Category: Uncategorized

Here it is, the big update. Enjoy. Let me know what you think.

I spent two weeks in Indonesia. Here is my journal along with selected photos.

I am happy to get these up here, but frustrated doing it from a cyber cafe. Hopefully I will have the internet by the end of the week, fingers crossed.

Sept 16
I shouldn’t be here, in Indonesia. It wasn’t a “smart thing” to do, especially since I have no source of income. But hey, when invited to Indonesia to trek an active volcano, who can say no?

It took me a month to find and settle into my apartment in Mumbai. Looking back I do not know why it took so long, but now its done, the living room painted and the apartment mostly furnished to my liking (I only need to get a desk for my office and shelves for the kitchen). Just when its time to buckle down and start looking for work, I leave for a two week holiday in Indonesia. Ah well, it’s good to get away and refocus.

I wait for my Egypt Air flight with only four other passengers. When they call for boarding we look around thinking, this can’t be right? But once we get on board we see faces in most of the seats looking back at us.

Five hours I spend trying to find a comfortable position to sleep in, interrupted only by bad American movies and a terrible in-flight meal. The Kuala Lumpur airport’s architecture amazes me. It is spectacular, though strangely enough I had a hard time figuring out how toe capture it. I experience the same feeling I get when coming into any airport I am not familiar with: it just takes a bit to get your bearings. On the plane the crew had handed me a health information card, which I filled out, but as I wait in line at immigration it becomes apparent they did not give me an immigration card. I have to get out of line and fill out a card at a table
behind the lines. Two middle eastern guys intently watch me as I do this, and when I finish I ask if they need my pen. No, they need me to fill out their forms; they cannot read or speak English. They are from Iraq and are staying for one month, but do not have the address of where they are staying. Communication is difficult but I enjoy this sort of challenge. I fill out their forms and an elderly Indian man and his wife ask me to help them on their forms. I am able to use some of the Hindi I am learning to speak.

I ask a security guard once I pass through security if there is somewhere I can wait for my flight that leaves in 12 hours. He points and says, “Fifth Floor.” I find a bench facing a large window with padded seats that makes a surprisingly comfortable bed for the night. It is better than paying $50 for a room near the airport.

Sept 17

 View More Photos and Read More Stories After the Break! Click Here –>

I wake up to find the window overlooking a lush garden between two sections of the beautiful building. I search out a restroom and freshen up for the day before looking for a place to take pictures of the architecture. Around 8am I start looking for the Air Asia ticket counter. There are Air Asia posters everywhere but no counter. I finally ask. “They are not at this airport. You have to go the OTHER airport.” Awesome, glad I checked early.

I find the bus counter and they tell me to pay on the bus. “But do they accept credit cards on the bus?” No. I have to have cash. Great. I need thirty cents in the local currency, Ringitts. I walk back through the terminal to find an ATM, but they won’t let me take small amounts. I go to a money changer and exchange 100 rupees ($2) and get 8 ringitts. The bus is 1.5.

The airport is clearly the older airport. No frivolous architecture and design here. I get my ticket and try to find some breakfast before my flight. I wait in line at “Mary Brown” fast food till the man at the counter informs me they don’t take credit cards. Fine. I’ll go to McDonalds. Surprise! They do not accept credit cards either. Seriously? At an international airport that an international airline uses as a hub you don’t take credit cards? You expect everyone to have local currency in tiny amounts? Genius. Luckily the woman I let cut in front of me in line over hears my complaining and offers to buy me breakfast.

On the three-hour flight from K.L. to Denspensar, Bali, Indonesia, I, being of medium height and width, am squished. My knees touch the seat back of the “Leather Seats” proudly proclaimed by the posters of Air Asia. Who cares for leather seats if an averaged sized man cannot fit in them?

Air Asia pays for its cheap airfare by selling EVERYTHING. I cannot even get a sip of water. And of course they only take certain currencies and NOT CREDIT CARDS!?

I take an airport taxi to an area called Kuta – I had read in the Lonely Planet Travel Guide at the K.L. airport bookstore – that supposedly has cheap hostels and hotels. I drive past shopping malls, dance clubs, and shaggy haired “bulai,” white folk, carrying surf boards sporting large muscles and beach tans. Not quite what I imagined of Indonesia.

I walk from guesthouse to guesthouse; everyone is full or wanting over $30. Finally, I team up with a couple from Ireland, we decide on a place that is $23 without breakfast. The atmosphere is lovely, with individual cottages lining a beautiful garden and relaxing pool. It is still more than I wanted to pay. I am glad I chose not to pay for breakfast. I did not wake up the next day till 12:46pm.

I get ready to go check out the beach but the Irish guy says they would be ready in a bit and would come get me. I lie in bed and turn on the TV, watching Ninja Challenge, feeling like a loser for watching TV instead of exploring Bali. After impatiently waiting for over and hour and half I go knock on their door – they are nowhere to be found. Thanks for that.

I make the trek to the beach to find beautiful white sands covered by people from every nationality involved in a variety of activities ranging from sun bathing and swimming, usual, to receiving massages and playing football on the edge of the waves. I sit for a bit, observing those around me and telling insistent vendors I do not want bracelets and massages, and watching surfers struggle to stand on their boards in the pounding surf.

Back at the guesthouse I start talking to a varied group from Britain who invite me to go with them to a small club with live music. I meet up with later and we end up dancing the night away till 4am. This is why I do not wake up till 12:46 pm.

Sept 18
I wake up in a panic. I need to be at the airport in 10 minutes! I hurredly get ready and check out. They call a taxi for me but end up waiting for over 10 minutes, so I decide to start walking and find my own cab. A car pulls up behind me in the alley and honks – my cab caught up with me, thankfully.

What do you mean my reservation is canceled? Why was it canceled? You can’t get me on this flight? But the next one? Oh, awesome, it’s $10 less than I was scheduled to pay before. I am fine with that. And its get me to a Lombok closer to when Kara arrives at 5pm.

Thankfully they sit me in an exit row; if I had had a regular seat my knees would have been so far into the back of the person in front of me. Merpatti airline impressively gave us box before we got on board containing water, a delicious soft roll, and a slice of cake. We are in flight for maybe fifteen minutes. I am a fan of this service. Now on most five hour flights across the US you barely get a drink and
pretzels. As I am getting comfortable with my extended legroom, I see a face I recognize coming down the isle: Kim Dyke, fellow friend from Uganda who is joining Kara and myself on the trek up Mt. Rinjani. We are both surprised to see each other on the same flight but neither of us make much effort to greet the other more than an expressive “Hi!”

In flight I see Kim struggling to get comfortable with her knees in the seat back in front of her, so I motion for her to join me in the exit row. Before we know are landing. No announcement. No one checking seat belts.

We meet up with Kara then take a taxi to our hotel in Sengiggi. It is a lovely place, spanning both sides of the road. The courtyards have green gardens, fountains, and a seaside pool complete with statues that somehow look like their peeing. The charcoal colored beach meets the sea so abruptly surprising even the waves, and they act like they do not remember how to interact with land, simply exploding into a mass of white frenzy with no majestic crest or curl. Our room is a cozy cottage with mostly bamboo elements and a large bed with tall bedposts, but I get a mattress squeezed between the bed and the wall; Kim and Kara share the grand bed.

Continue Reading –> Click Older Post.

Sept 19
In the morning we meet a driver from the Lombok Network Tours who takes us to the starting point of the trek, about 1,000 meters above sea level. The peak lumbers dauntingly above us at 3,726 meters, or 12,224 ft. We start up with little fanfare, walking through fields and forests. Above the forest we reach a seemingly never-ending savannah of swaying chest high red, yellow and green grass rolling in and out of ravines and canyons snaking their way up the mountain. Stationary lone trees give stark contrast to the constantly swaying sea of grass.

View More Photos and Read More Stories! Click Here –>

Incessantly increasing elevation, we continue to climb. Around every rise and across every canyon and ravine spanned by just as many bridges, the scenery gets impossibly more spectacular. After lunch at the second shelter and a quick rest at the third, at last we embark on the most challenging section of the day. Where most trails scaling steep sections of mountain tend to use switchbacks, the authors of this story decided it better to trudge straight up the steepest points of the ridges leading up the slope. Kara and the guide forge ahead – Kara is extremely fit. She runs four times a week and teaches Pilates. I take a bit longer, taking four or five steps and stopping for air and to let my muscles restore their oxygen levels. I find if I point my feet downhill when I stop it allows my calves to relax. The trail is steep and mostly loose dirt that slides out from under your firmly pressed foot. I feel relieved when I reach sections with tree roots to spring off.

