Surfin' Indo Style

Hello!
And Happy Memorial Day! Remember to tell all those important veterans thank you! (So thank you Grandad Jack and all the others that read this!)
We are here in Phuket, Thailand. It's an interesting place. The tsunami devestation of 2004 seems to haunt the area even though the affects cannot be easily seen.

I believe that when I last left you we were enjoying the sunny shores of Gili Air. As our days in Lombok came to a close we had the chance to see another part of the island entirely.

Leaving Gili Air was difficult and I feared that the next location would be disappointing if only in contrast to the paradise we had just left. But here’s a true travel lesson for you – paradise has many forms and every place has something to offer if only you’ll allow yourself to see it. I truly believe that the places I have seen that disappointed me had much more to do with my emotional state than with the physical or cultural atmosphere surrounding me. If it’s true that life is what you make of it then travel is a condensed version of that truth. Kuta, Lombok was a good example of that.
Kuta, Lombok sits on the southern shoreline of Lombok. It’s a sleepy town that serves as a hub for surfers that frequent the area for the amazing surf breaks found there. Indonesia is relatively new on the surf scene (when compared with say Hawaii and Australia) but it has much to offer as we were to soon find out.
Our first day of exploring the area surrounding Kuta took us along the coast to Gerupak, the site of a few of the most popular surf breaks. This little port town was in sad shape. A former fishing village, it was now over fished and overly dependant on tourism. The harbor was full of long boats that in a previous life had hauled fish from the sea. Now they took surfers to the popular breaks which could only be reached by boat. We checked around at the numerous surf shops and signed up for a morning session the next day. Then we headed back to Kuta along the hilly, pock-marked roads.
It was a spectacular drive. The ocean sat complacently to our left, blue waves crowned in white silently stealing the shore line one wave at a time. To our right all was green. Hills rose up capped in trees and vines. Herds of cattle, tawny and tan, plodded along the road with their watchmen staring more intently at the passing mopeds than at the livestock in their care. Occasionally a herd of water buffalo would appear. These poor creatures got the short end of the stick. They are ugly, slow and stinky. Their appearance is of a badly formed cow with balding hair and big flat faces. Even their babies missed out on that cute stage that almost all animals go through.
I watched the scenery go by and tried to soak it all in – the green of the grass, the smells of the countryside, and the sounds of birds and passing mopeds. So much of it was foreign. So much of it was familiar.
The next morning we rose early and were in Gerupak by 8 am awaiting our departure. The air was already balmy. I remember walking across the crumbling street and through a narrow alley between rows of rundown cement block shanties to pick up one of the surfboards we would be using that day. Such a strange sight: a home of such simple and basic construction with a rack of modern (and well-worn) surfboards stacked behind it just like you would expect to see in some Hawaiian garage. It is one of those surreal travel memories born of a moment completely incapable of occurring in the world I know back home.
We helped load the three boards (two 8’ and one 9’) onto our converted fishing boat. The boats construction is worth noting. It’s basically a canoe with a long, narrow frame and flat board benches for sitting but has the addition of two outriggers, one on either side of the boat. For those of you familiar with outrigger canoes that are so popular in Hawaii, these boats look like larger versions of an outrigger canoe with two of the arm-like extensions that provide balance for such a narrow hulled boat. Our boat had a large outboard motor powering us along. Our “captain” was a young local boy who said little. His tanned skin and taunt muscles attested to his experience on the waters.
So imagine, if you will, a cove which is fairly broad but whose mouth is relatively narrow. It is almost completely enclosed by the aged hills that must have once boasted dramatic cliffs and points. What now remains after time and tide has taken their toll are softer hills with the occasional lingering evidence of a majestic drop or cliff face.
