September 17, 2016: The Fellowship of the Bongo

August 26, 2016: 

This entry was partially created in March and, like many of my written ramblings, was forgotten. Being back in New Zealand after a not-so-very-long absence has had a stirring effect on me. I feel Deja vu on every corner and down every street. Where did the time go? I find myself in almost the exact spot I was six months ago; the same country, the same city, the same cafe, the same seat where I began writing this story--but my mind is in a very different place. It is focused on the future, not the present. I am not here to travel, to roam, I am here with a purpose, with a job. Tomorrow I fly. Back to Antarctica, back to a world apart from the world. But before I go here is one more essay about life before I take you south and fill your minds with cold stories. This is what my thoughts will subsist of for the next six months--until I am once again standing on grass, drinking-in the warm lilac breeze.

March 29th, 2016:

Redeployment day in Antarctica had finally arrived and we were huddled together on a LC-130 listening to the thrum of propellors. Only hours before we stood in a wasteland of ice and volcanic rock, and now we were destined for a couple of tiny islands adrift in the Pacific Ocean pulsing with vitality. I had been in this position before--five times, to be exact--and I was familiar with the emotions, with the intense gratuitous love of life and the heart-stirring excitement of coming home to it. The drastic transition from a deprived state of being to complete submersion has an osmotic effect--balancing and renewing the senses. We flew from death towards life, from sterile to prolific. It’s a deprivation and reward that revitalizes perspectives. A white canvas suddenly filled with vibrant color, every brush stroke a gift. My eyes always need time to adjust, to constrict against the bright images that can have a blinding effect: rocky giants, rolling fields of luscious green, sparkling sun-lit water, and dense, dark rain forests that spill onto miles of roaring coastline. New Zealand is a precious-stone that shimmers on the blue-body of the Tasman Sea. 

As I stepped off the plane and onto the air field at Christchurch International Airport I breathed long and deep. The humid lilac-scented air filled me with each inhalation and I pictured those lovely oxygen molecules supplementing my blood and renewing my dry, thirsty body. With our contracts complete we were finally released from months of obligation. Like horses turned loose from the confines of their stalls, all we wanted to do was run. With our bags in tow, Ryan (my brother), David (my partner), and I rented a Mazda Bongo camper-van and drove north along the mountainous Kaikoura coast. Slick, athletic-looking seals, very different in appearance and demeanor from their chubby southern cousins, speckled the rocky shoreline. Gulls floated on the salty wind fussing at us, fussing at each other, and weathered fishing boats dropped their rusty anchors in sheltered coves. Dinner that evening came fresh from the briny. How wonderful it was to be eating food that hadn’t been frozen for months, even years, before reaching our plates.

In the waning light of our first day on the road we set up camp and watched the last streaks of color fade into the night. The sun took a final bow, dark curtains closed, and the full moon entered the stage. We chose the perfect spot on the beach for the scene; or, I should say, it chose us. The truth was that our van with its bike-sized tires and rear-wheel drive couldn’t handle the shallow sand. We were stuck. It turns out that Mazda Bongos are more suited for the paved streets of Tokyo then they are for the wet, rocky, sandy, and steep roads of New Zealand. Dewy grass and a slight gradient was often a challenge for our small gut-less van. 

The next morning we woke tired from a night filled with strange dreams. It took me a moment to remember where I was. It was the sound of the pushing and the pulling of the sea that jogged my memory and brought me back to the present. Smiling to myself I watched a little green beetle make its way up the wall of my tent--the first insect I had seen since September. 

We wriggled out of our sleeping bags, stretched our arms towards the sky, and ferociously yawned like roaring lions. I rubbed the sleep from one eye and cast a tentative look with the other towards our beached vehicle. The previous evening was spent trying not to think of our predicament, but now it was time to get to work. The problem was clear, the solution was traction. We gathered our materials, anything we could find: driftwood, stones, sleeping pads, floor mats. A trail was laid behind the tiny wheels and, with hope mixed with skepticism, we started the engine. 

It was slow progress. Every attempt and short gain was followed by digging and the reorientation of our traction. Inch by inch we moved as we labored towards our freedom. Two hours later with me nervously hunched behind the steering wheel, Ryan pushing with all his strength against the hood, and David and his weight strategically perched on the bumper, we finally broke free. Hooting and high-fiving, with huge smiles splayed across our faces, we ran into the ocean and rinsed away the worry, frustration, and sweat from our ordeal. 