After we passed shelter one we started to lose the sun and entered the clouds. The blowing winds accompanying the clouds I gladly welcome as reprieve from the torturing sun, though the visibility drops to almost nil. I keep shedding layers as I hike, reaching shelter three wearing no shirt under my pack. Despite the cooling mist I am still overheating. Every time we stop, the guide asks me, “Aren’t you cold?” No, not at all. I am carrying Kim’s daypack that is weighed down with too much photography equipment (most of which I do not use) and each vertical step is a work out, especially as oxygen levels decline.

I pass the guide after a series of intense steeps each followed by a slight leveling. He waits for Kim who is somewhere in the distance, I can no longer see her despite stopping to wait for her several times. There is Kara, a speck on the trail far ahead motoring past porters weighed down with other climbers camping gear and food, strung together with a four foot long, four inch thick bamboo rod impressively balanced on their small shoulders. Where their clients don several hundred dollar name brand hiking boots and trekking poles, these porters climb in simple shower flipflops threatening to break with every step.

I lose sight of Kara as more clouds move in, and I adjust my attention to what lies directly before me. With each step I grow wearier. I feel my legs straining to lift my weight and that of my pack as I force them to continue. Now its fully raining on me, and my bare chest gladly receives the cooling waters as a relief from my constant body heat. I can no longer see above or below me, only the loose dirt path before me. There, I can see it! The rim of the volcano! My destination. I power through till I reach the thin ridgeline, greeted only by a cold wind from the opposite side that forces me to re-cloth. I can see no sign of humanity on any side, nothing but clouds and black rock.

I start off along the ridge in the direction I think the summit to be since I have no idea where the camp is besides “on the rim,” which is where I am currently. Still finding no humans, porters or climbers, but seeing signs that they exist – a fire pit, energy bar remains, etc – I continue on despite wanting to wait for personal reassurance. Through the fog I begin to hear chopping of wood and pounding of steaks. I am getting close.

I walk past tents and fires with food simmering in pots and guides and porters I do not recognize. Someone calls my name from inside the last tarped shelter. Kara had taken refuge with someone else’s porters. “Where is your guide? Where are your porters?” they ask. They are coming as far as I know. Almost an hour later Kim comes limping in, seeking shelter from the rain under the tarp of someone else’s porters. Finally, with yelling it’s announced our porters have come. We get the last pick of the ground for camping: right next to the toilet.


It’s getting dark and its announced our tents are ready. I quickly fall asleep while waiting for supper. The guide wakes me and hands me a plate of mie goreng, fried ramen noodles, with a spicy sauce and vegetables and a single chicken bone with a few slivers of meat hanging on. With my hunger only slightly diminished I venture out in search of more food. “Plain rice?” the guide asks. He hands me a dish with sliced tomatoes in what looks like water. I pour some on the rice. “It’s spicy,” he warns. I can take it, I live in India. With a mouthful of rice I begin to agree with him. Yes, it is spicy. As I swallow the burn sets in full force. My eyes water and snot runs uncontrollably down my face. I go back to my tent to sleep. It’s only 7:30, but we have to wake up at 3am to summit.

Around ten my bladder wins the fight with my will to stay warm in my sleeping bag. I exit my tent only to be knocked off my feet by the view above me: the most amazing display of heavenly glory I have ever seen. Never before have I seen that many millions of brilliantly shining stars. I quickly pick out Orion and the Little Dipper but recognize almost nothing else, the southern hemisphere’s stars being very different from the north’s. I wake up Kara and Kim, insistent that they view this spectacle with me.

Sept 20
The guide wakes us at Oh Dark Thirty and informs us the mountain is enshrouded in a blanket of clouds and rain, and the view would be limited to the path in front and behind. We decide to wait till 5 am to see if there has been any change, and to climb about one third of the way to the summit to a point where you can see the active new volcano spitting lava.

Kara, the guide, and myself start off full of energy and tea but soon hit a substance worse than sand or powder snow. The fine black volcanic pebbles move so freely under your foot your upward movement leaves you no further ahead than before you put forth such great effort. With this frustratingly slow progress and immense struggle in pitch blackness, my body decides it did not like the dinner from the night before, and I need to expel it from my body. My stomach churns and I can go no further till this thundering in my depths is satisfied. There amongst the volcanic rock, the sharp mountain grass, and the glow of the morning light I make my mark on Mt. Rinjani, forever leaving a piece of myself. The clouds part and the sun sheepishly reveals himself over the westward ridges of the mountain; a spectacular sight to see indeed, and I am caught with my pants around my ankles fifty meters from my camera. So I sit back and enjoy this moment for what it is. Stunning.

I still cannot decide if my body can continue but tell myself, I came this far, I cannot quit now. I find scrambling up the exposed rocks much easier than sliding in the volcanic pebbles and reach the top with renewed energy. We pass several defeated groups making their way down saying there is nothing to see, only more clouds. When only we three remain God blesses us with spectacular views of the entire rim and dramatic clouds filtering through the ridges, though we never get a clear view of anything inside the rim, a thick cloud remains, but you can hear the power of the volcano roaring far below. A monkey comes to see what we have to offer for tax on trespassing his property. The guide temps him with biscuits as Kara and I snap photos.

Our trusty guide named Hadzi or Haddi or Hamdi… we never could figure out what his actual name was

Kara looking pretty happy calm for having just climbed a moutain

I love the way the clouds interact with the top of the mountain

Click on Image to see larger

Kara acting posing as an adventure sports model

Going down is significantly easier and more fun than going up. I feel like I am cross-country skiing through black snow, quickly sliding down what took me well over an hour to climb.

The porters made delicious banana pancakes in preparation for our return. Kim stayed back, not feeling well, and helped them prepare the delectable delicacies.

We depart, heading quickly down the mountain that took such great effort to climb. I am thankful for the sections of the path now with no tree roots obstructing my way, as I find it easier on my knees to not fight gravity and simply run downhill. Anytime I try to go at a walking pace my knees cry out for mercy but enjoy the thrill of running down the steeps. I run for a while stopping to wait for the others to catch up. We stop for a rest and refuge from the rain at shelter two and a quick lunch at shelter one, and Kara and I speed through the flatter bottoms enjoying philosophical conversations.
This scene kept making me think of Dr. Suess for some reason

Sept 21
We planned to go snorkeling today around the Gilli Islands, but the weather did not cooperate. We stay in Sengiggi instead and try to just relax, recovering from the tenacious climb. We try out the water at the beach by our guesthouse then get massages by the pool in the rain. It helps my sore muscles, but I wish the lady had concentrated more on my thighs. While getting a massage by the pool in the light rain I arrange with a local to take us to Kuta, Lombok in a couple of days. He tells us to book into the hotel next to our guesthouse, since it is over half as expensive. We venture into town and book a boat to take us snorkeling the following day after checking the internet to see if the weather would be nice.

Sept 22

Six of us sit across from each other in a traditional boat barely wide enough for one person to sit staring over the side with his back touching one gunwale and his knees touching the bench on the opposite gunwale, but the boat reaches some twenty five feet long. Two outriggers keep the skinny craft stable in the mostly untame open waters. To our port side, Lombok’s colorful and varied landscape flies by. Multicolored fishing boats line palm tree laden white beaches surrounded by steep and angular peaks, and frothy white spray rising from the azure sea against black rocky cliffs highlight the point. Our excitement builds as we near our first snorkeling location, Gilli Tarawang.

The beautiful white beach lined with seemingly wrongly placed deciduous trees and very still water inspires the remark, “If not for the blue blue water, I could mistake this for a beach somewhere along lake Michigan in the summer.” Identically shaped boats with a multitude of color schemes break the monotony of the white sands, haphazardly run ashore and anchored in the sand. The passengers eagerly disembark and don mask and fin to discover what the lazy waves hide beneath there blue exterior.

The previous evening I had entered into conversation with a friendly Uzbekistani by the pool who traveled with his two brothers, both of which knew little English. I told him we were going snorkeling the next day and he asked to split the cost of the boat. We gladly agreed.

