September 27, 2015: My Greatest Adventure

This feels familiar. I am on a plane heading to the land of endless winter and I am alone. This was how it all began. Four years ago, wide-eyed and hungry for the world, I left home on my first big adventure. I was off to explore the ends of the earth; the sharp drop off between the familiar, the safe, and the nervous unknown. An unexplainable force pulled me towards the edge. I stood there with toes suspended over rock and air and the breath catching in my lungs. 

I turned around for one last look, but I didn’t turn to salt. Instead I saw my past. Piles of National Geographic magazines strewn around an eight-year old girl sitting indian-style on her bedroom floor. Her dark eyes devouring the colorful pictures of a world outside her own. A world she devoted herself to like a religion with complete and utter faith despite its distance. 

In that moment, in that last look, the wide-eyed girl disappeared and I saw the course of my future morph from one ending to another. I was privy to my final form. Instead of an old woman with out a story--bitter from the cruel speed in which life had passed her by--I saw those familiar brown eyes set on a canvas of wrinkles, shining with the spirit of youth. She sat at a desk swaddled in memories so intense that they felt like they were born only yesterday. A pen animated by a leathery hand danced across paper leaving a blue trail of stories. The image faded and there I was standing in the present. For the first time I felt like I was truly living in the moment. I kept my eyes open when I jumped, and they have been open ever since.

Sitting here reflecting I can feel my heart beating in anticipation; the same heart that almost pumped its way out of my chest the first time I felt the bitter air fill in around my body and usher me out the door of the C-17. It carried me towards an intimate relationship with a harsh, yet stunning, land and a tall stranger. I remember it as if it were a moment ago. The glitter of frozen water molecules dancing in the air; the wide towering body of Mt. Erebus exhaling contrails of fumes across the crystal blue sky; and him. I remember David. 

Our eyes met and they were the same--bright, spirited, excited, animalistic. Like the crazy flash of a wolf’s eyes after the thrill of a chase. It was the look of primal fulfillment. We were doing what we were meant to do. We were where we were meant to be. Like the rare alignment of stars, our paths crossed. Time flickered and we were fused for life.

I am not a romantic. I am not a believer in love at first sight--I believe in bodily chemicals at first release--but there was something internal that drew me to him that I can’t explain. He was everything familiar. It was like I had known him for a hundred years, yet only for a moment. David was perfect for a girl like me. I was all earth: changing, growing, and, at times, turbulent. And he was the sky: vast, bright, and soaring. When I was with him I could fly. I did not love him instantly. Lightning did not strike and I did not dance like a dervish, but something deep inside me knew that what was happening was extraordinary.

Every year when I return to the land of sun and ice I am reminded of our first season at 90 degrees south. The memories flood my mind and I lose myself in nostalgia. I remember our first soul-stirring conversation, our first kiss, our first night together--in a dug-out snow cave in -40 degree temperatures. I can still recall the flush of cold on our cheeks, the frozen eyelashes and beard, and the ethereal glow of the snow-packed walls. 

I fall in love with him over and over again. On the most mundane days our eyes still find each other, they lock, and together we relive that first encounter--appreciating our love for the world and our love for each other. It has been four years since I stood on the edge; since my giant leap into the unknown. Four incredible years since I gave my heart to a man at the bottom of the world.

My greatest adventure. 

April 30, 2015: Dos Equis and the Bintang Bros

On a curvaceous gravel road in the heart of Bali--surrounded by vibrant rice fields that stripe the valley floor and climb steeply up the mountain side, pooling into ingeniously designed tiered terraces--rides a small gang of scooters. Four helmet-clad, backpack-toting Americans with a thirst for adventure. A dapper, Matthew McConaughey-looking man with a quick wit; an allusive running back with a muscular derrière that challenges the purity of the most pious; a young scholar yielding a blond mustache of legendary proportion; and a woman, whose patience and poise rivals that of saints. They fly on two wheels like young demigods born from the blood of Hermes. They are Dos Equis and the Bintang Bros.

Upon Josh's arrival in Kuta, engines revved as we rented scooters and tore off west at an incredibly slow and cautious pace. Bali is a war zone of pot holes, rogue animals, and darting lawless vehicles; not the place to learn how to ride an engined-powered machine of any design. Images from the past poured into my mind and mingled with the present as we navigated our way through controlled chaos. All that was missing from the memory of my first time on a motor bike was a heavy rain. 