The cove is enough to create several ideal breaks along its broad shorelines and dramatic points. Our little boat, its paint faded but still bright in the morning sun, cuts a path across first the stagnant green water of the shallow harbor and then into the deepening green-blue of the cove. As we cruise along, the wind in our faces and the land at our backs, the whole world glimmers with natural brightness and the anticipation of doing something old in a place so incredibly new to us.
We glide along the back of the break we will be surfing. It’s a long break just over the top of a reef and as we join the two or three boats already anchored near the break we watch the break take shape. Watching a wave, any wave, is an amazing thing. Few things in this world can compare to the grace and form of a wave’s natural arch. Be it 30 feet or 30 inches, the face of a wave has the impressive ability to move while move and to push and pull simultaneously. I could watch the waves all day but to watch a wave with the knowledge that you plan on riding that wave changes the perspective entirely. It becomes a study, an examination. That wave is both friend and foe and you see it as such. Suddenly it’s not only grace and power but the location of the break, the type of wave, and the force behind it. This is a wave you want to know – not just watch from afar. It’s the difference between watching a horse in a pasture and approaching a horse with a saddle in a corral.
I’m certainly no surfing goddess or expert just a humble follower of the sea and any excuse to be closer to the ocean is a good excuse for me. You simply don’t get much closer than surfing. I don’t desire dramatic drop-ins or epic rides but I am addicted to the feeling of the ocean picking up my board and allowing me to ride her waves for a few seconds. So when I hopped off the boat and onto the 9’ monster board I was simply praying for a couple of good waves. What I got was a few hours of answered prayers.
We paddled out and joined the small mass of people already waiting for the wave. Surfing offers the unique chance to paddle up between an athlete that is 10 times better than you and an athlete that is just getting started. And each of them is waiting on the exact same thing – the next good ride.
For over an hour and a half we shared the water with a handful of surfers on a perfectly sunny day. That break gave me some great rides. The nice thing about a 9’ monster board is that it can catch any wave from a ripple to a ripper. I rode big waves (for me) and small ones. I drank greedily from the cup offered to me – taking any wave at first and loving them all. Remember as little kid when your dad would grab your hands and spin you around like a helicopter? Surfing has that same timeless joy. It is a joy brought from a movement so effortless that you have to hang on to it to keep it – and that makes the ride worthwhile. And just like a little kid the moment the wave releases me, I’m jumping right back on my board and paddling out as if saying “More more more! I want to do it again – just one more time!”
And that joy spreads from face to face on the wave. Emotions are written clearly on each face: the concentration of riding, the elation afterwards, the disappointment when you miss a good wave. Each face tells a story. I love watching Desirae and Lisa. Lisa with her ever-present smile broadening to encompass her whole face, her body bent in concentration then easing into the ride. Desirae looking intense when dropping in then a childlike grin creeping up from her toes and taking the rest of her body with her body with it. These are moments of joy that carry a sense of purity – you are taking nothing from the ocean and giving only yourself in return. You and the ocean – the giver and the gift – are in unity if only for a few lingering seconds. It is an undeniable peace, an unexplainable comfort.
After a couple of hours it got crowded. A group of Swedish chicks in a surf school showed up wearing helmets and hogging the waves. The locals crowded in and the peace was shattered but it’s affects remained and on the boat ride back, now facing land and the heat of the day, we all wore smiles that would linger like the last waves at sunset. All was well…