Not only did the brothers not speak English, neither of the two could swim. They comically paired their mask and fins with brightly colored life vest and made sure not to wander too far from land. They quickly tired and disappeared among the single row of shops and “warung”, local restaurants, lining the beach behind the oddly placed deciduous trees.

Beneath the azure lining of the sea lies many colorful creations and coral formations, each continually moving with the vacillations of the current. I take my Canon Powershot G10 down with me, protected by a waterproof casing that took far too much effort and money to get to me in Mumbai. The pictures and video I attempt do not give the scene justice. Sometimes these mediums are not sufficient. Only the lens and optic nerves of the eye, anvil and hammer of the ear, and scent neurons of the nasal passages sufficient to capture, and the hindmost hippocampus are sufficient for the projecting of these memories.

View More Photos and Read More Stories After The Break! Click Here –>
————————–









These fishing were swarming around me, nipping at my face and sides

I fight the current for some time then take to the land to reposition myself above the flow as to have free reign over the reef lining this portion of beach. When I retire I find I am the sole remaining swimmer from our group. Kara and Kim found a hut to sit and eat lunch, and the fellows from Uzbekistan disappeared. After a bit of lounging the boat pilot attempts to get us back into the boat so we can move to Gilli Menu. Kara goes south and Kim goes north in search of the other guys, but both come back befuddled. On the boat we cast an anchor and sit for over an hour waiting for them to appear, but to no avail. Eventually we decide we cannot wait any longer, we had done our duty to look and told a vendor near the boat to be on the lookout for three lost middle eastern guys. “Tell them we’ll try to come back for them. If it’s too late, tell them to find a boat back to Sengiggi.”

Kara plays with a baby turtle on Gilli Meno

Waves start crashing over the side of our slender craft as we cross between the islands. The wind is picking up, which we could not feel from the protection of the first island. Fighting the waves, Kara and I attempt to snorkel, but the thrashing water stirs up the sand mostly obscuring seemingly, well, nothing but bland coral and a few fish. We return reporting to the guide there is nothing to see, and asking if he could take us somewhere else. “It’s there, out there,” he says pointing to a distant dark line beneath the surface some 200 meters out. Apparently he would have stopped the boat but the water was too rough.

The scene is spectacular, more brilliant than the first reef we saw. More fish, more colorful coral and creatures sway with the current. Kara and I take turns diving and peering beneath the coral into the dark caves to see what mysteries they hide. Soon Kara claims she is tired and going in, so only I remain ever looking down into the depths and breathing through a tube, something I pray I never had to experience in a different capacity. Alone I travel faster, exploring more areas. To my left boats carrying wetsuit clad scuba divers scatter about the surface. To my right I keep the white sandy beach. *A highlight! I see a brightly colored fish – the size of my torso but the shape of the small tropical fish you keep in your small aquarium in your living room – swiftly dive and catch another fish the size of the circle made by your thumb and forefinger.

Before I know it the water shallows, my chest and legs barely missing the coral as the current drags me. All I need is a big wave to smash me against the reef to finish the day. When I finally stand I find myself still some 100 meters out, and I had, in keeping the island steadily on my right, gone far past the north side of the island. I do not want to take off my flippers in fear of cutting my feet on the coral, but walking forward in flippers is extremely difficult; so I warily and awkwardly step backwards all the way into shore. The others are waiting for me so we can go back to the first island and find the Uzbekistani boys.

Bigger waves crash over the bow and the view of land disappears as large swells seem to swallow us on the return journey between the islands. The three guys are eagerly awaiting our return and obviously upset that we left them. They had not understood the plan to go to the second island. But all is forgotten quickly as we begin our voyage back to Sengiggi, but now with a constant spray from the waves. At first it is funny, but after two hours of being wet and chilled by the blowing wind and rocked by the large waves we are cold and tired. My backpack sits in the bow and is pounded by the waves and is mostly soaked through by the end. Most everything important I put in waterproof bags or separate cases, but my poor cell phone thoughtlessly placed in the bottom compartment dies the most wretched of deaths: drowning. Had I backed up the numbers on the computer program provided with the phone, I would have only mourned the loss a semi-expensive phone only had for four months, but of course I could not have been that smart so all is lost: all of the contacts I have spent the last four months obtaining.

—> Continue Reading. Click Older Post.

Sept 23
We have a lazy morning since we are not meeting our driver till 10am. With our breakfast of jam and toast momentarily satisfying our active appetites, we check out and jump into the waiting SUV outside the gate. Settled into our seats for the hour and half journey to Kuta we are surprised when the driver pulls off the road only after two minutes.

The temple is perched on a rocky point jutting into the sea. The weathered rock forms a cave directly underneath the structure, adorned with silly and scary statues. Locals of all ages dressed in traditional hats and clothes line the walkway, busy making little baskets from leaves that hold incense and are laid by doorways and in roads.

See, silly statues

You just have to laugh

View More Photos and Read More Stories After the Break! Click Here –>

My legs are still barely usable from climbing and the incredibly wicked sunburn I received on my back and behind my knees while snorkeling despite applying multiple layers of sunscreen. I do not think behind my knees had ever been sunburned and the skin did not know how to interact nicely with the UV rays. The pain wears me out and makes any kind of exploration extremely laborious, so I elect to stay in the vehicle and avoid the “traditional” market. We carry on for some time until the driver suddenly pulls into a driveway. We enter a building filled with pottery of every variety and are led through the back door where craftsmen surrounded by tourists gawking ask they create bowls, plates, and animals from wet clay. I rarely buy trinkets and souvenirs, but something about this little turtle reminded me of someone I am missing.
Kara created an Elephant. Click on image to see larger

Waist high clay creations

After another jaunt through the back roads of Lombok we stop at a village whose sole purpose is weaving colorful traditional cloths. Women work eight hours a day for a month to finish just one piece. Somehow they are expected to take care of the home and children as well. Girls must learn to weave by age 12 so they can attract a good husband. They show us through the village then take us to a shop where they sell all of these woven pieces and dress us up like “the Chief and his brides.”

Random kid in the village

Our last stop before reaching Kuta is a “Traditional Muslim Village.” I am not sure what purpose this serves except purely as a tourist stop. Women and children constantly accost you yelling while stroking a wooden frog making croaking sounds, “Surprise? For your mother or girlfriend? For the hell of it? Bracelet?” Every turn you make you get a fresh batch of bracelets and trinkets shoved in your face. Our guide we did not ask for shows us inside huts, rice storage and kitchens. He takes us up to the top of the hill where you can see the surrounding farmland.



The sound of crashing plastic and metal against pavement gets my attention as I wait outside for the others to finish searching through saris and wraps. A man on a motorbike had hit a dog who now writhed painfully, unable to move his hind legs. The man gets up and throws a cocoanut at the dog’s head. The dog will not live through the day, most likely with internal injuries as well. The bike is damaged and a group begins trying to pry pieces back into shape by pushing, pulling, striking, and hitting. Another group surrounds the man and a kid that appears to be hurt, but I am unsure of how he was involved in the accident.

Ah, Kuta! you unpretentious simple village, quiet and unassuming. The driver drops us at the Kutah Indah Hotel and we drop our bags in a room. We had reserved the place for two nights, but I am now unsure about the convenience of the location. But alas, I do not listen to my inner voice and keep my mouth shut.

We find a small warung claiming to have wood fired pizzas for our late lunch then pass a hotel someone had recommended to Kara, so we check on the price just to see. It is a little less but much more conveniently located and the room is larger with a small bed for me and a large bed for Kara and Kim. We arrange for a van to take us to the other guesthouse so we can transfer our stuff. We grab our bags, toss the keys on the counter and get into the van, but the owner of the hotel comes running out screaming that we cannot leave. We tell the driver to go, but he just sits there and the owner grabs the keys from the ignition. I get out and get in the fellows face, “We can leave if we want to leave. We owe you nothing. We do not wantto stay here, end of story. We never signed a contract or put any money down.” He asks me to go back to the room with him. He says the room is stayed in so we have to pay for it. No, we left our bags in the room for an hour and half. Everything remains untouched. “I cannot sell this room now, it’s dirty. This mattress was sat on.” I tell him again we are leaving and do not owe him anything. He tells me I am a bad man, then as I walk off, “F**k America, F**k your mother!”