Led to salvation by GPS-equipped devices, we escaped the congested web of city streets and transitioned into more open and slightly less scary country roads. Dave and I wagged our fingers like a couple of old curmudgeons. Back in the day when we were here (2012) we didn't have devices. We had to navigate the old fashion way, like our parents! Our slow, tedious system involved halting at every intersection, making eye contact with the locals, followed by the question: Balian? Or Amed, or Padingbai, or any other town we aimed our sites. A host of fingers would simultaneously spring up, rigidly fixed in one direction, and off we went. We were never lost.

Consulting the GPS

It took us a few days to gain confidence on our bikes. Ryan was the exception. His motorcycle days of being too fast and too furious were in the past, but his mustache visibly bristled with the thrill of being on two wheels again. Once out of Kuta we let out a collective sigh of relief. The country side bloomed before us--beauty thriving between the thorns of cities. Crowded buildings slowly tapered and eventually gave way to thick patches of jungle and virgin coastline. Tamed stretches of earth--seeded patiently by tanned hands--sprouted with rows of crops. Sky and clouds rippled within the watery lines of uniformly planted rice. The lively colors clashed defiantly against the military-greens of the plants refusing to conform.

Despite the beauty and the temptation we had to remain focused on the road. There was always a potential hazard to avoid: a monstrous truck forging down the wrong lane, a patch of tire-swiping gravel, or an absent-minded dog trotting towards disaster--unaware of the white-knuckled westerner and the knee-jerk maneuvering that spared them both. The first few days I rode my bike like a spooked cat--muscles rigid, hair raised, eyes wide in surprised terror.

He does wheelies too!

North we went, up the lovely western coastline to the black sand beaches of Balian. Dave and I reminisced about our first visit to this quiet town which had grown exponentially in size in such a short time. A few peacock resorts vied for our business with offers of wifi, a pool, and yoga classes--they go straight for the westerner's heart--but we abstained and chose a minimalist accommodation with a view worth a thousand buffet breakfasts. 

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Upon returning to a place it is natural to perceive its changes. Every time I travel to Ohio I have to squint my eyes to recognize the land where I grew up. Over there is a Super Walmart and over here, where a field of corn once grew, is a shiny new suburb. Progress in some people's eyes, digression reflected in my own. A few weeks ago I met an older couple from the Netherlands who shared their story of change. They had come to Bali in 1997 as travel writers and had returned eighteen years later as tourists. Their eyes widened as they described the differences between the past and the present. 

"Only one paved road circled the island" the old man said, "and each village had three scooters. Three!" They shook their gray heads in amazement. "Now there are thousands zooming around and pavement everywhere."

Three years is not a considerable amount of time, but a lot can happen for better or for worse in the wake of progress. Bali's beauty has not diminished, it is as lovely as ever, but the culmination of publicity and the onslaught of tourists--influenced by travel television, magazines, and books--have made their mark on this small island. Nat Geo Traveler says, "Go to Bali! It's the new, cheaper Hawaii!"

It would be pretentious and hypocritical of me to stand behind my podium and point a condemning finger at tourism, myself being a tourist. Dave and I like to refer to ourselves as "travelers" and we try our best to separate ourselves from that disturbing scene. We cringe when herds of people spill out the doors of behemoth busses, swamping the sites with their numbers and chasing away the peace; we wince when we witness the harassment of a devout Hindu praying in a temple, a private moment between an old woman and her deities stolen by a swarm of iPhones; and we shake our heads in disappointment when a wild stretch of beach is encroached by foreign-owned resorts tailored to maintain a certain level of comfort for a certain type of people--not for the locals. I mock these impacts--a failing attempt at separation--pretending to know what's right for this country and others. My selfish desire to keep these places to myself has manifested into a resentment of my own kind. At the end of the day tourism brings in money and money buys food. Who am I to judge? But I can't help but wonder if that old Dutch couple felt any regrets about what they put in print so many years ago.

