Cue 52 hours of travel.
Leaving America in such a state was mind-numbing enough. A good friend of mine happened to drop into my sensory perspective via skype during this mindless session. His conversation was comforting and got me through my hard time. Of course, he said very little, nothing in fact, and the entire dialogue was selfishly one-sided; which has left me wondering whether the whole episode was in fact a figment of my imagination. I think the increased security presence in my immediate area was just a statistical anomaly in walking routes, but the harsh sideways glances from fellow travellers had me debating this rather trivial matter for several minutes (hours).
52 hours of travel. Partitioned as follows: 12 hour flight to Singapore, 10 hour layover, 2 hour flight to Kuala Lumpur, 5 hour layover, 1 hour flight to Padang, Hang out for the day till 6pm, 10hour ferry ride, 2 hour speed boat ride. Arrival here
The ferry ride needs to be mentioned. In biggish seas and in a wooden boat it was obvious I had entered something very different from your usual trip on the Lynx across Cook straight. The ferry would literally creak open going up swells and then compress going down them. I could see a mans entire big toe (normal human size, not possum size) in between flooring above me, only to have the gap quickly clamped shut upon descent into another trough of hydro. Waves are an amazing diametry in motion, bringing joy and fear in the same beautiful form.
It was my first time in a rural village in indonesia. The people are the usual story that you hear about in any form of travel media; perennial clove cigarette smiles , vertically challenged adults and 'hey mista!!'s greet the senses. For any transient its a breath of fresh and welcoming air.
I found a man to take me out to my new home for 2 months using the broken indonesian id practised on the ferry. Obviously i didnt sleep a wink given the omnipresent sinking-anxiety attacks episodes finely timed to the rising and falling of the bow. My new friends name was Ade and he was a champ. Cruising out of the small harbour of Muarasiberut with two german lads allong for the ride, i felt somewhat safe and pleased with the roll of events. Everything was going so smoothly i felt as if Indo is perhaps this mans home on earth, such is the vibe of the place. I guess everyone who comes here suffers the same joy. Suffering because we never want to leave, the expiry date on the visas looming like the proverbial monkey on the back.
I was here to meet my friend Blake, a mate i hadnt seen for a year. Yet emails and phone calls had conspired to sending me out of the great USA within 2 weeks, to arrive 52 hours in the middle of an Indonesia island group, isolated 12hours from any form of useable civilization. I hadnt spoken to Blake for over 2 weeks, as he was out of contact in the jungle. I was on a whim, hoping to make the connection in time and space.
The surf was pumping when i arrived, but sunburn and sleep deprivation couldnt stop me from making the paddle around the fringe reef to the lineup. The locals had not seen a large nosed, AcDc tattoed dero stalking the village, and this had me a bit sad. I needed barrel therapy. As i cavalierly stroked my way through emerald green water, against the sun in the distance i could see a 'super-saiyan' style haircut paddling down the reef towards me. It had an almost Victorian elegance to it, the long lost mates meeting up in a random lineup halfway around the world. We just sat on our boards 50m separated, laughing.
A firm handshake was all that needed to be said.
The following two months were a mixture of amazing waves. Esoteric living in a jungle, surfing, smoking, drinking and eating very little in the way of a sustainable diet. It was a surfing nomads dream. Like all dreams that are worthwhile to your consciousness, i dont remember much of the trip in detail; it now just exists as a floating bubble in the middle of a twisted mind.
One thing i DO remember in great detail though is the chicken slaughter. Pictures can back up the sheer violence. Two chickens delivered by an old mate, once in our possession were quickly stripped of their souls. However i had a bit of mind blank and couldnt snap my ones neck, so the poor little thing had a bit of a rough 30seconds. I do feel sad in retrospect, as a machete shouldve been the ending tool. Cest La Vie.
Chicken had never tasted so bad. But as 3 men and a lucky Swedish girl huddled around the table eating grey chicken legs covered in the Indonesian spicy T-sauce known as Sambal, we couldnt wipe the grin off of our faces. A protein fix to quick cure the weeks of emaciation and craving. I was 8 kg lighter by the time i took my first step on NZ soil after 2 months; amazing waves, solo sessions with friends, translucent water, warm water fatigue, soul searching, soul finding, soul losing, finding again, bush hikes, DEET addiction, clove tobacco addiction, never ending long boat rides, high seas, sinkings, camping, fights with locals, machetes, coconuts, transients met, guitars played, songs made, songs forgotten, and of course the heart of the culture we partook in.
All to be experienced again every year from now till i go stiff. Not long at my rate.
