes tofu, corn, chicken, occasionally fish, and often other foods that aren't discernible to me. Ranging anywhere from 1-2 dollars, these anytime and anywhere meals are perfect for the mouth and wallet.
More expensive versions of the traditional food can be found in the many restaurants scattered across the busy eastern stretch of the island, but these places are generally frequented for their popular western foods. Pizzas, burgers, pastas, omlettes, Mexican food, sandwiches, wraps, and more can be found at these restaurants, no single dish ever seeming to exceed $10 before the 20% tax and service charges are added. With a constant international population on the island, the restaurants have actually done a very good job at perfecting these dishes.
Sites/Activities:
It appears that all the activities on the island are centered around the water with a few exceptions. At least 20 shacks along the eastern beach offer rentals for snorkeling gear, boat trips, glass-bottom kayaks, regular kayaks, swimming, sailing, boat trips, multi-day boat trips, scuba diving trips, and many other water-related activities. Other activities offered here include horse rides, watching movies, and renting a bicycle to explore the island. Bicycles can be rented for less than a few dollars a day and are usually in working condition regardless of the age, but understand that the sand and dirt on many of the roads are too loose to pedal across and require the bike to be pushed.
Diving:
The diving around the Gili Islands is not world class. I would consider it mediocre. Even though dynamite fishing ended about 10 years ago, the effects are still obvious. Many of the dive sites have stretches of rubble, expanses of lifeless colorless coral. What was once a thriving underwater wonderworld is now laying in ruin. The few patches of coral that somehow escaped the dynamite are utterly gorgeous and bustling with life but the saving grace of the diving here is the visibility and warm water. The water is maintained at a constant 80F, plus or minus about 5, and the water, particularly the shallows, is nothing short of crystal clear.
Night Life:
Restaurants and resorts reserved nights of the week to throw parties. The Irish Bar claims Wednesday nights, Blue Marlin I believe takes Saturdays, and someone else takes another day. These are generally very well-attended events with a DJ, lights, dancing, a hip international crowd, and plenty to drink. It is this party atmosphere which has helped bring in such a consistent flow of tourists to Gili Trawangan as opposed to the quieter Gili Meno and Gili Air. Music typically plays at full volume until around 4am when the last of the crowd is forced to go to bed.
General Recommendations:
This is a party island popular among the younger crowd but perfectly accommodating to almost all age groups. Non-local children are seldom seen while the elderly either stay home or don't leave their bungalows. Due to the wide range of activities offered and the relaxed inviting atmosphere, accommodating all budgets, this island is perfect for anyone who is fit to ride the ferry either from Bali or Lombok.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Onward and Upward
A chorus of crickets echoed across the vacant brown fields on either side of the road as if to announce the absence of all other life. Occasionally a goat would cry out in search of its mother or a rooster might call out to demand his respect, but the main players were the crickets. My bald flat tires led the way across the familiar loose dirt path that cuts through farms standing between my place and the ocean.
I was on my way to the island's center, the location of the only hill. I spent my morning lounging on my bed under the mildly refreshing breeze of the fan until the power went out and I was forced to flee the oven I was in to seek refuge in an air conditioned internet cafe. While there, I bought a plane ticket to Singapore for the 28th of this month. My visa expires on the 1st of December and the only options of renewal are to travel back to Denpasar and bribe the guy from customs who gave me his phone number upon arrival or flee the country. Seeing as how it's only slightly more expensive to flee, it was my choice for renewal. I will obtain a legal 60 day visa so I will be set for the remainder of my time here in Indonesia, plus I get to see Singapore.
After the spending spree, the decision to climb the hill again was made so I lathered up the sun-screen, threw on a lightweight (and sufficiently dirty) shirt, and grabbed my bike. The ride takes me across my favorite stretch of road on the island, due in part to the carefree farmscapes, but also because the dirt is packed enough that I am not required to dismount and walk the bike every 200 feet. Five minutes later, I dropped the kickstand and started my ascent on foot leaving my bike safely unlocked at the hill's base.
It is quite clear that Gili Trawangan is going through a dry season at the moment. The bare parched earth and scraggly brush are enough to give it away. On the summit, the only respite from the relentless sun could be found under the uninviting coarse naked brush and frail trees which sufficed only for the nomadic goats. After a while of looking for a shady spot, I was met with success in the form of a small tin-roof shelter next to the cell phone tower. Across the desolate hill goats gathered in the shade of small trees conserving their energy. It is a mystery to me where they possibly find any food for survival. Sitting on the hill alone, I felt as if I had ownership. I have made three trips to the top, and not a single time have I seen a soul. It was this feeling that made me suddenly want to have an instrument, perhaps a ukulele to sit under a tree and play, play for the goats, play for the brush, the birds, the dirt, the sky, to play for the sake of playing music.
In town when I began asking around I somehow picked up a guy with a personality like velcro and he has been helping me find a guitar since then. His kindness and willingness to help is admirable, but I can't help but wonder if he really is that eager to help a stranger or is he trying to get something out of me. Is this what society has done to me? Anytime someone offers an extraordinary amount of help, I automatically become wary? What sort of a world is this where kindness is met with suspicion? I will continue to keep my guard up since it is what I have been trained to do, but the experience has not passed without being noted in memory.
 |
| Favorite road through the island |
After the spending spree, the decision to climb the hill again was made so I lathered up the sun-screen, threw on a lightweight (and sufficiently dirty) shirt, and grabbed my bike. The ride takes me across my favorite stretch of road on the island, due in part to the carefree farmscapes, but also because the dirt is packed enough that I am not required to dismount and walk the bike every 200 feet. Five minutes later, I dropped the kickstand and started my ascent on foot leaving my bike safely unlocked at the hill's base.
 |
| Dry ground everywhere |
In town when I began asking around I somehow picked up a guy with a personality like velcro and he has been helping me find a guitar since then. His kindness and willingness to help is admirable, but I can't help but wonder if he really is that eager to help a stranger or is he trying to get something out of me. Is this what society has done to me? Anytime someone offers an extraordinary amount of help, I automatically become wary? What sort of a world is this where kindness is met with suspicion? I will continue to keep my guard up since it is what I have been trained to do, but the experience has not passed without being noted in memory.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Ole!