Four days after bolting out of Christchurch we found ourselves back in the city on a mission to pick up Scott--our sarcastic foreman, father-figure, and friend. We waited all afternoon at the CDC for his arrival, but the plane never landed. When redeploying from Antarctica you are never guaranteed to fly on time. It’s a perk if you do. Weather delays, mechanical issues, and over-booked flights are always an accounted risk. Despite being thoroughly warned, there are always a handful of first-year rookies driven by post-Antarctic excitement and the need for structure in their travels who make unrefundible plans. The rule is to always give yourself at least a buffer week to account for the delays. We knew that Scott’s plane had either not taken off or that it had boomeranged--turning around mid-flight for some unforeseen reason. 

That night the Bongo climbed slowly up one of the rural roads that overlooked Christchurch and the sea. As the sun sank behind the hill-tops the city began to glow like stoked embers. The darkness deepened and the lights flickered with intensity, spreading down the valley like a large urban fire. Rarely do I look at man-made scenery as beautiful. I prefer the essence of nature, raw and organic. If I were in charge of the world’s architecture we would all live and work in natural-looking structures--blending into the earth like the homes of the Pueblo and the Algonquin. Despite my deep prejudice I was captivated by that stunning display of illumination and human-ingenuity. That scene smolders in my memory as an evening of beauty and of deep respect for my kind. 

Two days later Scott’s plane finally landed. February is one of the last months of summer in New Zealand, and we were feeling the effects of the sun. A pink flush spread across our cheeks and down our shoulders. Scott’s skin was a pale reminder of what we had left behind. I could see the excitement and the relief in his eyes. A proud look of completion coupled with profound weariness. Six months in the Antarctic wilderness is a tough, yet gratifying experience. We work long and we work hard, but when the time comes to head north we exhale deeply, swaddle ourselves in the warm blanket of life, and rest our bones.

Where to now? Our internal compass and instincts pointed north and that’s where we went--over the Cook Straight via ferry and up, up, up towards the top of the north island. We fled like fugitives escaping the law. We knew that if we stayed in the south winter would be nipping at our heals. In the north we found a tropical hide-out, a true South Pacific Island. So much of New Zealand’s south island looks and feels like Montana--forested and mountainous with an alpine-coolness. The climates of the north and the south can be as different as Maine and Florida. Upon arriving in Manganui, we grabbed surf boards, slathered on sunscreen, and headed for the beach--the last of the clinging ice dripping off our heels and into the hot sand as we went.

In the Bay of Islands we rented sea kayaks for a few days and explored the archipelago of golden beaches. Our traveling style is usually go, go, go, but among so much beauty we relaxed in our own much-needed ways. Scott macgyvered a harpoon and tried his luck at spear fishing, Ryan kayaked and snorkled the surrounding islands, Dave climbed the hills and hiked the valleys, and I found peace and solitude in the shade of a palm tree while reading a book.  Our days were simple, no longer weighed down with decisions from the outside world. We came and went as we pleased, dragging lines in the sand with our kayaks. In the evenings we cooked dinner on our portable stove, played card games, drank spirits, and watched the sky explode with color and slowly darken into a star-dusted sky.

On our second night of playing Swiss Family Robinson, Scott and I dragged our kayaks down the beach and into the dark water. As I pushed off from the shore and settled myself into the cockpit of my boat, a galaxy of bioluminescent phytoplankton appeared ignited by my motion. For a moment I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, that the green and blue shimmering light were reflections from the night sky. As I stared into the inky-black water a startled fish shot through the depths like a comet leaving a tail of neon green. With the blade of my paddle I began stirring the cosmos--drawing forth the light, the energy, from that invisible watery world. In the distance I could hear Scott’s paddle striking the water. His kayak glided by, the bow slicing through the darkness, and a dazzling contrail of phosphorescence shimmered in his wake. 

After three weeks on the north island, crusty with sea salt and buzzing with vitamin D, we loaded up the Bongo and merged south onto Highway One. Scott’s time was coming to an end. Only a few days remained and many miles before he had to be back in Christchurch to board his flight home. After hours of driving--over the bridges of Aukland and through the vast countryside where grazing sheep speckled the hills like clouds in a green sky--we arrived in the port of Wellington. The next day we would board the ferry to the south island, but that night we were intent on exploring the city and stretching our unutilized legs. We walked with out purpose, occasionally stopping at a restaurant for drinks before continuing down the bustling city blocks. At one point we lost site of Dave and when he reappeared he waved a piece of paper in the air like a prize. It was a map of all the local breweries. Off we went in search of ambers, IPAs, and lost inhibitions. The following morning my head throbbed with pain and self loathing as our boat rocked its way to Picton. 