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As terrestrial creatures drawn to water, especially water with surf potential, our first order of business in Balian was to rent boards. We highstepped barefoot across the sizzling black sand and paddled out to join the bobbing crowd of surfers. Word had traveled. This once abandoned break was now teeming with Europeans. We found the task of navigating around bodies and avoiding collisions to be frustrating and mostly unrewarding. Dave, however, caught the wave of the day: a long beautiful right, a birthday gift from the sea. That night we ate locally caught fish, and drank cocktails made from cans of tonic, fresh limes, and a bottle of Kettle One--bought in secrecy while in Kuta and saved for the occasion. 

Two days later we remounted our bikes and turned inland towards the mountainous interior. Up we went, throttles revved to their full capacity and engines whining in protest. We leaned forward across the handlebars, willing our bikes up the steep, inclining roads. Eventually we crested the top of each monstrous hill, gaining speed as the road evened out before us. Bali took on a new shape and dimension as we looked down on the curving coastline and the patterned green valleys. Neighboring islands sprouting huge volcanos loomed in the distance--a reminder of how much there was to see in this massive archipelago.   

Some where along the curvaceous, flower-rimmed road Dos Equis and the Bintang Bros were born. It seemed only natural that our little gang should have a name. Dos Equis--Spanish for two x's and the name of a cheap Mexican beer--refers to my female chromosomes. Bintang is the Indonesian-produced beer, and the guys' beverage of choice. A silly joke that managed to stick around like many others on this trip including, but not limited to, Dave having an Academy Award-winning Hollywood doppelgänger; Josh's muscular hind quarters being an object of lust and envy; and Ryan's ever-growing mustache possessing a personality of its own.

Matthew, I mean David

This thing would make Tom Selleck's stash hide in shame

Stand down, ladies

It has been interesting traveling with three XY's dynamically comprised of my boyfriend, brother, and a friend. There has been excessive flatulence, man-talk, and beer drinking on this trip; but despite being viewed as 'just one of the guys,' there is a collective sensitivity towards me that is unmistakeable. Dave has always been subtly protective, trying his best to remain 'cool' and not interfere with my independent nature; but add an older brother to the equation and voila! You get Jenna's not-so-secret service.

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Ten minutes into our flight from San Francisco to Bali a man sitting behind us had a bag dropped on his head by a little old lady trying to get to her luggage. The man threw a fit! He tore into the woman--animately berating and spitting swearwords at her while ignoring her gentle, embarrassed apologies. Disgusted by the scene I turned around and told the man to calm down and have a seat--he was throwing his tantrum in the middle of the aisle. The expression on his face was murderous! He sat down, but as I turned away I could feel his hate-filled gaze searing the back of my head. With an emotionally unstable man sitting directly behind me I felt uneasy and exposed. 

"Take your eyes off my sister!" 

Ryan had turned around in his seat and was fiercely staring down the scowling man. At that same moment Dave returned from the bathroom. Confused by the sudden tension, he looked from me, to Ryan, to the furious face sitting behind us. With eyes still locked on the man, Ryan unfurled the story, ending with the evil look that had been directed towards me. Dave immediately whipped around pointing a finger. 

"Who? This guy?" 

With two sizable men staring him down, the defiance fled from the man's eyes and he looked away, pacified. With a slightly discernible nod of their heads, Ryan and Dave untwisted back into their seats as if nothing had happened. Ryan opened his book, Dave reached for his headphones, and I closed my mouth--which had become unhinged during the scene.

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It didn't take us long to establish a natural order. Ryan and Dave took turns between leading the group and bringing up the rear while Josh rode in front of me, casting a warning finger at patches of gravel and deep crevice-like potholes. I accepted my role as position number three; but every once in a while, feeling defiant, I'd throttle my bike to an uncomfortable speed passing bikes two and one and take the lead. I may be a girlfriend and a sister, but nobody puts Dos Equis in a corner; or, in this case, sticks me at third place. I blasted ahead partly out of demonstration, but mostly it was done with the deviant intent to make the boys squirm. 

I am convinced that motorbikes are the best way to travel. They are not only fun, hearty little machines, but fuel efficient and cheap to rent. At two dollars and fifty cents a day, we bought ourselves boundless freedom. By navigating our own course and indulging our whims, we were funneled away from the tourist scene and straight into the heart of Bali. The shocked, gaping faces of some of the villagers were a testament to just how far we had traveled off the beaten path.