Still the driver will not leave, saying the owner is holding him there. I have no idea how. The owner claims he is calling the police. Kim offers to pay him 50,000, 1/5 the cost of a night’s stay. He refuses, saying we must pay half. We used the room for an hour and half and only for our bags. WE could have just as easily left them at the front for no cost. After much yelling and threatening (the cops still not coming) Kara pays him the half to pacify the situation. As we leave the owner yells, “And don’t come back here!” Do not worry, I am sure I will never return to the Kuta Indah Hotel and recommend no one else stay there either.

At our new place men greet us offering motorbikes for the next day. We can take them free for the first evening, so Kara and I venture out to find a nice beach for sunset. I turn off onto a dirt road leading to a large hill that promises to finish in a cove. Note: this is my first time driving a motorbike and I choose a manual transmission purely out of my dislike for most anything automatic. Well, that and I am planning on buying a geared motorcycle once I get back from Mumbai and I wanted some practice so I do not look like a complete fool.

Bumping along the rutted road past huts and hills we come to a beach and find the cove mostly empty of water because of low tide, exposing a multitude of rocks and tide pools. We missed the sun actually diving into the depths of the ocean, but he leaves us brilliant colors with his humble glow. In the distance fishermen finish their evening prayers kneeling and facing toward Mecca next to oil lanterns and small fires; standing they grab their spears and wade off into the darkness to catch a few slow fish.

Sept 24
I love the feeling of waking up on my own in the early morning and just lying, observing the soft light on the walls. Everyone gradually wakes up and we grab some breakfast, banana pancakes (amazing!) and head out on our motorbikes, starting to the east. Kim rides on Kara’s automatic bike because I am still a bit jerky with the gears on my bike.

The countryside is beautiful, mixing greens and browns of tropics and desert, rolling up and down through the hills and valleys. We reach Gerupuk and the locals direct us into a parking area where other ‘bulé’ are preparing for their day of learning to surf in a “safe” area. The beach and water are scattered with traditional style boats of every color and size, some for fishing with nets, other rods and reels, and still others only collecting seaweed – a large export for this area of Indonesia. We walk along the beach in the strangely large grain sand – almost pebbles – avoiding nets and dogs and discarded fish heads. The heat makes itself apparent quickly, even though it is still early in the day.

Making our way on our bikes I see a beach mostly obscured by a cocoanut tree farm with only a small dirt road leading to it. Avoiding puddles large enough to swallow our bikes and men wanting to sell us cocoanuts from the tree, we reach a small collection of traditional huts on an otherwise barren beach. There are few trees and very little protection from the belligerent sun. We leave the bikes and start walking along the cove with very warm still water and struggle through the sand. Kim drops off sitting down in the sand and motioning us to continue on.

With Kim still sitting where we left her some 400 meters back, Kara and I scurry over beautiful black rocks, twisting a curling amongst themselves and the sea. A single lonesome tree makes a statement about standing alone in a foreign world. Rounding the point we see large rocks shaped by the constant beating waves. A group on a photo trip from Jakarta leaves just as we arrive at the water’s edge. The distant large swells lure me into the water, though I quickly find the super strong current over slick rocks wisely keeps me from a probable smashing between the wicked waves and the rocks. Kara and I decide to climb the very steep hill above us that allows us the most incredible views of three beautiful blue lagoons to the west and two to the east.

Kim waits for us back at the bikes with her new friend, a young local boy who showed her the village and a lot of his friends. We head back to Kuta for lunch then continue west to Mawon, a beautiful swimming beach surrounded on three sides by large hills covered more in desert brush than trees. The white sands dive steeply into the amazingly blue water but do not stop there; as far as I can swim the plain white sand continues uninterrupted by any rocks, plants or fish. A single surfer cautiously catches a short but impressive curl that closes and crashes on the rocks toward the mouth of the cove.

Back on our motorbikes we head further west on a road that our map shows as straight (it is anything but straight). The scenery away from the sea is some of the most beautiful we’ve seen, save for on Mt. Rinjani. A small sign pegged to a tree tells us to take another road up a large hill to get to Mawi beach. At the top of the hill a gate manned by several Indonesians blocks the road with sign saying there’s a fee of 5,000 to pass through. After this point the road disintegrates into a mostly dirt path that winds its way through pastures, over creeks, and around bends that eventually leads us to a long structure covered only by grass protecting a row of westerners from the day’s heat and direct sun. If you follow their gaze, you see large rocky points broken up by small beaches continuing in this manner off into the distance. Out from the beach in front of us some twenty surfers bob up and down on the water waiting for the perfect wave. This beach is not meant for swimming and is not much to look at, but the surf is supposedly world class here.

I climb along the rocks and find a perch in the shadow of the rock protecting me from the sun where I have a good vantage point on the surfers and a great view of the coastline receding into the distance with each rocky point slightly more faded and hidden by the mist. I try to catch the surfer’s on their perfect wave, but mostly they seemed determine to see how long they can sit motionless in the constantly moving water rather than chase the waves and stand up, using the force of the crashing water to propel them forward. I have to admit, I was expecting something more spectacular from a world-class wave. I wanted to see surfers squeezing themselves into the barrel of a wave, narrowly escaping the tumult of the crashing curl. The more surfers I talked to I realized the majority of them stay away from any wave that big, they are happy with the small surf and avoid anything powerful. I am disappointed and not entirely sure that its worth the effort of dragging two or three foam filled six to eight foot boards from country to country, paying for and dealing with these oversized and awkwardly held devices.

This beautiful woman sold me a sweet banana

Click on image to see larger

For dinner we go to the same warung we visited the night before, Warung Bule, which, if you recall is the word used for white westerners. The night before I listened to the waiter’s recommendation and tried the local fish special, which was disgusting, but the girls loved their meals. Kim, on her last night in Indonesia wants to eat something particularly Indonesian, and Kara tries something on a whim. So when the waiter asks if I want tonight’s special, barracuda, I say, hey, why not. It is incredible, maybe some of the best fish I have ever eaten.

Continue Reading —> Click Older Post.

Sept 25
We jump into a SUV we arranged with a local to take us to Mataram, the main city of Lombok and the location of the airport. The driver speaks no English and Kara has trouble communicating in Bahasa, but we make our way to the inn where we had made reservations then onto the airport to drop off Kim. Kara and Kim have an emotional goodbye, then Kara and I head off to explore Mataram; which by the way seems to have nothing really to offer.

Sept 26
Kara wakes up and leaves by five a.m.; I groggily give her a goodbye hug and she is gone and I return to sleep. I wake up on my own around seven. One of the benefits of going to bed around nine or ten every night for two weeks is I start waking up at six and seven on my own.

I eat my “breakfast” of a piece of toast already spread with orange jam waiting outside my door and find an ojek, motorbike transport, to take me to the gathering point for bemos, the local van transports, heading to the Lembar harbor where I will catch the ferry back to Bali. I had agreed on a price with a certain driver the night before and after strapping my backpack to the roof, get in expecting to go soon. An elderly woman already inside looks like she’s been waiting for some time. I sit and journal until I realize we’re still not going anywhere, and its been an hour and half and the bemo is completely full. I am not sure what the driver is expecting. Finally, the doors close and the engine roars and we take off, stopping to cram even more locals in and drop others along the way.

View More Photos and Read More Stories After the Break! Click Here –>

Squeezing my way between motorbikes and busses already parked on the ferry – not an easy task with my two overstuffed backpacks – I get to the main deck to find it teeming with people and boys trying to sell me the right to sit on a mattress for the journey. I elect to ignore them and head to the top deck to find it also, packed. I pick a section of wall and set up for the five-hour journey, brushing off the vendors trying to sell me peanuts and water for the journey. A cute girl with her two obviously Muslim friends wearing head coverings starts up a conversation that lasts most the way through the trip. She is traveling for two days by bus and boat to get to her university. The smoke stack blowing black exhaust next to us eventually torments us enough we relocate to the side of the deck.

I get in a junky old bemo, the driver agreeing to take me to Ubud in central Bali, for an agreed upon price and I will buy the man lunch. He takes me to a small warung some ways into our journey and we get our nasi goreng and drinks for 15,000 ($1.50). He says the fried rice and chicken is only 5,000. $0.50. I am definitely ok with that. It’s the cheapest meal I get in Indonesia.