Back on the south island we made the beautiful yet steep drive over Arthur’s Pass. The Bongo’s engine whined and her transmission lurched as we pushed her up the 2,400 meter summit. On the eastern side of the Southern Alps, after winding back down into the lowlands, we found a secluded camping spot with a crystal creek, mountainous views, and a huge field where we flung our frisbee. It was perfect! Well, almost. The only thing that cast a shadow on our beautiful location was the cloud of sandflies. 

Sandflies, for those who are unfamiliar, are loathsome little creatures. They resemble gnats, but their feeding habits are very different from those benign insects you find hovering over your fruit bowl. Unlike a mosquito’s single penetrating proboscis, a sandfly likes to gnaw at its dinner with tiny jaws, dosing the blood with anticoagulants. The effect is torturous! An unbearable itch that lasts for days. There were mornings when I woke up bloody from a night of unconscious scratching. There is, however, a chink in their little black armor. They possess a pair of puny wings that are rendered immobile when a slight breeze hangs in the air. Also, a leisurely walk will leave them in the dust because they are incapable of keeping up. As long as you remain moving you are safe, and when you get tired you can always hide in your tent. We were often lulled to sleep by the gentle pitter-patter of diabolical sand flies flinging themselves at the nylon walls. 

The windshield-wipers worked hard against the blurring rain as we drove east into the city's center. Christchurch’s usual sunny disposition felt dampened by the weather. The temperature had dropped significantly and we reached for our sweaters and huddled next to the Bongo's heat vents. It was hard to believe that only three weeks prior we were waiting for Scott’s plane to arrive in shorts and with sun-burnt noses. The next day at the airport we parted ways with our friend. The Bongo seemed empty as we left Christchurch and headed back towards the mountains. There was a void in the air where Scott’s jokes use to linger. We each took turns trying to fill the space, but none of us could come close to emulating Scott’s legendary sarcasm. 

 At this point in our adventure we only had two weeks left before we would be boarding our own long, trans-pacific flight home. Where to go? What to do? We pulled out our maps and traced our fingers over secondary and tertiary roads. We were tired of sharing the island with throngs of tourists. We wanted wild and wandering hikes and isolated campsites. We began spending the remainder of our time in New Zealand trying to get lost. 

One of our first micro-adventures took place near Mt. Cook National Park. We summited an obscure peak--gaining over 5,000 vertical feet on our trail-less ascent. At the top of the mountain the 360 degree view was spectacular! We soaked up the low sunlight and the images of glaciers sweeping down craggy peaks before we made our descent. The light from the full moon illuminated our way as we arrived back at our valley camp.

A few days later we found ourselves east of Queenstown on The Nevis Road. At over 4,260 feet it is the highest road in New Zealand. The terrain was devoid of trees and large vegetation and huge boulders peppered the rolling hills. I felt like I was in the moors of England, an image straight out of the pages of Wuthering Heights. One of my favorite sunsets in New Zealand took place in that high country as we set up camp and cooked our dinner. From our perch, and without any vegetation to obscure our view, we watched the sun sink below the horizon with intense regality. The resonating glow lasted for what seemed like hours and drenched everything in crimson light.

It would be a shame to come to New Zealand and not make a stop in the Fjordlands. In my opinion Milford Sound is one of the most impressive contrasting displays of land and sea. Having visited this part of the country five years ago, David and I knew that there would be hoards of people congregated at the end of the road--the only road that leads to Milford. Despite the obvious deterrent we wanted to share this special place with my brother. Our decision turned into one of the most memorable experiences of our six week trip in New Zealand.

The rain started in the morning as we drove north towards Milford Sound, and it continued to fall for the next three days. The last time David and I had visited the Fjordlands it was as sunny as Tucson--a lucky anomaly. This specific region of New Zealand is known to get an absurd amount of annual rainfall. It pours more days than not. After seeing the two sides of Milford--sunny and dry verses damp and saturated--I've found that I decidedly prefer the latter. Milford Sound is at its full glory when enshrined by water. The rivers rage and drop violently out of the mountains. Cliffs spill over with waterfalls that, from afar, look like trails of tears. The ground drinks until it can't hold another drop, until the water rushes in a torrent along the forest floor, collecting flora and darkening into a deep bourbon-colored broth. Clouds linger like ominous floating spirits, occasionally granting views of formidable spires of limestone through their transparent bodies. To witness a place altered and changed so drastically by an element is always an incredible site. This beautiful scene made me feel as if I had been transported to a mystical world. A place where you could almost believe fictitious creatures resided somewhere in the mist. 