And so the story continues. I should wrap Indonesia up in a week or so and then I'll take you on to Malaysia. Time keeps speeding up and up...I wish someone would tell me how to slow it down a little! I hope this finds all of you happy and healthy. I miss you and love you all. Take care!

Love from the road...

Paradise Personified

Hello again!

We are here in Malaysia but my stories about Indonesia are not yet done! So enough chit chat - let's get straight to the point. We'll pick up where we left off - at the top of Rinjani.

Climbing Rinjani was an exhilarating, albeit trying, experience – the type of journey that left you physically and mentally exhausted and searching for some rest and relaxation. From the mountain’s staggering heights our sought after respite became glisteningly clear. Far in the distance, off to the east, shining in the ocean like three pearls of peace were the Gili Islands. Three small dots of land that all the guide books and many fellow travelers promised to be the very definition of relaxation.

After our brutal decent from Rinjani’s slopes we made a beeline for those distant dots. Getting to the Gili Islands was a menagerie of shifty local businessmen and complications. Once settled in the overcrowded, overpriced fishing boat that was to serve as our transport from shore to shore, I stared out at the blue-green water and thought to myself, “This place better live up to the propaganda.” I was not to be disappointed.

We were headed for the island of Gili Air. Of the three islands, Gili Air was marketed as the “medium” in every sense of the word. This island was smaller than the more famous Gili Trawangan but larger than the oft forgotten Gili Meno. It did not boast of the lively party crowd that drew swarms of backpackers to Trawangan’s shores but offered more atmosphere and accommodations than tiny Gili Meno.

Our packed boat sailed right up onto the sandy shores of the ‘town center’ on Gili Air where we hauled our packs over our heads to the shores to prevent them from getting wet. The clear waters aside, the area was sparse and what buildings there were had a distinct air of dilapidation about them. A crowd of the miniature horse drawn carts waited to transport the new arrivals but otherwise the area seemed deserted.

As with most of our destinations, we arrived sans reservations with only a Lonely Planet list of accommodations to guide us. However, this time it was an aging, eccentric Dutch woman who proved to have the best recommendation. She had chatted with Lisa on the short boat ride, extolling the virtues of a little known guest house called Lucky’s which she assured us had nice bungalows with a good view of the sunset side of the island, decent rates and good food to boot.

After we disembarked from our boat she led us through the back paths of the village to deliver a mattress she had procured for a new father and his family. She was a little off-kilter but her intentions spoke of a kind disposition despite her zany outward appearance.

We followed the well-trodden foot paths to Lucky’s and it was on these paths that we got our first taste of Gili Air. Like all ‘postcard paradises’ this island sported a healthy population of palm trees but it was startling to find fly covered cattle grazing beneath the swaying palms. These cleared areas nestled between homes made of every available material from ancient wooden planks to corrugated tin and crumbling cement blocks. I wouldn’t say the place was in despondent poverty but more of a state of easy and tolerated decline. Women in elegant traditional sarongs walked to and fro sometimes carrying large bundles balanced precariously on their heads. Children scampered about half (or sometimes completely) naked, and a group of adolescence finished up a soccer game in a bare field beneath the deepening sapphire sky.

Our guide spoke with a very somber youth who then accompanied us to Lucky’s and showed us the bungalows. Our soon to be home-away-from-home was nothing grand to look at – a simple scattering of barebones bungalows sitting a stones throw from the ocean. A low lying building that served as an office, kitchen, and home for the owner’s family sat at the edge of it all. A line of four cabanas – simple, open air structures made of a wooden frame, palm frond roof and bamboo mat floor that was raised a few meters above the ground – served as dining tables that faced the dying light of day with a terrific view of Lombok and the neighboring Gili Meno.

We agreed to the price of $10,000 rupiah per night which is about $10 US or $3 each for a small, simplistic bungalow with a fan and basic bathroom. The veranda had a nice view of the ocean out front. (We would forgo the view for an A/C unit after two nights of stifling heat – for an additional $3 US).

This is where we would spend the next week – lazing about the compound, in the shade of the cabanas or on our porch, with the occasional walk about the island in search of good swimming beaches and snacks. Lucky’s was a natural fit for us. It was a family run business with the same kids running about, flying kites and making noise, and the same women sweeping the floors and surrounding areas. This was a place were life flowed smoothly but slowly so that time warped into a trickle of days and nights punctuated only by the meals, sunsets and occasional venturing out to see the redundant sites of the island.

The owner/operator of Lucky’s was Luke – a small local man with an easy manner but sharp, observant eyes and a slightly mischievous smile that would appear suddenly. He took obvious pride in his business and would often join us at the cabanas as we ate if only to chat about the day and how we were enjoying our stay. My memory of Gili Air will forever carry with it Luke’s smile and his family’s presence.