I'm writing this post after having just returned from the Lombok football championships. Sorry but I left my camera at home during the game for its own safety. My day started out lazily with some snorkeling around the shallows (daily activity since no one needs me for work right now) followed by the standard Indonesian lunch of various meats and vegetables over white rice though this time I took it to go and ate it under a tree on the beach. Then I hiked up the only hill on the island with my camera just long enough to take one single photo, realize there was a storm quickly approaching, and turn right back around. After an hour (and and a lot of thunder with maybe a thousandth of an inch of rain), the clouds dissipated a bit and the sky started to look promising.
The story really starts out yesterday when I was wearing my (very) old soccer jersey while riding my bike along the main road deciding where to eat. A man renting bikes out asked me if I play and invited me to go with him to the Lombok finals. I told him that I might, and went on my way. I thought about it that night trying to gauge how much I trusted him. When the storm clouds were rolling away this afternoon, I decided to meet up with Ali after all and take him up on his offer but when I went to meet him, his friends said he had already left. I got in touch with a friend of his named Morgan and together we caught the ferry to Lombok. The 40 minute drive to the field was particularly exciting because it was my first time on Lombok, it was the first time in over a week that I had seen a motored vehicle, we saw monkeys in a few spots on the side of the road, and the scenery was at least as good as that of the Philippines. I focused more on the scenery than on the fact that my life was in the hands of this stranger as we went careening up slick sharply winding mountain roads with our hair blowing freely and vulnerably in the wind. It was against better judgment but one of those “you only live once” situations. Plus, to be fair, he was actually a very good driver.
Morgan and I had talked a lot about how it was a big game and there would be a huge crowd with tons of enthusiastic fans so when we finally arrived to the field, to simply say “my expectations weren't met” would be a gross understatement. The parking lot was a large unkempt grassy area overrun with weeds and covered with large puddles. The foreshadowing provided by the wall of thatched palm surrounding the field provided classic irony. Upon entering the stadium, my first observations were the fact that there were no bleachers and that there was a small irrigation canal filled with polluted water that we had to step over. I kicked myself for thinking that it was going to be in an actual stadium but kept my mind open and hoped for a good game, even though there were no marked sidelines, the puddles on the field were enormous, and the grass and weeds had been left uncut for at least a week.
The crowd continued to expand after the game had begun, filling in the area between the field and the thatched wall. The game was nothing spectacular and the announcer's constant flow of indiscernible Indonesian was not helpful for me in the least. It was the moment that I looked up when I started to fully appreciate the experience. To me, this was way more than just any old game. It was on Lombok, in Indonesia. I was on the other side of the world watching a legitimate local soccer match with not a single other white person in sight. I looked up past the field, the players, and the fans. Looking beyond the aged limp thatched walls held up with bamboo I found a gorgeous sight. The sun was falling low in the sky behind me while it brilliantly bathed the distant mountain in gorgeous warm light. Nearer the field, the palm trees stood as silent spectators peering above the wall as their branches swayed in the warm humid November breeze. To me, this country has many faces. This was more than just a game: this was Indonesia.
Even by the end of the game when the championship came down to a shootout, the crowd remained shockingly reserved. It was impossible to tell who anyone wanted to win because the fans had been completely silent most of the game, the kind of eery silence you get when you walk into a dark basement. Not until the Gili Trawangan player put in the final goal did the crowd erupt. Victory for the good guys. Morgan fetched the bike and fought the crowd in the parking lot. I hopped on the back and we proceeded on our way. On the return trip, we traded one danger for another: although the sun had set, the roads were now dry. We returned to the harbor safely and made it back to Trawangan without a hitch, and now it's time for bed.
The story really starts out yesterday when I was wearing my (very) old soccer jersey while riding my bike along the main road deciding where to eat. A man renting bikes out asked me if I play and invited me to go with him to the Lombok finals. I told him that I might, and went on my way. I thought about it that night trying to gauge how much I trusted him. When the storm clouds were rolling away this afternoon, I decided to meet up with Ali after all and take him up on his offer but when I went to meet him, his friends said he had already left. I got in touch with a friend of his named Morgan and together we caught the ferry to Lombok. The 40 minute drive to the field was particularly exciting because it was my first time on Lombok, it was the first time in over a week that I had seen a motored vehicle, we saw monkeys in a few spots on the side of the road, and the scenery was at least as good as that of the Philippines. I focused more on the scenery than on the fact that my life was in the hands of this stranger as we went careening up slick sharply winding mountain roads with our hair blowing freely and vulnerably in the wind. It was against better judgment but one of those “you only live once” situations. Plus, to be fair, he was actually a very good driver.
Morgan and I had talked a lot about how it was a big game and there would be a huge crowd with tons of enthusiastic fans so when we finally arrived to the field, to simply say “my expectations weren't met” would be a gross understatement. The parking lot was a large unkempt grassy area overrun with weeds and covered with large puddles. The foreshadowing provided by the wall of thatched palm surrounding the field provided classic irony. Upon entering the stadium, my first observations were the fact that there were no bleachers and that there was a small irrigation canal filled with polluted water that we had to step over. I kicked myself for thinking that it was going to be in an actual stadium but kept my mind open and hoped for a good game, even though there were no marked sidelines, the puddles on the field were enormous, and the grass and weeds had been left uncut for at least a week.
The crowd continued to expand after the game had begun, filling in the area between the field and the thatched wall. The game was nothing spectacular and the announcer's constant flow of indiscernible Indonesian was not helpful for me in the least. It was the moment that I looked up when I started to fully appreciate the experience. To me, this was way more than just any old game. It was on Lombok, in Indonesia. I was on the other side of the world watching a legitimate local soccer match with not a single other white person in sight. I looked up past the field, the players, and the fans. Looking beyond the aged limp thatched walls held up with bamboo I found a gorgeous sight. The sun was falling low in the sky behind me while it brilliantly bathed the distant mountain in gorgeous warm light. Nearer the field, the palm trees stood as silent spectators peering above the wall as their branches swayed in the warm humid November breeze. To me, this country has many faces. This was more than just a game: this was Indonesia.
