Indonesia. A broken melody of hydrodynamics, arak, endorphins, hammocks,
half-sunken boats, sunken ferries and the ephemerally enjoyable act of
wave riding. What stalwarts to this gloriously appointed blog will
quickly notice is how there is no mention of the opposite sex and
physical non-plutonic acts. I apologize in advance, or in retrospect,
whichever you decide is more fitting for the way you react to these
things.
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.