The Balinese are among the happiest and friendliest people I have encountered. Everywhere we went we were greeted by big radiant smiles, vigorous waving, and shouts of inquiry. "Hellooo! Where you from? Where you going?" Children heading home from school stretched their tiny hands towards us, their faces bursting with joy and giggles as we slowed our bikes to a crawl and high-fived them as we passed.

Indonesia is a Muslim country, but scattered within the large archipelago are pockets of Animism, Buddism, Hinduism and Christianity. With beautifully designed stone temples and happy, peaceful people, Bali's Hindu beliefs--which are vastly different from Indias'--have shaped this island into a charming and rich cultural experience. Every morning palm baskets containing flowers, rice, and burning sticks of incense, are placed in temples, homes, vehicles and on the sidewalks as offerings to the gods. In a win-win situation, stray dogs are believed to be agents of the spirit world and are left in peace while they consume these gifts.

We allotted ourselves two weeks to explore Bali; riding in a large circular route from one side of the island to the other--gleaning memories along the way. Through cool, refreshing mountain forests; past picturesque fields of budding rice; and along the emerald-blue coastline of the Indian Ocean. At times, dark cumulous clouds would billow up over the mountains releasing their fury on the island in sheets of heavy rain. We were caught in these drenching storms on more than one occasion with no where to hide--sharp beads of water pelting our helmets and skin. 

In the small mountain village of Munduk, after hiking in the rain to three stunning waterfalls tucked deep in the lush jungle, we sat on our homestay's balcony with cups of hot muddy coffee gripped between our hands. As the sun sank below the palm-fringed horizon, the eire song of a Muslim prayer call drifted in the twilight. These calls to prayer resonate through out all of Indonesia--starting at four thirty in the morning and, like clockwork, sounding at pinnacle times through out the day. Even though Bali's population is nominally Hindu, there are mosques in every village projecting these haunting songs of devotion through crackling loud speakers.

As scooter-riding nomads, we were almost always on the move--stopping from time to time to rest our saddle-sore bottoms and explore an area more thoroughly. The black beaches of Balian, the crystal-coastline of Amed, and the quiet dive town of Tulamben, were a few of the places we spent multiple days forming an acquaintance.

West Coast

In Tulamben, one hundred yards off the beach in about fifty feet of water, rests the World War II ship, the U.S. Liberty. Damaged by a Japanese submarine, the Liberty was towed to Bali with the intent to repair it, but during a volcanic eruption in the 1960's it was swept into the sea by a violent lahar. Now Tulamben is on the map as one of the best scuba spots in Bali. The four of us found a reputable dive shop, suited up, and explored the ghostly remains of the wonderfully intact cargo ship. It was Ryan's first time diving and after getting use to the buoyancy regulator, and the strange sensation of breathing underwater, he cruised around as if he belonged. It is a gift of innovation to be able to visit this once impenetrable world. To possess the ability to breath comfortably, floating weightlessly amid unimaginable preasure, while observing the propulsive movements of a squid. I would have loved to be an aquanaut, a marine biologist, or a fish.

From sea to sky, one day's journey brought us to the mountain town of Salat and the base camp for our journey up Bali's biggest valcano. At over 3,142 meters, Agung appealed to us with its size, accesibility, and lack of popularity--in other words, no guide was necessary. The following morning we awoke at 3:45 and by the light of a pale moon rode our bikes up the steep road to Pura Pasar Agung--the Hindu temple and the beginning of the trail.

After two hours of vertical climbing, headlamps illuminating our path, the darkness gave way to the brilliance of a newborn day. As the colors from the sunrise burned with intensity and spread throughout the sky, we scrambled up the last pitch of rock and reached the summit. Land and sea bowed before us as we stood triumphant on top of the island--Kings and queens of Bali. 

The higher I climb, the further I can see, and the smaller I feel. I stood on top of that mountain surrounded by endless water, gazing down on the contours of the coastline and the fissured-looking road far below. This island is barely visible on a world map. I felt a sudden wave of gratification for the places I have been and an overwhelming sense of excitement for what I have yet to see. This was only one small adventure for Dos Equis and the Bintang Bros. The rest of the world awaited.