Even by the end of the game when the championship came down to a shootout, the crowd remained shockingly reserved. It was impossible to tell who anyone wanted to win because the fans had been completely silent most of the game, the kind of eery silence you get when you walk into a dark basement. Not until the Gili Trawangan player put in the final goal did the crowd erupt. Victory for the good guys. Morgan fetched the bike and fought the crowd in the parking lot. I hopped on the back and we proceeded on our way. On the return trip, we traded one danger for another: although the sun had set, the roads were now dry. We returned to the harbor safely and made it back to Trawangan without a hitch, and now it's time for bed.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Wild
The order of my updates has gone haywire. Sorry. I'm torn between keeping chronology and posting when I have something important to say. Keep checking back about 3-4 posts now and again to catch anything that might have been updated or edited since you read.
I just watched the movie Into the Wild.
In the main stretch of “town” on the island, there is an open-air restaurant (you're hard pressed to find one that's not) that instead of chair and tables has rows of bean bag chairs and simply done away with tables altogether. Their big draw is that they have the island's only “theater” consisting of a respectable sound system made up of several large amplifiers and a portable projector that could fit in my backpack. They play two movies every night advertised for free, though of course you're required to buy a drink at the very least, cutting the wallet down by a bare minimum of about a dollar (for the record my mango milkshake was more like $2.30).
The point of the story is that I watched Into the Wild. If you haven't seen it, do it. It's a great film. Read the book because that's good too. I took a few things away from it. First of all, my writing is awful. I guess for someone who majored in Physics and hasn't attended a writing class in over 4 years, it's not all that bad. However if you watch the movie, you'll know what I mean. The eloquence is beyond anything I could dream. Secondly, … wait for it, this is a huge shock for everyone who really knows me … I want to start reading. Motivation spurred by the movie has urged me to seek out Emerson and Thoreau, perhaps starting with something like Walden. I haven't read a book for pleasure since about eighth grade when I read the fourth Harry Potter book. That was 9 years ago, nearly last millennium. When I say this is a big deal, I'm not exaggerating. That being said, please don't buy me any books because I will become easily overwhelmed. Baby steps.
Third and most importantly, I walked away from the film feeling inspired. Fear not friends and family, I am not about to cut off all contact and run into the wilderness. However, after this tropical traveling, I think I'll be ready for a very rugged camping excursion with maybe just one or two like-minded people. I know at least one person at Denison right now who I might meet up with when I visit New Zealand in a few months. He would do it at the drop of a hat no doubt. The bottom line is that a lot has been put onto this Earth and before we know it, it'll either be gone or we'll be dead before we get to experience it. We shouldn't just live for the sake of taking another breath or waking up for another morning. We should live to be invigorated, to be fulfilled, to love, to experience, to have our breaths taken away.
So. There you have it. Is Chris MacCandless my new role model? No, but seeing the film lying on a mat leaned up against a bean bag with a cockroach crawling on my leg sipping a fresh mango milkshake sweating from the hot Indonesian breeze while alone among a crowd of unfamiliar faces did have an effect.
I just watched the movie Into the Wild.
In the main stretch of “town” on the island, there is an open-air restaurant (you're hard pressed to find one that's not) that instead of chair and tables has rows of bean bag chairs and simply done away with tables altogether. Their big draw is that they have the island's only “theater” consisting of a respectable sound system made up of several large amplifiers and a portable projector that could fit in my backpack. They play two movies every night advertised for free, though of course you're required to buy a drink at the very least, cutting the wallet down by a bare minimum of about a dollar (for the record my mango milkshake was more like $2.30).
The point of the story is that I watched Into the Wild. If you haven't seen it, do it. It's a great film. Read the book because that's good too. I took a few things away from it. First of all, my writing is awful. I guess for someone who majored in Physics and hasn't attended a writing class in over 4 years, it's not all that bad. However if you watch the movie, you'll know what I mean. The eloquence is beyond anything I could dream. Secondly, … wait for it, this is a huge shock for everyone who really knows me … I want to start reading. Motivation spurred by the movie has urged me to seek out Emerson and Thoreau, perhaps starting with something like Walden. I haven't read a book for pleasure since about eighth grade when I read the fourth Harry Potter book. That was 9 years ago, nearly last millennium. When I say this is a big deal, I'm not exaggerating. That being said, please don't buy me any books because I will become easily overwhelmed. Baby steps.
Third and most importantly, I walked away from the film feeling inspired. Fear not friends and family, I am not about to cut off all contact and run into the wilderness. However, after this tropical traveling, I think I'll be ready for a very rugged camping excursion with maybe just one or two like-minded people. I know at least one person at Denison right now who I might meet up with when I visit New Zealand in a few months. He would do it at the drop of a hat no doubt. The bottom line is that a lot has been put onto this Earth and before we know it, it'll either be gone or we'll be dead before we get to experience it. We shouldn't just live for the sake of taking another breath or waking up for another morning. We should live to be invigorated, to be fulfilled, to love, to experience, to have our breaths taken away.
So. There you have it. Is Chris MacCandless my new role model? No, but seeing the film lying on a mat leaned up against a bean bag with a cockroach crawling on my leg sipping a fresh mango milkshake sweating from the hot Indonesian breeze while alone among a crowd of unfamiliar faces did have an effect.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Amed
I had one of the best dives of my life in the warm waters of Amed – an hour and 22 minutes of fish, untouched corals, sharks, turtles, cuttlefish, nudibranchs, and almost everything else the sea could provide. I'm sure that because we were down for so long we drifted beyond the normal dive site to where there were no signs of any activity past or present, and that was the true gem.
I won't go into anymore detail because there is something that trumps even that dive. As I was tucking the last inch of the mosquito net in around my bed by the light of my headlamp (thanks Liza, it's been really useful!), a knock comes to my door. The rapping came paired with a female French voice urgently calling out my name.