The main road in Ubud is blocked because of construction, so the driver tells me he won’t go any further. I get out and walk making my way to Monkey Forest Rd where I have a room reserved for 60,000 a night. My humble room with two beds looks out to a courtyard with a large Hindu shrine in the middle, everything designed with a definite Balinese flavor.

Ubud is extremely commercialized, the streets lined with shops like Dolce and Gabana and restaurants with exquisite design and lighting offering wonderful dining experiences. Squeezed between storefronts are a multitude of Hindu temples and large Balinese courtyards used to showcase traditional dance and music. On every street corner locals try to sell tickets to these dances, ranging from $7 to $8. I, not liking to pay to enter anything, prefer to watch the dances standing on my tiptoes looking through the gates on the street.

Sept 27
I rent a motorbike in the morning electing to escape the commercialized Ubud and find refuge in Mt. Batur, a semi active volcano 30 or 40 kilometers away. I ask for a manual bike, but the owner says the only manual is very old; an automatic will be good. Once outside of the proper Ubud, terraced hillsides beautifully green with rice patties fill the views on both sides of the road.

Coming into another village I get behind a slow moving truck and accelerate to pass him, but I miss calculate my speed and the upcoming turn. I squeeze both brakes, freezing up both tires and I slide into the curb, which throws me from the bike onto the sidewalk. I immediately get up, cursing my stupidity, checking my bag full of photo equipment I had held between my legs. There’s pain coming from both my palms as I pick out loose rocks from the wounds. A local boy stops to ask if I am alright and points out my bleeding forearm, which I had not felt or noticed yet. There’s pain in my shoulder, but I can’t roll up my sleeve to see the damage. I look at my left foot and there is a deep gash above my big toe that remains a ghostly white color for sometime before bleeding profusely. My left Chaco sandal has a chunk taken out of the strap and somehow another wound I find underneath the ankle strap that rubs when I walk. Orange from my waterproof bag inside the second pocket is strangely visible from the front of my backpack, holes now ripped through.

I make sure my helmet is still on my head and jump back on the bike, flinching from the pain in my foot and forearm. The wind stings the new wounds as I’m still stunned and trying to clear my thoughts about what happened. After sometime I decide the pain is too much, I need to get the wounds cleaned so I ask for a doctor and a woman leads me a few blocks down the road.

He speaks very little English but understands the motorbike accident. He brings me into a small blue room lined with medicine and some surgical utensils. He checks to make sure nothing is broken, only flesh wounds. He cuts off pealed skin and applies a red substance that burns when it touches my wounded flesh. He gives me some amoxicillin to combat infection and something else I don’t take that he says is for sickness. He gives me a bottle of the red substance and some extra bandages for my foot, which is still bleeding. For all this he charges me the grand some of 50,000 rupiah, only $5. Take that America with your “best health care in the world” where I could not afford to go to the doctor for a similar incident.

Temple after temple line the road, most with identical dimensions. I know they have something like 300,000 gods but do they really need hundreds of temples just on this stretch of road?

A man is yelling at me as I drive past on the continuous uphill slope leading up to Mt. Batur, “The police are checking everyone that way!” I stop and turn the bike around. The man tells me to follow him on another road. He leads me up a skinny back road the curves its way up the mountain, coming out on the road that encircles the crater riding the rim with views of the new volcano and the blue lake. The man motions for me to keep following him around the rim and leads me to a restaurant with a superb view of what lies before it. He tries to convince me to take a trek up to the lowest mouth of the volcano to see special crystals and wonders beyond my imagination all for a low low cost of $25 USD. I tell him thank you, but I am currently in pain and not wanting to trek.

“Then at least take lunch at this restaurant. It’s my mother’s. A great buffet for only 50,000 rupiah.” I only want to sit, relax, take in the view and nurse my wounds while thanking God I’m alive. I take a seat overlooking the spectacular scene before me and order some tea. (I have taken to drinking tea, though still with a lot of sugar. I’m 24; I should act at least halfway grown up, right?) I sit reviewing the day so far, considering what caused me to wreck and how my body now pained me once again.

The map on the wall of the tourism office showed a road going the entire way around Mt. Batur so I determined the best way to see the volcano was to drive all around it. I take off along the rim going steadily uphill to a point where three peaks lined up like Russian stacking dolls, each fits neatly into the next one. In the distance the cartoon-like mountain with perfectly sloping sides, Mt. Agung, dominates the horizon. Between the new peak of Mt. Batur and the far Agung lies a middle height peak rising steeply out of the blue lake. Following the road I find myself descending away from the mountain, so I turn around and take a smaller road the continues along the rim. Again I find myself descending, this time at a very steep angle with no place to turn around.

When it starts to level out I see myself looking out over a small village with a large black temple perched over the azure sea below. Deciding I made a good wrong turn I go and explore the deserted temple. With so many temples in this land it’s amazing they can put so much detail into each one. This complex seems to be separated into three or four sections, each with walls separating it from the others. I walk around each corner expecting to find someone, a worshipper, a priest, but no one greets me or seems to see me.









I retrace my path and find another smaller road that continues along the rim. The road cannot decide if it wants to be paved or dirt, constantly switching between the two. The road steepens and levels out. Girls on scooters blow past me over confident in their ability to manage the loose roads. I again start descending away from the mountain and ask a passing couple how to get to the lake using hand signals. They point back the way I came. Back up I find a dirt road roughly going the right direction. Ah, why not? All roads lead somewhere, right? I enter a mazelike multitude of dirt roads, picking my way by intuition alone. This goes too far down to the right, turn around and try the other. The motorbike bumps along, utilizing its poor excuse for shocks. After too many steeps and hairpin turn I come to a paved road. This HAS to lead somewhere! A shop at an intersection must know the way. The girls inside speak zero English and do not try to understand me. I continue along and enter a small village, half looking for a warung for a quick lunch. People stare at me wondering what a Bule is doing on this side of the mountain. I bounce through town and come to another intersection and choose to go straight – it’s headed toward the lake. After sometime the road steepens and the pavement loosens. I cannot stop. The bike, despite the brakes being fully pressed, continues down the decline, my feet sliding beside the bike keeping it upright. This better be the way, going up that will be nearly impossible. I go around a bend and into a cornfield. The road ends. All roads lead somewhere, right? This one leads to a cornfield, apparently. I can see the lake, but it’s over two or three valleys. I take up the task of conquering the hill behind me, the bike struggling to make it around the bend. Because of the bend I have no speed to approach the steepest of steeps and the bike, fully floored and roaring, does not move. The tires are not spinning; the bike simply cannot lift its own weight and mine up this incline. I start walking the bike up hill, still with the engine at full capacity, waddling awkwardly uphill. When I finally reach the top I find two men entertained by my awkward spectacle.

Back in the village I ask for a warung. They point me to a shop that informs me they have no food. On the supposed right path I come to a construction crew of mostly women and some young men paving the road. Three large black barrels burn while the women scatter small black stones carried on their heads in baskets before the burning barrels. An older man spreads the stones and mixes them with tar, hopefully to hold them in place through inclimate weather and fast moving motorbikes.





Beyond the newly paved road the dirt road steeply winds among the hillsides leading to the lake. I cautiously slide down another incredibly steep section, crawling at a few kilometers an hour. A bike carrying three young girls flies past me spitting gravel off the sides of the road. Finally I reach what could be called flat land. On one side the hill winds around, the other a sheer cliff hovers overhead. I follow the road along the cliff’s base till I enter another small village that reaches to the lakes edge.

I really want to soak my wounds in the freshwater lake, but when I get to shore I find it highly populated. White and yellow umbrellas cover rows of squatting women watching children perform some ritual along the lakes edge as a band plays somewhere obscured by rows of corn. They are not entirely sure what to do with me, rudely intruding on their Hindu celebration. The men in traditional dress either look annoyed at my presence or offer friendly smiles, motioning for me to take photographs of them. I walk along the shore, mobbed by little boys desperate to make their way in front of my camera wherever it points. In the distance the new volcano and the middle peak dominate the sky overlooking the azure water.