As the sun and the temperature rose, we broke the spell of the mountain and descended the steep, rocky slope--passing chattering monkeys and poetic flowers as we went. Dripping sweat and invigorated by our adventure, we reached Pura Pasar and the stairs that led down to our motor bikes. Hindu priests wearing their customary sarong and sash passed slowly by on their way up the mountain to pray. With an entire day before us teaming with possibilities, we mounted our bikes, started our engines, and nodded our heads--the customary symbol for readiness. 

"Let's ride!"

Pura Pasar Agung

March 24, 2015: The Land Of Jasmine

Out of our five senses, smell is considered to be the strongest trigger of our memory. As I stepped through the airport doors in Denpensar, I felt as if I had been transported back in time. The year is 2012 and I am entering Asia for the first time--leaving behind the sterile comforts, rationality, and familiarity of my home, and trading them in for a vibrant, enchanting, chaotic adventure.

The smell of incense, jasmine, and ozone hit my nose and I was swallowed whole by the frenzied pace and sheer strangeness of Asia. My isolated, first-world mind exploded and was never the same. I was romanced by exotic beauty, charmed by a land an ocean apart from my own--I couldn't have felt the distance more. 

On that day in April, three years ago, my eyes were opened to other cultures. The bubble in which I lived was popped and I was suddenly exposed, vulnerable and ignorant--a naked new born traveller. Since that moment I have learned so much, yet still know so little about this world and its people. My journey is an on-going education.

Three rotations around the sun and numerous passport stamps later, I have returned to the land of jasmine. Maybe it's the deep inhalation upon my arrival, the full circle course of my life, or the fact that I am traveling with my brother and David--two on my favorite people--but I feel a deep sense of contentment. I am exactly where I want to be.

We began our adventure in Kuta--the antithesis of Bali's serene, peaceful persona. The entrepreneurial spirit is strong in this large, sprawling city.

"My friend, buy this!" and, "transport, yes!" are commonly heard phrases during a walk down the vendor-filled streets. On the beach we were surrounded by salesmen and woman offering everything from ice cream, massages, and sarongs, to model ships and cross bows. In demonstration, one man threw off his flip flop and shot an arrow through it. He misunderstood our shock and delight as interest in his product.

Our stay in Kuta was short. Just long enough to sleep off the effects of the jet lag and to introduce Ryan to the world of cheap Asian beer and noodles. Bintang (beer) and mie goreng (fried noodles) are now the staples of Dave and Ryan's diet--each one trying their very best to make it until noon before indulging. Their efforts are admirable. 

I am getting my kicks from the fresh coconut and fruit juices, along with gado gado--steamed vegetables in a delicious peanut sauce. You just can't beat a tasty meal that costs 25,000 IRD, or $2 USD. Winning!

From Kuta we took a car to east Bali where we caught the fast boat to Gili Air, a tranquil little island off the west coast of Lombok. For five days we ate fresh caught fish and drank cheap cocktails and Bintang while trying our hardest not to get burnt by the relentless equatorial sun. We bought used masks and snorkels and rode the south flowing current over flowering reefs chocked full of life--sea turtles, moray eels, and hundreds of species of fish. Visitors from another world, we swam among families of exotic fish, and watched them dive into colorful coral--taking refuge from the giant alien shadows that loomed over them.

The best part of our stay on Gili Air was the relationships we formed with the locals. Amung, Easy, and Didi, three good ole Muslim boys, entertained us relentlessly with their jokes and boyish antics. Didi plucked out pop songs on his old, rusty guitar while Amung and friends sat in a circle around Dave and Ryan, enthralled by every word they spoke. They enviously 
commented on Dave's muscles, Ryan's mustache, and, to our shock and sadness, the color of our skin. 

"If only we were tall and white like you." 

They saw our skin as a free-pass, a ticket to a world of ease, and, in their young male minds, lots of babes. Amung and Didi couldn't find girlfriends. They were told they are "too dark." No matter how much we disagreed, showing them our burnt, painful skin and complimenting the beauty of their complexions, they remained adamant. 

Sadly on our small planet, surrounded by an unfathomably vast expanding universe, there is still an overwhelming stigma associated with such an insignificant thing as skin color. We witnessed it personally on Gili Air. Foreigners ignored the greetings of the locals as they passed by them on the road, or exhibited blatantly rude behavior and acts of superiority. 