After leaving the Fjordlands we headed north up the west coast, stopping in Franz Joseph to wait out the deluge of rain that had flooded many of the roads in the area. A couple of lethargic days later the sun finally showed its face and we continued north to the Wataroa Valley. Here we set off on our last adventure--a two day hike along the Perth River that led us into the dense wilderness. Like many of our hikes, this particular location was pin-marked on a map by Ryan with the hopes of getting a better glimpse of one of New Zealand's many high-classed, kayak-able rivers. The Perth rushed past us, cold and strong as steel, and as blue as the Montana sky--a coloration caused by mountainous silt dissolved in its waters. The trail was non existent at first. We walked through pastures where cattle methodically chewed their cud and followed us with bright, densely lashed eyes. Eventually we met up with the trail--a narrow path used mainly by local trappers and hunters. We did not encounter a single soul as we traveled deep into the wilderness. It was just us and the Perth. The stars shined bright that night as we made camp, and the next morning we woke and hiked back towards the trailhead, towards that docile head of cattle, and towards the Bongo. 

Two days later and only sixty miles from Christchurch, we toasted to David's birthday and to our beautiful and successful trip through New Zealand. So many stories are packed into those six weeks. I wish I was able to capture every moment in words, but the memories flood my mind like the waters of Milford. An abbreviated version will have to do. The rest of these moments will live freely with in me. Visions of strange flightless birds and ancient virescent trees; times of fellowship and laughter with beloved friends and family; feelings of frustration, and strong emotions of joy and awe; secrets stirred-up from the sea, and musings born in the mountains.

Good bye, New Zealand. Thank you.

March 4, 2016: Traveling Rivers

Today I lingered on the banks of a traveling river. It meandered through the valley--our meeting place--slow and steady; as if it were catching its breath after a turbulent ride down the mountain. The peaceful water drifted by with the notion that it had no particular place to be--very unlike its hasty decent from those craggy peaks in the sky. Now the end was near. The sea drew close and called it home. The river will come to the delta of its life and then rise into the clouds and be reborn. But there, in that moment, our paths intersected and I was transfixed by its elemental beauty. 

The water absorbed color like a precious stone--deep, alluring, and filled with light. I dipped my feet in the current and felt its strong yet gentle hand urging me to come along and join its journey. In appearance it was friendly and inviting, but icy fingers constricted my ankles and pins and needles pricked my toes. I refused to withdraw, knowing that the discomfort would eventually concede to numbing neutrality. Blistered and battered, my feet had become estranged from my hiking boots; the water was holy and healing. 

The boulder that I chose as my perch was smooth, flat, and wonderfully warm. I leaned back and let my head tilt up towards the vast sky. Our faithful star and an occasional burst of beating wings were the only color that splashed the endless expanse of blue. I shielded my eyes, defending them from the brilliant light that had travelled an impossible distance through space and time to penetrate that rock, those peaceful waters, and my upturned face; a gift from the cosmos. Flowers--a type of lupine, I think--danced around me, animated by a gentle breeze. I closed my eyes. The chime of tree limbs rising and falling and the subtle sweetness of grass, flowers, and the fertile earth filled my being. I drifted along with the wind and the water.

I fell asleep, or perhaps it was a deep state of meditation, where ever my mind was lingering it was called back to the present by a low hum that grew in audibility. I opened my eyes and I saw him. A flash of black and yellow, a bumble bee. He orbited around my head once, twice, three times before landing on my corral-colored t-shirt. The little wanderer must have thought he hit the jackpot with his discovery of a strange enormous flower with roots that extended into rock and water. The fine, sticky hairs on his legs clung to my shoulder and I watched as he tasted the cotton fabric with his unfurled proboscis. Yuck! Duped but not daunted, he levitated skyward like an Apache helicopter and buzzed away--continuing on his quest for nourishment.

New Zealand is a feast for the senses. Especially for one whose senses are as starved as mine. When our LC-130 landed in Christchurch my heart soared and I floated off the craft and past five months of longing. I cannot tell you how many times my mind has drifted north; towards thoughts of moving water and falling rain; big, bright botanical thoughts; and thoughts of burning color and cool darkness. Reminiscences of life. 

There are rewards that comes with severe deprivation. The things you miss most become more beautiful when regained. The sun feels warmer as it bronzes the skin. Fruit hangs from vibrant trees, swollen with extra sweetness. And the birds' voices trill with unmistakeable fervor. 