A man who speaks little English directs me to a local warung and climbs on my motorbike behind me to show me the way. The nasi goreng fills me enough and I get back on the road following the edge of the lake, heading towards the peak of Mt. Batur. This side of the volcano is very green with rich soil, but I soon come to an unpopulated area with large, jagged rocks leading up the foot of the mountain. Beyond the jagged rocks I can see the solid black of the cold lava flow that leads directly south. Three separate mouths open up to the volcano, the lowest on the left and the highest to the right. I am told the two on the left still release gasses and occasionally new lava. Entering into a more populated area with resorts for tourists lining the lake I find a vantage point to take photos of the peaks with the lake in the foreground. Raking the soil just on the shoreline and chatting with his reclined friend in a wooden cutout canoe lazily landed, a weathered man introduces himself. “I’m Ugly. My goodname (surname) is Youser, but my mother thought I was an ugly baby,” he jovially explains. I ask if I can take his picture and then sit and talk with him for sometime waiting for the light to wane.



Ugly is a funny man. As his wife approaches carrying a basket of vegetables on her head along the shoreline, Ugly pulls his hat over his face, puts his ears between his knees and says, “Tell her I am not here. I’m tired and need a rest from all this work. She should go and let me be.” Later he tells me, being a Hindu and in relation to the belief in reincarnation, “I’m tired. I do not want to be reborn. I just want to rest from here when I die.”

When the sun reaches a good angle I depart and go back to the same café from earlier that morning. I contemplate finding the start of one of the roads I see far below me leading up through the black lava fields, but its late, and I am tired. I do not feel like driving through Bali’s back roads at night with no real idea where I am going, it’s bad enough doing that in the day light.






Click on Image to see larger

The wind blows against my face as I start the descent back to Ubud, but I take a different road than I came on. I remembered from the map a road that runs parallel. I don’t like to take the same road twice when I am exploring an area. Cautiously watching the needle flirt with the large ‘E’ on gas gauge I continue descending through villages; the road lined with a similar multitude of temples that for sometime I think I might have somehow made it back to the first road. Soon the beautiful terraced rice patties stair-step the hills on either side of the road letting me know I’m closer to Ubud. At intersections along the way I stop and ask locals which way to Ubud. Everyone tells me to continue on down till a woman tells me to turn west and follow the sun. The road narrows, goes steeply down, then I find myself among flat fields of rice. Several times the road turns and splices off. I pick the direction I think I should be going till a road is taking me further south, and a man with ducks tells me to go back the other way. I pass fancy guest houses with “Rice Patty Views, Swimming Pool, & Restaurant & Bar.” I have no idea how much people pay for these luxury rice patty views, but I’m sure my $6 a night room is plenty for me. And it probably has fewer mosquitoes.

Once back in Ubud I want to leave again. I drive the entire main street and decide I need to get out of town to find a local warung to eat dinner for cheap. The town continues west so I turn around to the center and head north as the last light disappears. I fumble with the lights on the motorbike and continue past temples and schools. Asking locals for a good warung they tell me to retrace back just on the other side of the last school.

Two guys sit in front eating at the counter something I don’t recognize. I ask for Mie Goreng? No? Nasi Goreng? No? What do you have? The lady says something I don’t understand, but its some local specialty. Served a plate of rice with some gravy, strange looking pieces of meat I cannot place even after eating, and a cold, semi sweet salad of carrots, cucumber and some other things I don’t recognize. The flavors are much different than I am used to, but it’s not terrible. It at least fills my stomach.

It’s still early when I get back and I plan on finding some designer restaurants to photograph, but when I sit on my bed I wind up falling asleep with all the lights on. I wake up around 1am hungry and wide awake. I venture out into the night to find a quick meal and I slightly remember a sign saying 24 hour internet that I had taken note of while walking around the night before. I go to the Circle K (yes, the same from the States gas stations) around the corner and find some snacks to tide me through the night then walk through the street retracing my steps from the night before looking for the internet. As I walk never fewer than three barking dogs let me know I am not welcome on their streets at night, barking in their strange Indonesian high pitched bark. ~I have observed that it doesn’t matter the size or type of dog, they all have a certain bark that is very different from the low pitched, growly bark of American dogs. Could this mean dogs speak in different languages? ~ Before heading out I had considered the safety of going out in the middle of the night, wary of getting mugged, but I am more in danger of being bitten by bastardly mangy mutts. Alas the fabled all night internet café does not show its glorious self to me so I return and fight with sleep.

—> Continue Reading. Click Older Post.

Sept 28
The hot water thermos and tea always await my waking just outside my door on the porch with bamboo chairs and a hammock hanging from the posts at the Jungut Inn. I let my tea seep as I enjoy swinging in the hammock while reading about Ishmael and Ahab chasing an infamous white whale through the southern oceans. One of the workers delivers my breakfast of a banana pancake and informs me I will have to pay the owner of the bike for the damage I caused. I inquire of how much expecting something around $100 and planning to offer a fair $50 for only cosmetic damage. He returns and says the owner wants 150,000 rupiah, $15. I am fine with that.

A white van waits for me outside the guesthouse filled with other westerners heading to various destinations at 9:30. Of course I am late reporting and everyone watches me struggling to carry my over laden packs, limping from my foot and wincing from my arm. The van drops me off at Sanur beach where the public boat embarks for the island of Nusa Lembongan. I wade up to my mid thigh in the calm sea and lift myself aboard the vessel, a larger version of the boat we took to the Gilli Islands off Lombok.

View More Photos and Read More Stories After the Break! Click Here –> 

The boat had already been stocked with large water tanks and building supplies for their local temples currently under restoration. A couple from Sweden sits across from me, sharing the same plank for a seat. An Irish girl with beautiful red curly hair and lots of freckles sits behind them, mostly minding her own thoughts. Two surfers from France take the seat behind me. I try to spend the hour and half journaling, but the spray from outriggers keeps causing my ink to run, so I read some from my Moby-Dick now talking of chasing whales and being chased by pirates between the islands of Sumatra and Java, the next two major islands of Indonesia I do not visit.

Nusa Lembongan has beautiful rocky cliffs dropping dramatically into the sea surrounded by small sandy beaches: Mushroom, Cocoanut, and Sunset beach. The calm beyond the crashing surf is crowded with small local boats, fishing and diving boats, fast boats, and two gi-normous structures frequented by large catamaran cruise ships bringing rich tourists to enjoy the snorkeling and sea without having to have contact with the locals on the beach. The boat anchors closer to the beach and I step off barely getting my feet wet, greeted by locals offering to carry bags, carrying signs with western names, and offering transport. I generally wade past these massings of people before I try to decide where I want to go. Apparently the guesthouse I had booked had sent a guy to help me take my bags, but I had ignored his calling my name.

The main road is a surprising distance from the beach, some 200 or 300 meters. I trudge on heavy with my bags, limping with the sting of salt water in my foot wounds. I walk for a ways towards my hotel, but from names I recognize, it is still a ways off. A local on a motorbike stops and asks where I am heading. I cannot remember the name of my guesthouse, but I know the one it’s next to, Puri Nusa Bungalows. The man says he works for this guesthouse and will take me to mine, which is Tarci Bungalows (pronounced Tarchi, as the ‘c’ is always pronounced as ‘ch’).

The room is very nice, clean and white with two beds, one large and one small. Large flat, smooth rocks surround the toilet and shower. The worker showing my room says, “Since you came on the public boat your room is 150,000.” I stop. No, we agreed on 100,000 on the phone. “120,000?” No. 100,000. He leaves, talks with his manager and comes back, giving me the “be quiet, don’t tell anyone else you’re getting this price” sign.

I pack my backpack with my photo gear and head out to explore the island and find some lunch. “Hey, you were on the same boat as I was, weren’t you?” the redheaded Irish girl leans over the railing and calls as I pass by the beachside restaurant where she sits. “Have you had lunch yet?” she adds. “You didn’t have someplace you were headed do you?” Nope, I have no plans. We sit and talk over lunch for some time then decide for sunset to walk along the beach to find the guidebook recommended Mushroom Beach, which is a kilometer or so away. Emma walks barefoot through sand enjoying the feeling of it passing between her toes. She brings no shoes with her, set to brave whatever the path may throw at her. We pass expensive cliffside resorts with infinite pools and fancy restaurants before the nicely paved trail disintegrates to a rocky path; Emma limps over the sharp stones. The obvious trail leads down steep steps to cocoanut beach, a small but beautiful sandy beach with a couple of bamboo huts selling simple food items at the far side, and disappears. Emma sees a way up past the hut and a trail that leads along the cliffs to the right. Mushroom beach unfolds before us lined with expensive resorts and remarkably unspectacular, well to a lesser extent than the guidebook raved. We follow a side trail along the cliff leading to a point that looks over Mushroom beach to the left and to the right a small, secluded beach with large cliffs on both sides. Here, perched over the crashing waves we sit and wait for the sun to give its spectacular finish before fizzling out into the distant sea. Kayakers play in the surf, silhouetted against the brilliant but diminishing light.