It shocks me to the core how we as humans have done great things--advancements in modern medicine, landing a probe on a meteor traveling thousands of miles per hour, and splitting atoms--yet we are archaic and backward in our judgement and treatment of our fellow man. 

We said goodbye to our new friends and our cozy little bungalow on the beach and caught a twenty minute ferry to Lombok. From there we joined an island-hopping cruise to Flores with thirteen other travelers--ten Europeans, one Canadian, and two crazy Mexicans. Our boat, a small contraption of wood, tarps, and an engine, chugged along for four days, stopping at some thrilling snorkel spots. 

One particular location was called Manta Alley and was a migratory hotspot for these massive creatures. We absorbed minor shocks and jolts from tiny jellyfish as we watched one graceful winged giant after another soar beneath our suspended bodies. We dived deep, hovering over them as they glided past us effortlessly. We were dwarfed by their presence. One, I swear, had a wingspan of fifteen feet! I believe the rest of the trio would agree that the Giant Manta Rays were the highlight of our trip thus far.

Two of our stops were on Komodo and Rinca Island, where we hiked among dragons with our stick-yielding guides--our only protection. What incredibly fearsome creatures the Komodo Dragons are. They may look slow and lazy while basking in the early morning sun, but they are only waiting for their chance to single out their prey--exploding with surprising speed, dealing a fateful bacterial bite.

Living on a boat in the middle of the Indian Ocean was a memorable experience. We witnessed four incredible sunsets bursting with color, and three new days born in the same sky that hours earlier held the light of a thousand stars. We observed huge flying foxes commuting in transitioning skies--back and forth between food and sleep; large jellyfish with tendrils of blue and pink undulating in clear deep waters--aliens suspended in space. We swam with reef sharks who patrolled their underwater kingdom; and, from the vantage point of our boat, we spotted a large pod of migrating orcas breaching the surface for breaths offresh air. 

The ocean is an amazing, but sometimes treacherous, place. Potential hazards linger in numerous shapes and colors. They hide and wait or dance ominously in warning. Dave had a run in with one of these dangerous creatures while swimming. In shallow waters he placed his hand in the wrong spot in the sand and was struck by a small unseen critter who packed a powerful bite. 

Dave has a strong pain tolerance so I knew it was serious when I saw him wrinkle his face involuntarily in bouts of misery. Immediately his finger swelled, the puncture point turned blue, and his entire hand quaked.

Back on the boat we informed our guide of the mystery bite, looking for insight and reassurance that the wound wasn't serious. He gave Dave some onion. I've heard of the phrase rub a little dirt on it, but an onion?

Miles from no where, I bundled some ice in a damp t-shirt, cracked open some Benadryl and consulted my watch. Thirty minutes after the infliction... still alive. 

The swelling inevitably went down, the pain subsided and we deduced that Dave was going to pull through. The next day all that remained was a little stiffness. Another twenty-four hours later and it was as good as new. Dave's experience was a reminder that the ocean, despite its tranquil beauty, can strike as quick and as unexpectedly as a Komodo dragon. In a place so remote, a treatable accident can be life threatening. 

We arrived in Labaun Bajo, Flores on the fourth day. To our disappointment, this port town was nothing more than a hungry money-eating tourist trap. Unable to rent transportation and faced with the island's high prices, we decided to call an audible and fly back to Bali. The cheapest available flight was in two days.

Again and again we tried to rent transportation in order to venture out of that moral-stealing hole-in-the-wall town, but everything was booked. Feeling discouraged and ready to Bintang our troubles away, we reunited with some of our fellow boat passengers who were planning an excursion. We chipped in and chartered a small sputtering vessel that took us to our own private spot off the coast of Flores. That afternoon, on an island no bigger than a few acres, we BBQd fresh red snapper over a small driftwood fire, drank cheap Asian beer, played beach soccer, and snorkeled the surrounding reef. Not a bad day.

We are currently in the air headed to Bali where we will surf for a few days until meeting up with our friend, Josh, on the 27th, Dave's birthday. From there we will regroup and form a plan for the next stage of our trip. Maybe Lombok, maybe Java, perhaps Sulewasi. 

The future is open and bright and beautiful.