This island, with it’s lack of modern distractions and conveniences such as motorized vehicles and neon lights, will stand out in my mind as the perfect example of paradise – a place rich in culture, simplicity and ease without the price tag that is so often attached to such places elsewhere in the world.

If I could paint you a picture of Gili Air, it would look something like this:

Everything is covered in the light one baths in when this close to the equator – a sunlight unfiltered and unpolluted, bright, airy and dampened with a humidity that begs you to find shade and a cold drink. The worst of the heat has burned off as the sun seeks the horizon, a perfect fiery ball hovering above the ocean. The ocean, too, seems to be retreating as low tide seeps in. Its glassy reflection sits directly in front of the little cabana where the three girls sit seemingly blending in with the surroundings. They move without any sense of urgency, drinking, snacking and talking in voices that barely carry beyond the palm frond roof of their enclosure.

They are watching with earnest the unfolding drama at the waters edge. One of the ever-present children that came complementary with their current accommodation is in the process of flying his homemade kite. A friend stands a short distance away letting out string that is wrapped around an old coffee can as the little man tries to catch the wind. He squeals with excitement when the wind finally grabs the kit and sails it skyward where is sails up and up. But this is where the land meets the sea and so the wind here is sporadic and moody. It tosses the kite about in a violent dance as if it is possessed by a spirit all its own. Suddenly it plunges down – directly as the smiling figure of the little man below. It chases him for a few feet, darting about his head as he squeals and runs, swatting. A smile as large as his small face can contain shines in the afternoon sun and laughter like breaking waves leaps forth as he scampers away.

The three girls can’t help but laugh too. This pure and simple enjoyment seems to be so definitive of their time here – as if the modern world and all its complications had somehow overlooked this island during it’s all-encompassing march through mankind.

The sun dies slowly and they enjoy the colors and shades of this masterpiece. Off in the distance red lightening pierces the sky – but it is far away and brings only mystery and beauty and a cooling breeze to their paradise. The stars come out and Luke brings dinner. As they say – just another day in paradise…

There are more spectacularly beautiful places in this world, most of them now overseen by high rise resorts and blinking traffic lights. There are also areas more symbolic and historic but if you are looking for paradise personified, look no further than Gili Air – where paradise echoes in the laughter of local children and is displayed in the colorful fabric worn by the women. Where the easy manner of Luke’s hospitality and the simple beauty of the palm trees sway is enough to calm a rocky soul and sooth a tired mind.

I hope this blog finds you all healthy and happy. For all of you back in Texas - and close enough to call my mother - please call her and tell her to TAKE IT EASY. She's recovering from back surgery but needs encouragement to do as the doctor says! Just kidding mom - I know you are following him by the book.

I hope to post again soon. Until then - take care and God bless.

Love from the road...

Charlsea, Lisa, and Desirae

Mountains to Climb

Hello Again from Kuta, Bali!

Even as I type this my time here grows short. Indonesia will soon be a thing of the past. Replaced with the mystery of Malaysia and then the excitement of Thailand. Our time here has been everything rolled into one - hectic and peaceful, exciting and slow, expected and unexpected. And while I am behind on my blogging, don't you fear! I will eventually catch up. There are many stories from this amazing country yet to come. Here is the second tale...

I want to tell you the story of Gurung Rinjani. It was told to me by a local boy from Lombok. He was about my age and originally from the small seaside town of Sengiggi. He is now studying at the university in Mataram. He was quiet. Shy around girls. He was a Muslim. I can not imagine having less in common with an individual than I did with this boy. But we all share a love for stories. It’s the oldest form of art, the most ancient form of human enjoyment. This is the story he told me.