A nice place I did not stay at

Emma looking through tide pools

A nice restaurant overlooking Mushroom Beach

Emma and I continue talking till we finally get back to her guesthouse where I met her, exchange quick ‘goodbye, see you later’s, and I set in for my usual early sleep schedule.

Sept 29
My last full day in Indonesia and I have no plan. I go to the restaurant in front of my guesthouse right up against the splashing tide expecting my included breakfast. The worker who had tried to tell me my room was 150,000 now says breakfast is not included. “But everywhere else here breakfast is included?” I try to reason. “None of the inns in this row offer included breakfast,” he quickly responds. Well, it was worth a try. Sometimes uninformed reasoning works, sometimes it doesn’t.

With my backpack straining to hold my camera equipment and showing signs of not wanting to continue with its assigned task, I head out down the beach set to explore the island. Again I find Emma sitting at the same table as the day before, but now joined by two Californians. She asks me to join them for a bit.

Justin, tanned with mixed blonde hair and a ruggedly assured look, has been living on the island for six months surfing and spear fishing. Melissa, skinny and hiding behind huge sunglasses, came to visit Justin with her boyfriend, Jordan, a jovially overweight computer programmer from San Diego. The threesome is going to a secret beach on the next island that Justin knows to snorkel, and ask if Emma and I want to join. Justin takes care of getting us equipment and motorbikes and we head off up through the hills. Emma rides on the back of my bike and I am still nervous from my accident but gaining confidence. By the end of the day I am feeling much better. After the accident I realized how unprotected I am from the road; any unseen pothole or obstruction can send me flying, leaving my skin along the pavement as I bounce and skid.

Passing beautiful scenes of island village life, seaweed farming, and fishing, we cross a long but very skinny suspension bridge spanning the distance between the two islands, Nusa Lembongan and Nusa Cenan??. The road disintegrates to a dirt road and gets somewhat steep. Justin stops and tells us to enjoy the scenery. We stand overlooking a beautiful cove with cliffs surrounding both sides, the beautiful blue water interrupted by dark shapes of coral beneath the surface, and a rocky beach taking the constant beating of large powerful waves. To get to the beach we climb through an abandoned skeleton of a beautiful house never finished, complete with furniture covered in tarps and an infinite pool filled with dirty brown water.

We lather on sunscreen then make our way out among the rocks, following Justin’s example of how to brave the waves and slippery rocks and get to the safety of a 10 meter circle of white sand where we can start our exploring of the beauty beneath the waves. To the left the scenes are a bit dark, hazy from the crashing waves, and too far down to explore closer. The further I make my way to the right across the cove the better the scene gets – more color, more fish, more coral. Soon deep ravines add another dimension to the scene, inviting me to attempt to dive, even without the help of flippers on my feet. The beauty persistently increases the further right I go till I am in danger of being pushed into the cliff edge by the crashing waves. I turn into the cove and continue exploring the ravines and the reef, which suddenly get much closer to me. It is incredible, the best I have seen. Suddenly I feel myself being moved this way and that by the crashing and confused waves, coming from many directions bouncing off the different walls. I flow with it for a bit seeing where it wanted to take me, but too soon I find myself face to face with coral and an impending large wave hovers above me. This is going to hurt. I try to keep my hands on the coral at all times while the wave spins me like a washing machine. I try to stand but am taken again by the next wave. This one delivers me far enough from the danger zone I can stand and walk the rest of the way, breathing hard and sore from being bounced off the reef. Bleeding from new wounds, I take a seat on a rock next to Emma who had already retired from snorkeling, staying safely only to the left.

A wave crashes over my head as I hold onto the slippery rock determined not to let go. I use the lull between the waves to pull myself up onto the shelf of sharp rock and allow myself to breath. Justin told me a certain route to climb the cliff and make it to a point some 10 meters up to jump into the crashing waves below. I thought, why not test my apparent ability to get hurt in every situation on this trip? I climb on the sharp rocks thankful I thought to wear my Chaco sandals that grip the wet rock. With Justin intermittently whistling to get my attention and pantomiming climbing beta I reach the summit and find the point from which to jump. I sit taking in the scene for a bit, watching Justin’s friends in black wetsuits dive in the deeper waters with their spear guns chasing after large fish and Jordan, floundering in his flippers, his white back in dire contrast to the dark water, unsuccessfully attempting to load his spear gun. With a quick breath, I jump. Barely noticing the lapse in time between jumping and colliding with the water, I make sure that my body stays shallow so as not to connect with the rocks below.

We wait for Jordan to come in from his unsuccessful attempt at spear fishing and head back to our home beach. On the way I take note of beautiful scenes I would like to photograph, but I do not want to burden everyone else so I wait. I drop Emma off at a fruit stand then take the bike back to a cove full of fishing boats. Then racing the sun I try to find a resort to take some interior and exterior pictures to add to my portfolio. I follow signs to a tiny dirt road leading to Sunset Beach Resort. The scene is nice but the resort does not look like the construction was finished. I hurry back, following signs to Mushroom beach, but missing the proper sunset I make my way to a very expensive looking resort on the far side. I take some photos of the pool and rest area and ask the manager to show me a room, which is amazingly beautiful.

This man really cares about his…rooster. Cock fighting is a favorite pastime of the local men.










On my return after dark I try to find roads that I think lead me in the right direction but find dead ends to wrong beaches and roads tapering off in the hills to nothing more than tire tracks in dirt. Giving in to the notion that I am lost I retrace my path and make my way back to the village that I know leads to the main road. My backpack is sitting strangely on my back and I keep adjusting it. On the final stretch of road before Emma’s guesthouse bouncing down the road between 30 and 40 km/hr I hear something fall off my bike. Looking back I see fading off into the dark my green dry bag, the same green bag I had put my camera in to keep it from getting scratched in my backpack. Hurrying back to the scene of the accident I cautiously touch the dry bag. Two distinct forms tell me all is not ok. My 16-35mm 2.8 lens has forcibly detached from my camera. I pull out the separate pieces, the camera for the most part looking all right, and the lens with the mounting system markedly missing and the green circuit board exposed. I separate the lens’ mount from the camera and set it back on the lens, unable to reattach it. Putting my 50mm lens on my camera I test it to make sure its working. The door on my vertical battery grip will not stay shut, but camera works fine. Though my most expensive lens now lay in pieces I found I stay remarkably cool, going through this with a mechanical calm. I feel that at some earlier time I would have freaked out and made a huge scene. No amount of emotion can change what just occurred and I now just have to deal with it.

Lenses are made modular exactly for this reason. If a certain amount of pressure is applied to any one of the modules it releases from the rest, making sure minimal damage is done to the lens and the camera to which it is attached. The mounting ring unattached saving the camera and the lens from being forcibly ripped apart and irreparable. Now I live only two train stops from the Canon repair center for Mumbai and most of India. It will be ok.

I thank Justin for taking me to his secret beach and bid goodbye to Melissa and Jordan. Emma is not around but had said she wanted to leave on the first boat out in the morning, the same I planned on taking. I ask the front desk to wake me up at six before heading to another early bedding.

Continue Reading. Click Older Post

Sept 30
I wake up and look at my watch. 5:55 A. M. Thank you God for the wake up call. I start packing and hear my 6am wake up, a worker knocking on my door at yelling in at me. I take my packed bags and have a seat at the abandoned restaurant over looking the beach shining in the early morning light. Surfers bob up and down in the distance. My entire time sitting I only see one take a wave for a ride. At seven the workers come out and I order breakfast. A man selling tickets to the public boat comes by and says we can get on at 8am.

Emma on the boat crossing back to Bali.