Before my mind could come up with any possible disasters that could be happening, the voice announced that there was a car of people in the parking lot waiting for me to go to a traditional full-moon ceremony. Convinced that it couldn't be a dream since I never actually fell asleep, I tell Margerie that I need to put clothes on but will be there straight away. Fully clothed and suddenly far from tired, I climbed into the back of the van filled with 4 Balinese guys, Margerie, and some French girl strangely dating one of the guys even though she met him after she arrived alone a few days ago. Weird.
About 45 minutes of talking, laughing, singing, and trying to learn Indonesian, we came to the house of the guys in order to don the appropriate attire. A sarong for everyone, with an extra waist piece for me as well as a headdress. The pictures pretty much say it all. With the seal of approval on the attire, we were back in the van and all systems were go for the ceremony.
A 5 minutes' drive took us straight to the ceremony where we walked through a sea of at least a hundred scooters and motorbikes parked tightly all in the same direction. How anyone could locate his or her own, especially in the dark, was entirely beyond my imagination. Upon reaching the ceremony, my only focus was staying with the group. I barely looked around enough to notice that there were vendors there just like on the streets of the rest of Bali. I then realized that the ceremony was more of a celebration not unlike a carnival. This realization softened the shock of what I saw next, though I am still a bit dumbfounded. There were several clumps of men, each clump standing and sitting around something that I knew must be of great importance. When I finally peered through one of the crowds packed like Times Square on New Year's Eve, I could barely make out what seemed to be a game of some sort. There was a mat on the ground like Twister in the sense that there were different colors, but this mat also had different shapes and numbers. A man would release a silver ball on a wooden board with identical marks but this one came with nearly imperceptible troughs on each shape so the ball would stop on only one. It seemed to be a game not far from roulette. The thing that struck me was the fact that there was gambling at this biannual religious ceremony. I'll be the last one to judge, but all I'm saying is that I was taken by surprise.
Wandering through the crowd, the alienation was undeniable.
Children's mouths would drop in awe and even members of the older age groups could be caught doing double takes. It was not offensive; we were the only three whites that I saw in the crowd of well over a hundred. I don't imagine white people at their traditional ceremony is commonplace so I came to expect the varied quizzical reactions. I couldn't go 5 whole minutes during the entire ceremony without an audible chuckle as I replayed in my head Margerie's urgent message at my door as I was literally putting my head on my pillow. Fruit bowls were passed around in a very sharing manner. Although a bit confused, the general demeanor of the crowd was one of acceptance and not a single person was rude to us the entire time unless you count staring which I've already addressed shouldn't be considered rude under the circumstance. By the time midnight rolled around, the guys ordered a round of meals for everyone. The sauces, meats, and vegetables prepared traditionally and served over rice were all too good to pass up, hungry or not. Before I knew it, we were back at their place returning the clothes and dropped off back at our hotels very soon thereafter. Although I was exhausted, finding rest proved difficult after such an extraordinary event.
I won't go into anymore detail because there is something that trumps even that dive. As I was tucking the last inch of the mosquito net in around my bed by the light of my headlamp (thanks Liza, it's been really useful!), a knock comes to my door. The rapping came paired with a female French voice urgently calling out my name.
Before my mind could come up with any possible disasters that could be happening, the voice announced that there was a car of people in the parking lot waiting for me to go to a traditional full-moon ceremony. Convinced that it couldn't be a dream since I never actually fell asleep, I tell Margerie that I need to put clothes on but will be there straight away. Fully clothed and suddenly far from tired, I climbed into the back of the van filled with 4 Balinese guys, Margerie, and some French girl strangely dating one of the guys even though she met him after she arrived alone a few days ago. Weird.About 45 minutes of talking, laughing, singing, and trying to learn Indonesian, we came to the house of the guys in order to don the appropriate attire. A sarong for everyone, with an extra waist piece for me as well as a headdress. The pictures pretty much say it all. With the seal of approval on the attire, we were back in the van and all systems were go for the ceremony.
A 5 minutes' drive took us straight to the ceremony where we walked through a sea of at least a hundred scooters and motorbikes parked tightly all in the same direction. How anyone could locate his or her own, especially in the dark, was entirely beyond my imagination. Upon reaching the ceremony, my only focus was staying with the group. I barely looked around enough to notice that there were vendors there just like on the streets of the rest of Bali. I then realized that the ceremony was more of a celebration not unlike a carnival. This realization softened the shock of what I saw next, though I am still a bit dumbfounded. There were several clumps of men, each clump standing and sitting around something that I knew must be of great importance. When I finally peered through one of the crowds packed like Times Square on New Year's Eve, I could barely make out what seemed to be a game of some sort. There was a mat on the ground like Twister in the sense that there were different colors, but this mat also had different shapes and numbers. A man would release a silver ball on a wooden board with identical marks but this one came with nearly imperceptible troughs on each shape so the ball would stop on only one. It seemed to be a game not far from roulette. The thing that struck me was the fact that there was gambling at this biannual religious ceremony. I'll be the last one to judge, but all I'm saying is that I was taken by surprise.
Wandering through the crowd, the alienation was undeniable.
Children's mouths would drop in awe and even members of the older age groups could be caught doing double takes. It was not offensive; we were the only three whites that I saw in the crowd of well over a hundred. I don't imagine white people at their traditional ceremony is commonplace so I came to expect the varied quizzical reactions. I couldn't go 5 whole minutes during the entire ceremony without an audible chuckle as I replayed in my head Margerie's urgent message at my door as I was literally putting my head on my pillow. Fruit bowls were passed around in a very sharing manner. Although a bit confused, the general demeanor of the crowd was one of acceptance and not a single person was rude to us the entire time unless you count staring which I've already addressed shouldn't be considered rude under the circumstance. By the time midnight rolled around, the guys ordered a round of meals for everyone. The sauces, meats, and vegetables prepared traditionally and served over rice were all too good to pass up, hungry or not. Before I knew it, we were back at their place returning the clothes and dropped off back at our hotels very soon thereafter. Although I was exhausted, finding rest proved difficult after such an extraordinary event.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Man at Work
Posts to come. It's hard to write while traveling so much. Check out the last few posts I post-dated. Check back later for more.