Long ago, before Indonesia was Indonesia, before the islands were ruled by one government, there were many kings and many kingdoms. This was before Islam, before Hindu, before Christianity touched these shores. This was a time when the people still cowered before mountains of fire and worshipped gods they created to explain the havoc they could not.
During this time Java was ruled by a selfish prince. His land and seas were abundant. His farms and family were beautiful. But he looked upon Lombok with desire and jealousy. Lombok, the small island to the East, was ruled by a pleasant king and his kind queen, Rinjani. They enjoyed the joys of their islands’ beauty and their islands’ people. They were civil and sincere. They enjoyed a good party.
And so the prince of Java came to call on the king of Lombok. The king knew of his guests’ jealousy and evil desires. But he could not deny his guest. Instead he threw an outrageous party in honor of him. He brought in dancers and musicians from all over the island. The best food, the most delicious drinks were laid before his guest. All day and all night they ate and drank. They laughed and listened. By late night, the queen of Lombok had grown weary. She tenderly kissed her husband goodnight and departed, leaving the men to be men.
The prince of Java took of everything offered and then he took more. He guzzled the drinks. He scarfed the food. He groped the dancers and laughed too loud. The king kept up with him drink for drink. He watched the jealous prince grow mad before his eyes. Maybe he expected the prince to drink himself into a stupor. Maybe he expected a fight. He did not expect the prince to suddenly and violently plunge a dagger into his back. No warning. No remorse. The king died.
Chaos reigned. The party was full of shuffling feet, fleeing servants. The prince charged forth. His work was not done. He needed to find the queen. He needed to finish what he had started.
Can you imagine him creeping into the royal palace? All is quiet. Shadows watch his movements, mocking his every move. The moonlight weeps tears of silvery light. He creeps towards the queens’ bungalow. He parts her ornate silk curtains. His dagger is ready. Her husbands’ blood not even dry on the blade. He steps out of the shadows…There is no one there! The bed is empty. Someone knew. Someone had seen his thoughts. The queen was gone.
She had fled. With a servant? With a son or daughter? She fled the ease of her kingdom. She did not know of her husbands’ death. She only knew she was in danger. She raced along the dirt paths under the watchful eyes of swaying palms and whispering rivers. The moonlight shifted to cover her path.
The road led her far. She traveled fast. But not as fast as the word of her husbands’ death. Servants whispered to maids. Maids to delivery boys. Delivery boys to journeymen and farmers. Farmers to the mysterious gods of the mountains – “The king is dead. The king is dead.” In the hills and the valleys, across the rivers and to the very mouths of fire spewing forth their lava and flame, the word traveled faster than the queen. It arrived before she did to the first stop of her long journey.
Lombok was filled with family of the kings and queens past and present. The old family’s and the new generations all flowed across the land. And so it was that the queen arrived at an uncles’ house. This uncle lived close to a river, high in the hills. He had been plagued for years with a disease that made his nose run with a dreary and dreadful snot. All day for years and years, his nose ran and ran. It ran so much that it colored the water of the river he lived on a yellowish, sluggish brown. She stopped to see this uncle. She asked if he had news of her husband. She pleaded. She waited. But he only sniffled and sneezed. There were no answers there but to this day the river runs a sluggish brown-yellow.
On she went. She arrived at the second uncle’s house. This uncle was known for his long flowing beard. So great was this beard that it covered the valley and flowed across the land. His beard whispered and waved in the wind but it did not tell her the answers she was searching for. The queen walked forlornly on through the hills covered by his deep beard. Today the rice terraces flow throughout this valley like the uncle’s beard of long ago.
No answers but she knew. Her heart was already weeping when she arrived at the third uncles’ house. He was greatest among the brothers. The lord of a domain of beauty and despair and hope and tragedy. He knew what it was the queen sought and he had great pity for her. He knew she was never to be safe and he knew that her broken heart would never heal. He watched her approach with tears in his eyes. When she came to him, he held out his hand. “He is dead. He is dead.”
She cried tears of pure sorrow. They filled the lake at his feet with a blue so pure and deep that no one could take their eyes away. She took his hand. “Where do you wish to go? You cannot stay here.” He looked at her as he asked this question.
She did not know where she wanted to go. She wanted desperately to be near her husband but she could not bring herself to leave her beloved island. Without knowing where she was going, she led the uncle to a high peak overlooking the valley and the sea, the rice paddies and the lake her tears had filled. Here her arms could touch heaven, her feet could touch her beloved island. “Here.” She said. “Here I belong.”
The uncle looked at her and said, “Yes, Rinjani, my queen. Here is where you shall stay.” And so the second highest peak in all of Indonesia came to be. It is a volcanic mountain whose fury and anger has wiped clean entire villages, whose beauty and grace have inspired thousands of pilgrims. Whose very presence speaks of tragedy and of love.