View More Photos and Read More Stories After the Break! Click Here –> 

The boat anchors just off shore in front of Emma’s guesthouse. I see by the time I get there she is already on board. The boat makes a second stop on down the shore and fills with a mix of locals, cargo, and westerners heading back to Bali. The trip is significantly shorter and smoother than the opposite journey. We reach Sanur and ignoring the band of porters, ojek and taxi drivers, Emma and I head into town to find somewhere to eat breakfast. All of the restaurants, save for Dunkin Donuts, look too expensive so we hire a taxi to take us to Kuta, where Emma is staying her last night before flying to the Philippines in the early morning. I follow Emma, again walking barefoot but this time on hot asphalt, in search of cheap accommodation. We go down Poppies Gang I and II and the side streets, but nothing is cheap enough for her. Finally she decides she’s had enough and goes back to one that is 60,000 a night. We eat lunch at a wonderfully cheap warung – I actually eat two meals – and we part ways.
I take a taxi to the airport and make my way through security. At the ticket booth a sign says there is a 150,000 fee for all passengers, so I go out in search of an ATM. The ONLY ATM in the international terminal is currently “Not In Service,” so I walk to the domestic terminal in search of an ATM. A line of international passengers wait for their chance to get the 150,000 to pay the ridiculous fine.
The red haired, freckled Irish girl next to me tries to sleep in seemingly uncomfortable positions. We fly mostly in the clouds with nothing to see beneath the wings, but as the sun sets the large cumulous clouds provide a spectacular scene that, when mentioned to the girl she remarks coldly, “They’re clouds.” I think those were the last words spoken between us.

The bus between the old airport and the new in Kuala Lumpur flies around every corner like the driver has some sort of vendetta against the road, the bus or all of us passengers. He nearly strikes every curb and car that passes. I have ridden in crazy traffic with crazy drivers all around the world, but I was honestly nervous about arriving safely this time.

I try to sleep in a leather seat in some sort of open lounge where mostly airline crew sit and talk over tea and small food items. I’m tired of journaling and tend just to read more of Moby-Dick. Since my phone is out of commission I cannot even play Sudoku. Emma had paid me for the motorbike in Malaysian currency, Ringetts, so I had enough to have a good meal in the Food Garden. I had a surprisingly spicy dish for being named Thai Nasi Goreng USA, topped with a perfectly fried egg.

The Egypt air flight is full of students in identical black jackets, heading to Cairo for their first year of University. The girls have either white or black head coverings, but none of the boys where traditional hats. Only about five or six of us are actually destined for Mumbai. I nervously watch the seats and rows fill up, enviously eyeing an empty middle row. As soon as the flight attendants shut the outer door, I excuse myself from my seatmate to have the freedom of stretching out over three empty seats. I slept well for four and half hours and unceremoniously arrive in Mumbai, disembarking almost alone leaving a plane full of Malaysian students excitedly anxious to arrive in Cairo.

October 1
I get through security and customs surprised to remain unharassed by bribe hungry officials. I grab my backpack and head out in search of a rickshaw to take me the two minutes to my apartment. No one wants to go such a short distance for the right price because, “we wait two or three hours in that line. We won’t go for such small pay.” I eventually convince one to take me and I come, glad to reach my apartment; glad to being able to relax and not be in pain anymore. I find my apartment covered in a deep layer of dust, even though Kari, a friend staying with me while working as an actor in a Bollywood television show, left only four nights before. Ah, well…its good to be back. Tomorrow I will deal with my broken phone, my broken mobile wireless modem, my broken laptop charger, my distinct lack of business cards, and few friends to welcome me home.

 

I am back from my two week holiday in Bali and Lombok, Indonesia. It was a great time but its good to be back in good ol’ hotn sweaty mumbai. I will have a full update for you soon, journaling my experiences.

Just because you see the sign for the business you want to visit the next day does not mean that said sign will be there when you go back the next day.

I walked up and down the street looking for this gym. I asked people and they pointed me in all the wrong directions. Finally the following day I see the tattered remains of the sign I had seen earlier.

It’s been a while. I really don’t have a great excuse for why I have not updated in almost a month except I have not had reliable internet. I am still fighting with companies to get a connection in my apartment. On the other hand the positive side of not having internet is I’ve almost got my living room painted. I doubt that would have happened had I had internet. I will give more detailed updates soon. I am doing well. I am leaving for Bali, Indonesia next Wednesday and will be back October 1st. I just got a waterproof case for my Canon G10 camera…excited to use it in Indonesia.

Cheers.

I have been wanting to play around with a fashion shoot for a long time. As soon as I met Cynthia a while back I asked her if I could use her for a photoshoot. We scheduled to shoot this past Saturday without have a definitely plan. I had some ideas but had a hard time vocalizing them to her. We met up in the afternoon at a shopping center. She had brought some traditional clothes, but I wanted something quite a bit more edgy. So we went shopping. I picked out a dress thingy that we both liked and eventually made it back to my place where I had planned to use a beautiful white wall as the backdrop.

This shoot was a lot of fun despite the destruction of equipment involved. Many of these images are too small to see on here. They can be seen larger on my Behance Network portfolio.

Sandbags. This is why people use sandbags. And assistants. Yesterday was a rough day on my equipment. I did a four location shoot with the band, Sounds of the Nations. The first location was an amazing partially dried up lake bed that I had spotted while driving to Karimnagar a couple of times. The band has six members, and they brought their lighting guy to assist me. It was quite windy at the lake, and even though I didn’t use any umbrellas or modifiers, the lights were not stable in the wind. While I was busy catching another stand that was falling, my Whitelightning x1600 crashed to the ground, smashing the plug in the back. The destruction of the plug most likely saved the majority of the unit from receiving damage, but the unit’s overheating warning kept me from using the light the rest of the day. Not 15 minutes later, my Speedlite 430EX placed on my lightweight tripod toppled over onto the rock, smashing the LCD screen. The flash still works fine, but I cannot see what mode or ratio the flash is on. Both of these incidents exemplify the need for both sandbags and real assistants. Note: I surprised myself with how calmly I reacted to my equipment breaking. For some reason, it really didn’t faze me.

Pictures will come soon. Or soon enough. Moving to Mumbai might delay that.

Last week I did a photoshoot with my friend Arpitha. We chose to go to Necklace road around Hussain Sagar. The lighting was great, and Arpitha’s brother came along to assist me. The shots with her in a blue traditional top are lit with only the sun and a single reflector. The shots in the pink top are lit with a single speedlite on a light stand held by John, Arpitha’s brother. For most of these I used a brollybox to diffuse the light. These were just some experimenting. Tomorrow I’m doing a shoot for a band. Hopefully more experimenting and fun results.

K. So we started with the flash, but it was two windy and there was too much light to ignore the potential of the reflector

I live in India. I have my US cell phone here, but I don’t use it and I have had it off basically since I’ve been here except to find some friends’ phone numbers. The other day a friend in the US asked for another friend’s number – as it turns out, I don’t have his number – so I turn on the phone. I have a new voicemail. I pull up skype and check my messages remotely so I don’t incur the $2.50 per minute charge for calling from India on my cell phone.

“Hello Scott, this is David from Focus Fine Art Photography Magazine. Can you give me a call at ___________?”

After several unsuccessful attempts to get a hold of each other I finally connect with David.

“I’m looking at one of the series you have in your personal work, the one of the red head and the plant.(Its a series of my friend Kami Baergen) I am the editor for the magazine and I know my readers. They will be interested in this work.”

Alright, I’m super excited.

“I would like you to buy an add in our magazine featuring this series.”

Less excited.

“We’re having a sale right now on 4 page spreads, they are normally $6,000, but for this issue they will be $3,000, plus you get two free one page ads in the next two issues.”

Wooo thats a lot of money right now. He gave me the option of a 2page spread which is more likely and half as much. But despite this ‘salesman’ trying to sell me ad space, it would be crazy good exposure. Two full pages featuring my work, seen by galleries and art collectors across the nation. I wrote to friends and mentors and most advised me to proceed, but with caution. It would be a good move, if not only for the exposure, but also if I sell anything or get any job because of this, it is worth it.

The image.

Click image to see larger.

I spent two days redesigning my menus on my website last week, using rollover jpg images. I had to code for each individual link on every page. It took forever and was tedious. I just spent 2 and half days re-redesigning the menus on my website in Flash. Its simpler, cleaner, and does exactly what I want it to. I had to create a different flash SWF file for each page, but the menus are more streamlined. Guh, I wish website maintenance did not take so long. www.scottclarkphotography.net