I'm on Gili Trawangan. Check it out on Google.
Cheers!
I'm on Gili Trawangan. Check it out on Google.
Cheers!
First Impressions
It is actually the 12th of November but I am post-dating this entry to fit a little more with the chronology. Just so everyone knows, I left my laptop charger in Sabang. The one I picked up in Manila doesn't actually charge my battery so I can only use my laptop when I have power. In the place I'm staying, we have power 15 hours a day at best, but usually less making it impossible to update my blog. At this point, I've spent two days in Legian, two days in Amed, two days in Ubud (all 3 in Bali), and about 6 days on Gili Trawangan (an island next to Lombok), but for the sake of the blog I'm still in Legian. I consider this enough to give some general impressions about the Bali/Lombok region of Indonesia. 
First and foremost, unlike the Philippines, there was no American occupation and thus English is not as common. I regularly come across people including taxi drivers, waiters, and hotel staff, that know little to no English. Sometimes it makes interactions rather interesting, and other times it makes things very interesting. Take for instance a certain taxi ride I took with Margerie and her friend Howard who was traveling with her.
We hopped in the cab and asked for a seafood restaurant from the guidebook that we thought wasn't too far, but we asked him just for a definitive confirmation on the distance. Sure enough, after 4 or 5 repetitions trying to make sure we understood each other, we discovered that it was conveniently only 150 meters away. After 3-5 minutes of driving we asked again to make sure we were going the right way and he repeated himself in a very genuine assuring tone in broken English that the restaurant was only 150 meters away to which Howard insisted he said the same thing several 150 meters's ago. At this point we decided to cut our losses and have him take us back to Legian (the region of Kuta we were staying) so we could go to Warung Yogia, a small traditional spot near the hotel. We repeat very slowly several times to the driver, “Stop. No more restaurant. No more seafood. We go Legian. Three Brothers Inn. You know? No food, just Legian. We go Legian.” We were comforted by the unsurprising response indicating that he understood where the well-known region of Kuta was located.
There were doubts about the direction we were headed, but we just brushed them off since he knew the area much better and it was after dark. Nevertheless, we repeated a few more times, “No seafood. Legian. No eating. We go hotel in Legian. Three Brothers Inn. No restaurant,” to which he gave some nods and reassuring “yes, Legian”s with a “shut up, you've already said so a hundred times” undertone.
5-10 minutes later when the taxi finally stopped, I looked up a bit startled at the cab driver's expectant face as he turned to negotiate the price. Looking beyond him through the windshield, I saw the neon lights with the unmistakable words “Legian Seafood,” a fresh seafood restaurant in the middle of Kuta, not near the hotel at all. Unsuccessfully holding back laughter, I started to realize that our cab driver had honestly done his best to bring us exactly where he thought we were asking and didn't seem to be driving us all over town for more money. After Margerie showed him the listing in the guidebook for Warung Yogia on the street named Padma Utara, the driver indicated that he knew exactly where Padma Utara was, and no questioning could break the language barrier enough to find out whether or not he had ever heard of the restaurant. Like a little kid saying “I told you so,” he pointed to and read the street sign as we turned onto Padma Utara. Almost certain he had no clue where the restaurant was, the three of us begin reading every sign we saw for a few minutes, passing our hotel (where we started the whole endeavor) and other familiar spots. This went on until Margerie told him to stop the car so we could ask around and find it on foot, we payed him what we thought was appropriate (I think around $5), and began backtracking, following the directions of several locals until we came to a tiny ill-marked restaurant with a traditional Indonesian menu. After happily finishing our meals, we spent about an hour in the pool under a virtually full moon that brilliantly illuminated the surrounding palm trees.
Going beyond the language, my impression of Bali is one of great beauty and enchantment. These photos are the best I can do to convey what I have seen. As always, it's never the same as being here, but at least you get the idea.
First and foremost, unlike the Philippines, there was no American occupation and thus English is not as common. I regularly come across people including taxi drivers, waiters, and hotel staff, that know little to no English. Sometimes it makes interactions rather interesting, and other times it makes things very interesting. Take for instance a certain taxi ride I took with Margerie and her friend Howard who was traveling with her.We hopped in the cab and asked for a seafood restaurant from the guidebook that we thought wasn't too far, but we asked him just for a definitive confirmation on the distance. Sure enough, after 4 or 5 repetitions trying to make sure we understood each other, we discovered that it was conveniently only 150 meters away. After 3-5 minutes of driving we asked again to make sure we were going the right way and he repeated himself in a very genuine assuring tone in broken English that the restaurant was only 150 meters away to which Howard insisted he said the same thing several 150 meters's ago. At this point we decided to cut our losses and have him take us back to Legian (the region of Kuta we were staying) so we could go to Warung Yogia, a small traditional spot near the hotel. We repeat very slowly several times to the driver, “Stop. No more restaurant. No more seafood. We go Legian. Three Brothers Inn. You know? No food, just Legian. We go Legian.” We were comforted by the unsurprising response indicating that he understood where the well-known region of Kuta was located.