I wanted to tell you this story because I have stood on the summit of Gurung Rinjani, Indonesia’s second highest peak and one that as recently as 2004 spewed angry ash and lava into the air. I have seen the valley below her as it changed from a velvety blanket of night to a glistening gleam of green rice paddies. I’ve watched the sun warm the mountains shear sides and felt her crumbling rock slide beneath my feet. I’ve fought for air at her staggering heights and lost my breath at the very sight of her beautiful lake.
Rinjani is more than a mountain – she’s a lesson in strength and fortitude. A reminder that pain and discomfort are often the only paths to peace and beauty. A reminder that the best views cannot be accessed by an air conditioned gondola or an escalator.
There is so much to tell about our journey. I could fill page upon page of descriptions and explanations. I could bend your ears for hours about how humbling it was to hike in unbelievable heat and humidity for 9 hours following guides who easily navigated paths even when laden with all our food and equipment while we staggered behind scrambling and whining about our packs which carried only clothing and a little water. I could make you laugh out loud talking about the monkeys that scrambled around us when we took our lunch breaks and how they scampered and seemed to dare each other to get closer and closer to this obvious feast just out of their reach. I could make you cringe talking about rising at 3 am to hike in pitch black up a slope full of crags and sharp rocks where our imaginations had us believing a wrong step in one direction, just a few centimeters out of our flashlights glow, would surely send us tumbling over a huge cliff. I could tell you of the stars that blinked and winked at us. Of the way the sun flirted with the horizon for hours, first casting a grayish glow, then a warming yellow, then a flattering red, before bursting forth into a vibrant and exuberant glow of orange and flame.
But could I, with all these words, make you feel the last slope as we approached 12000 feet? The way the rock slid from under our feet. The way our bodies gasped for air to thin to fill our lungs? Could you understand the mental and physical turmoil? Could I express the fulfillment and joy and appreciation that waited for us at the top? How the view was secondary to that feeling of completion and contentment? No, I’m not that good of a story teller.
But I can tell you the story of the great mountain. I could not find it in the Lonely Planet Guide. I haven never heard it before or since. It was passed from our ‘porter’ who carried the bulk of our food and equipment on a bamboo stick. He told the youth from Mataram. Our porter was young as well but he seemed old. He seemed as if he knew the land as an old man knows the home he built with his own hands. It was a real story – the kind you hear around campfires full of cowboys, on barstools full of old miners, in kitchens full of laughing women. The kind of story I fell in love with as a child. And it tells of Rinjani in a way I could never explain or imagine.

Before I leave Rinjani forever I have a few “thank you’s” that are due:
I would like to thank Erin for making me buy that $5 sarong in Maui. Not only has it flown countless miles serving as my pillow or blanket but it has now made the trek up Rinjani as my head and ear protector in those early hours before dawn.
Thanks to Boo for an ancient red bandana that saved my scalp from the burning sun and added the much needed thin layer between my bare head and the nippy air in our tent at the base of the summit. It also covered some horrendously dirty hair by day 3.
For a simple pair of lifesaving socks that were tucked away in my stocking a few years ago, I owe a big thank you to my Momma. She probably had no idea those tan and maroon socks would save my little feetsies from Rinjani’s cruel paths – but boy did they ever.
My body would like to thank my father for the extra large bottle of Advil he purchased for me before I left.
And of course, to my two climbing companions, Lisa and Desirae, whose encouragement and strength pushed and pulled me to the top. Thanks ladies – here’s to us. May the rest of the journey be a gently sloping and downhill all the way.

That's it for now. May you be safe and prosperous until we meet again.

Miss you all from the road.