There were doubts about the direction we were headed, but we just brushed them off since he knew the area much better and it was after dark. Nevertheless, we repeated a few more times, “No seafood. Legian. No eating. We go hotel in Legian. Three Brothers Inn. No restaurant,” to which he gave some nods and reassuring “yes, Legian”s with a “shut up, you've already said so a hundred times” undertone. 5-10 minutes later when the taxi finally stopped, I looked up a bit startled at the cab driver's expectant face as he turned to negotiate the price. Looking beyond him through the windshield, I saw the neon lights with the unmistakable words “Legian Seafood,” a fresh seafood restaurant in the middle of Kuta, not near the hotel at all. Unsuccessfully holding back laughter, I started to realize that our cab driver had honestly done his best to bring us exactly where he thought we were asking and didn't seem to be driving us all over town for more money. After Margerie showed him the listing in the guidebook for Warung Yogia on the street named Padma Utara, the driver indicated that he knew exactly where Padma Utara was, and no questioning could break the language barrier enough to find out whether or not he had ever heard of the restaurant. Like a little kid saying “I told you so,” he pointed to and read the street sign as we turned onto Padma Utara. Almost certain he had no clue where the restaurant was, the three of us begin reading every sign we saw for a few minutes, passing our hotel (where we started the whole endeavor) and other familiar spots. This went on until Margerie told him to stop the car so we could ask around and find it on foot, we payed him what we thought was appropriate (I think around $5), and began backtracking, following the directions of several locals until we came to a tiny ill-marked restaurant with a traditional Indonesian menu. After happily finishing our meals, we spent about an hour in the pool under a virtually full moon that brilliantly illuminated the surrounding palm trees.
Going beyond the language, my impression of Bali is one of great beauty and enchantment. These photos are the best I can do to convey what I have seen. As always, it's never the same as being here, but at least you get the idea.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Welcome to Bali!!
Wow what an amazing first day! Aside from losing my credit card, it's been a really great adventure.
I made it through the airport without a hassle (after flying British, Emirates, and now Singapore, I must admit Qatar Airways is still my favorite). The airport taxi service did not rip me off.
Travel tip: when going to any foreign country where the price of anything is negotiated, first ask a third party local how much he/she would pay for it. I asked several airport employees how much they would pay for a taxi to my destination and was pleased when I got a taxi for less than their suggested amount.
I made it to my hotel without a problem (thank goodness I could exchange my leftover pesos into rupiah in the Singapore airport). I went to the atm, bought a sim card for my phone, picked up a few snacks and an Indonesian power adapter, checked my email, then fell asleep trying to update my blog. If reading this blog has the same effect as writing it, then all of you must be reading this whenever you can't sleep. I'm not sure what it is, but I consistently fall asleep while trying to update this thing.
The next morning, I woke up lying on my bed near my laptop, on top of my sheets while still sporting the clothes from when I left Manila the previous morning. I tried to write a few more lines and when I woke up a couple hours later I decided to get breakfast. The complementary breakfast was a wonderful array of both traditional and Western breakfast foods so I jumped on the opportunity to have the more traditional rice and vegetables in the morning. A side of fresh pineapple and toast topped off with a hot tea set in front of a televised tennis match without blocking the view of the pool made it all quite nearly perfect. One final unsuccessful blog update attempt urged me to be productive. After getting in touch with Margerie...
Timeout: Margerie is a friend from France whom I met while on my trip to Mozambique and she was one of the legends taking the Rescue Diver course with me in Cape Town.
She has traveled the world but currently resides and works in Cape Town but is in Bali on holiday with her boss. I will be traveling around Bali with her this week before I head off to Gili Trawangan.
After getting in touch with Margerie, I decided to remain in Kuta one more night and travel with her to Amed to dive. When I told the hotel that I would like to extend my stay, they said all the rooms were taken so I moved down the road to the same hotel as Margerie. Every hotel seems to be authentically adorned with the beauty, magic, and mystery that is representative of Bali. Walkways are mazes lined with beautiful tropical plants and small neatly trimmed gardens. Grassy patches, gardens, rooftops, and gateways are some of the places that various statues called home. The statues were nothing like those found in North Canton. They depicted unworldly creatures, some with more than two arms, some with heads of elephants, others with dragon-like faces, and many more unusual features that exemplified the Hindu presence on the island. Away from the hotel, lunch was waiting for us.
Not knowing where to eat, I decided to ask the Balinese friends I made the night before where a good authentic place to eat would be. They told us a specific spot and gave us vague directions. We thanked them and went on our way over the uneven sidewalk while turning down the dozens of offers for taxis and motorbikes. Along the way
we shared stories about the most authentic international culinary exploits we've each had as the anticipation built. We had to ask for the help of a few people along the way and were very pleased when many of them had never heard it before, confirming that it was a tiny place tucked in the corner of some alley. The anticipation continued to build. 5 stops to ask directions, 30 minutes of walking, and some two and a half kilometers later, we arrive at a massive restaurant suspiciously sporting the same name as the tiny hole in the wall eatery we thought we had asked for. At any rate we decided to go in. It was gorgeous, the menu was completely in Indonesian (difficult but cool), but the food was expensive and although the squid was good, it wasn't the best. Apparently when we asked for an “authentic” restaurant, we meant “fancy.” I appreciated his suggestion at any rate and don't regret that we went there but I will never ask for restaurant suggestions abroad without being clear that I want a cheap place that the locals love. It simply further confirms my suspicions that in the Philippines and Indonesia (at least), all white people appear to be inherently rich. Pictured above is the restaurant. I told you it's fancy.
I made it through the airport without a hassle (after flying British, Emirates, and now Singapore, I must admit Qatar Airways is still my favorite). The airport taxi service did not rip me off.
Travel tip: when going to any foreign country where the price of anything is negotiated, first ask a third party local how much he/she would pay for it. I asked several airport employees how much they would pay for a taxi to my destination and was pleased when I got a taxi for less than their suggested amount.
I made it to my hotel without a problem (thank goodness I could exchange my leftover pesos into rupiah in the Singapore airport). I went to the atm, bought a sim card for my phone, picked up a few snacks and an Indonesian power adapter, checked my email, then fell asleep trying to update my blog. If reading this blog has the same effect as writing it, then all of you must be reading this whenever you can't sleep. I'm not sure what it is, but I consistently fall asleep while trying to update this thing.
The next morning, I woke up lying on my bed near my laptop, on top of my sheets while still sporting the clothes from when I left Manila the previous morning. I tried to write a few more lines and when I woke up a couple hours later I decided to get breakfast. The complementary breakfast was a wonderful array of both traditional and Western breakfast foods so I jumped on the opportunity to have the more traditional rice and vegetables in the morning. A side of fresh pineapple and toast topped off with a hot tea set in front of a televised tennis match without blocking the view of the pool made it all quite nearly perfect. One final unsuccessful blog update attempt urged me to be productive. After getting in touch with Margerie...
Timeout: Margerie is a friend from France whom I met while on my trip to Mozambique and she was one of the legends taking the Rescue Diver course with me in Cape Town.
She has traveled the world but currently resides and works in Cape Town but is in Bali on holiday with her boss. I will be traveling around Bali with her this week before I head off to Gili Trawangan.After getting in touch with Margerie, I decided to remain in Kuta one more night and travel with her to Amed to dive. When I told the hotel that I would like to extend my stay, they said all the rooms were taken so I moved down the road to the same hotel as Margerie. Every hotel seems to be authentically adorned with the beauty, magic, and mystery that is representative of Bali. Walkways are mazes lined with beautiful tropical plants and small neatly trimmed gardens. Grassy patches, gardens, rooftops, and gateways are some of the places that various statues called home. The statues were nothing like those found in North Canton. They depicted unworldly creatures, some with more than two arms, some with heads of elephants, others with dragon-like faces, and many more unusual features that exemplified the Hindu presence on the island. Away from the hotel, lunch was waiting for us.
Not knowing where to eat, I decided to ask the Balinese friends I made the night before where a good authentic place to eat would be. They told us a specific spot and gave us vague directions. We thanked them and went on our way over the uneven sidewalk while turning down the dozens of offers for taxis and motorbikes. Along the way
we shared stories about the most authentic international culinary exploits we've each had as the anticipation built. We had to ask for the help of a few people along the way and were very pleased when many of them had never heard it before, confirming that it was a tiny place tucked in the corner of some alley. The anticipation continued to build. 5 stops to ask directions, 30 minutes of walking, and some two and a half kilometers later, we arrive at a massive restaurant suspiciously sporting the same name as the tiny hole in the wall eatery we thought we had asked for. At any rate we decided to go in. It was gorgeous, the menu was completely in Indonesian (difficult but cool), but the food was expensive and although the squid was good, it wasn't the best. Apparently when we asked for an “authentic” restaurant, we meant “fancy.” I appreciated his suggestion at any rate and don't regret that we went there but I will never ask for restaurant suggestions abroad without being clear that I want a cheap place that the locals love. It simply further confirms my suspicions that in the Philippines and Indonesia (at least), all white people appear to be inherently rich. Pictured above is the restaurant. I told you it's fancy.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
On the Way
If I don't move quickly enough, I'm going to fall too far behind in my updates, so unfortunately I'll need to be a little brief about some things from Boracay by talking about only a few things in detail and otherwise listing out others. I met Armand in the terminal, we shared some ideas about music, flew 45 minutes to Kalibo, hired a tricycle 
for 5 minutes to a bus station, took a bus for 2 hours to Caticlan, rode a ferry for 15 minutes to a pier in Boracay, then got a van to take us the last 15 minutes to the resort.
I had been told different things about Boracay: it's littered with tourists, the beaches are pristine, the people there are snobby, I'll fall in love with it right away, it doesn't have good diving, the diving is great, I'll hate it, the beach is groomed twice a day, it is very international, etc. etc. Ultimately I wasn't completely sure what to expect. After dropping our stuff in the room, it didn't take Armand much encouragement to convince me to go swimming. After all, it was piping hot and I just spent the day cooped up in transit. My first steps onto White Beach were steps that will not easily escape my memory. The soft sand was so white and so much like powder that it was as if they mix it with flour. The shallow slope of the ocean floor allowed us to walk out a good hundred feet into the clear warm water before we had to swim. An hour must
have passed when one of Armand's friends named Marin came along. Marin is a gorgeous Filipina raised in Orange county and she not only has an awesome heart and great personality to go along with her, but a perfectly-matched American boyfriend named Brett sharing all the same qualities, surprisingly from Dayton. I got to know them pretty well over the course of my week there and wish I'd known them since childhood.
Bom Bom Bar was great (though somehow pronounced “boom boom,” which was a bit awkward at first since “boom boom” in Sabang means sex). It turned out to be a very hip outdoor bar/restaurant spread over the sand centered around great live music. Armand did a guest appearance on the relatively open microphone with his very engaging and refreshingly quirky friend deemed the Reggaeman.
I managed to get in touch with Dustin, a friend of both Armand and Ethei (my favorite instructor back in Sabang) working at Blue Mango and ended up having quite a memorable experience. Right after meeting him, I was lingering around the shop and before leaving, he takes me aside and shows me an engagement ring. Seeing my surprise and bewilderment, he explains that someone is going to propose to his girlfriend on the dive. I jealously comment one how cool it would be and how I've never seen it before. After a moment's hesitation, he asks me to join him on the dive to help keep track of the rest of the divers. I threw on a set of rental gear and jumped on the boat where among several others were an anxious man and his unsuspecting girlfriend. We all dropped down and the instructor handed us bread with which to feed the fish. We all held out our offerings and watched in wonder as the swarm of greedy fish came to take as much as they could find from our fingers, sometimes nibbling our fingers by accident with their small and harmless mouths. Finally, the man pulls out a laminated paper:
Meeting you was by chance, becoming your friend was by choice, and falling in love with you was destiny. Will you marry me?”
The water that immediately began filling her mask was an indication of her smile behind her regulator which broke the seal of the mask allowing water to enter. The rest of the dive was uneventful in comparison, but later dives were nice. There is a site called Yapak (meaning “barefoot” in Tagalog) that is a gorgeous wall starting around 25 meters which was so nice I dived it twice. Most notably was the second time when we took a second tank on the boat so we did “Yapak 2” for the first dive then “Yapak 1” for the second with a one hour surface interval in between. We saw great fish in the huge crevasses and trenches on the first dive followed by a great hour sitting on the boat
above crystal clear shallow water by the nearby Puka Beach. Unfortunately our trusty instructor/divemaster Dustin decided to go with a standard hour surface interval without considering the dive profiles. All of us should have known better. My computer started to worry after 5 minutes when we swam through a breathtaking arch at 42 meters teeming with life. The rest of the dive, I tried to make my computer happier by staying about 3-5 meters shallower than the other 3, signaling that I was okay but my dive computer was not happy. By the time we made our ascent, my computer said that we had 21 minutes of required decompression before exiting the water. Luckily I conserve my air and was able to provide air to my buddy Ginger during the last 3 minutes of the dive. After surfacing, Dustin's “I was going to have us stop for 10 minutes, but more decompression never hurts,” was not much of a comfort.
This picture is of me, Marin, and Brett. Other highlights of the trip include watching the beautiful sunset on a traditional sailboat as we cruised along sitting on plastic mesh holding the outrigger together as the warm waves slowly soaked our clothes. To find my favorite snack, I went to a little shop called Fruitas where one could not only find fresh fruit smoothies peeled, cut, and blended upon ordering, but also coconuts filled with fresh fruit. I would regularly get a mango banana coconut for hardly more than a dollar. They took a fresh coconut, cut the top off, shaved the meat (leaving the shavings inside), filled it with crushed ice, cut fresh mangos and bananas, mixed them all together, and filled the remaining space with coconut milk. These things were to die for and if I wasn't careful I would eat them for breakfast lunch and dinner every day. Another of my favorite things about Boracay was the scenery. I hope you enjoy the pictures that I think speak for themselves.
for 5 minutes to a bus station, took a bus for 2 hours to Caticlan, rode a ferry for 15 minutes to a pier in Boracay, then got a van to take us the last 15 minutes to the resort.I had been told different things about Boracay: it's littered with tourists, the beaches are pristine, the people there are snobby, I'll fall in love with it right away, it doesn't have good diving, the diving is great, I'll hate it, the beach is groomed twice a day, it is very international, etc. etc. Ultimately I wasn't completely sure what to expect. After dropping our stuff in the room, it didn't take Armand much encouragement to convince me to go swimming. After all, it was piping hot and I just spent the day cooped up in transit. My first steps onto White Beach were steps that will not easily escape my memory. The soft sand was so white and so much like powder that it was as if they mix it with flour. The shallow slope of the ocean floor allowed us to walk out a good hundred feet into the clear warm water before we had to swim. An hour must
have passed when one of Armand's friends named Marin came along. Marin is a gorgeous Filipina raised in Orange county and she not only has an awesome heart and great personality to go along with her, but a perfectly-matched American boyfriend named Brett sharing all the same qualities, surprisingly from Dayton. I got to know them pretty well over the course of my week there and wish I'd known them since childhood.Bom Bom Bar was great (though somehow pronounced “boom boom,” which was a bit awkward at first since “boom boom” in Sabang means sex). It turned out to be a very hip outdoor bar/restaurant spread over the sand centered around great live music. Armand did a guest appearance on the relatively open microphone with his very engaging and refreshingly quirky friend deemed the Reggaeman.
I managed to get in touch with Dustin, a friend of both Armand and Ethei (my favorite instructor back in Sabang) working at Blue Mango and ended up having quite a memorable experience. Right after meeting him, I was lingering around the shop and before leaving, he takes me aside and shows me an engagement ring. Seeing my surprise and bewilderment, he explains that someone is going to propose to his girlfriend on the dive. I jealously comment one how cool it would be and how I've never seen it before. After a moment's hesitation, he asks me to join him on the dive to help keep track of the rest of the divers. I threw on a set of rental gear and jumped on the boat where among several others were an anxious man and his unsuspecting girlfriend. We all dropped down and the instructor handed us bread with which to feed the fish. We all held out our offerings and watched in wonder as the swarm of greedy fish came to take as much as they could find from our fingers, sometimes nibbling our fingers by accident with their small and harmless mouths. Finally, the man pulls out a laminated paper:
Meeting you was by chance, becoming your friend was by choice, and falling in love with you was destiny. Will you marry me?”
The water that immediately began filling her mask was an indication of her smile behind her regulator which broke the seal of the mask allowing water to enter. The rest of the dive was uneventful in comparison, but later dives were nice. There is a site called Yapak (meaning “barefoot” in Tagalog) that is a gorgeous wall starting around 25 meters which was so nice I dived it twice. Most notably was the second time when we took a second tank on the boat so we did “Yapak 2” for the first dive then “Yapak 1” for the second with a one hour surface interval in between. We saw great fish in the huge crevasses and trenches on the first dive followed by a great hour sitting on the boat
above crystal clear shallow water by the nearby Puka Beach. Unfortunately our trusty instructor/divemaster Dustin decided to go with a standard hour surface interval without considering the dive profiles. All of us should have known better. My computer started to worry after 5 minutes when we swam through a breathtaking arch at 42 meters teeming with life. The rest of the dive, I tried to make my computer happier by staying about 3-5 meters shallower than the other 3, signaling that I was okay but my dive computer was not happy. By the time we made our ascent, my computer said that we had 21 minutes of required decompression before exiting the water. Luckily I conserve my air and was able to provide air to my buddy Ginger during the last 3 minutes of the dive. After surfacing, Dustin's “I was going to have us stop for 10 minutes, but more decompression never hurts,” was not much of a comfort.
This picture is of me, Marin, and Brett. Other highlights of the trip include watching the beautiful sunset on a traditional sailboat as we cruised along sitting on plastic mesh holding the outrigger together as the warm waves slowly soaked our clothes. To find my favorite snack, I went to a little shop called Fruitas where one could not only find fresh fruit smoothies peeled, cut, and blended upon ordering, but also coconuts filled with fresh fruit. I would regularly get a mango banana coconut for hardly more than a dollar. They took a fresh coconut, cut the top off, shaved the meat (leaving the shavings inside), filled it with crushed ice, cut fresh mangos and bananas, mixed them all together, and filled the remaining space with coconut milk. These things were to die for and if I wasn't careful I would eat them for breakfast lunch and dinner every day. Another of my favorite things about Boracay was the scenery. I hope you enjoy the pictures that I think speak for themselves.
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