I am romanced by nature. I fall in love with it again and again. Every time I step off that plane a humid lilac-scented breeze embraces me and I swear I won't go back; I'll never leave the moon, the trees, and the life-giving soil. But I am a haunted woman. My ghosts are made of snow and ice and they moan like the southerly winds. They are with me where ever I go; following me north, towards the heartbeat of thriving lands. There, Antarctica calls me by name and beckons me to return. 

I keep moving, but my journey is unpredictable, even to myself. Tonight I am communing with the stars--my old friends--as they migrate across the sky; their light burning holes in the darkness. Tomorrow, who knows. I may find myself in a valley or rushing down a mountain; flowing on and on until I smell the salt in the air and hear the gulls' cry. 

Just another traveling river.

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.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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.

Some pictures to add to last week's post...

November 3, 2014: Pilgrims Of Helambu

Here's a story I've been sitting on and almost forgot. It puts a finishing nail on my 2014 Asia-trip. More Antarctica entries to come. All is well in the deep south.



I have seen things that I can't unsee and as a result I am driven by fire. There is no hope for me living a normal life. I am ruined according to some standards, but made whole by a much higher one. These experiences electrify my heart, jump-starting me into motion. I share my stories not only to find release, but because these illuminated memories are part of me and, at times, all I have to offer to those I love.                                                             

Nepal--June 5, 2014

Self discovery and incense hung heavy in the air as I walked along the narrow dirt trail that was forever leading me up. I am a pilgrim among pilgrims. They travel this road by the hundreds muttering mantras and singing soulful songs as they march towards heaven, towards a temple in the clouds. Every year these spiritual people travel from the far corners of Nepal and India to place their offerings in sacred waters and breathe prayers in the cold mountain air. They call this ritual Gangsdashahara. Old and young brave this trail, walking the weary distance in cheap foam flip-flops and carrying their belongings in strapped bags hung across their foreheads. They exert more effort into their religion than most.

Dave, Matt, and I watched them take slow calculated steps covering impressive miles of challenging terrain with out complaint. We felt weak in comparison. We were hyperbolized in durable hiking boots and wonderfully comfortable backpacks. The sky opened up and we felt ashamed as we took refuge under our gortex rain gear. Wearing plastic bags draped over their heads, they kept walking offering greetings "namaste" and polite conversation in broken English. Those who spoke no English smiled broadly--the universal sign of friendliness. This gesture transcended the language barrier and left a warm fondness in our hearts for these people. Together we moved forward and climbed higher, but our quests were of a different nature. They walked for their gods, for their religion. We walked for the gods within us, for the religion of our spirit. Adventure called us. They answered to piety.

We started early in the morning in the lowlands, walking past howling monkeys and exotic plants hung low and heavy by the collection of rainwater. The air was thick with humidity and smelled of atmosphere and stove smoke. Our ascent began immediately. Sweat soaked our t-shirts and the straps on our backpacks as we pushed our bodies up the mountain. Our climb was steady and steep. Long-lost muscles in our legs and backside began to protest loudly. By late afternoon, stiff and sore, we entered a new ecosystem. Rodadendrine bushes exhibiting blooming white flowers grew from rocky, mineral-rich soil, and birds with the sweetest voices trilled resonating songs. The smell of pine and the cool altitude refreshed us. Up and up we walked, past the timberline, until the bird's songs faded into silence and the only thing that stood between us and the heavens was rock and sky. As we climbed higher our lungs became heavy and labored. Oxygen molecules grew thin, our progress slowed, and our breath quickened. We traveled among the clouds, watching their wispy forms rise from the valleys and sail as if draped from the great masts of invisible ships. One moment we felt the sun reddening our face through a hole in the billowing mantle, and the next we were damp and shivering and locked in a dim white-washed world. We remained in the mist.

On the third day we arrived on holy ground. At over 4,300 meters Gosaikunda Lake, the willful objective of the stead-fast pilgrims of Helambu, appeared through the haze. Smiles spread like fire as each weary traveler locked eyes on the site. We celebrated our arrival with the pilgrims as we set up camp, but my spirits were dampened by the thick clouds that followed us. Here I stood on the rooftop of the world and I had not had a glimpse of the legendary mountains I had journeyed to see. Curtains of clouds kept them a mystery. The Himalayas consumed my thoughts.

We rested our tired bodies and drank hot coffee while we surveyed these mountain people's Mecca. According to legend this holy mountain lake was born from the trident of the god Shiva. Out of desperation he struck the earth after being poisoned by a demon. The spring flowed, he drank deeply, and the myth was born. These hindu travelers cover miles of difficult terrain to bathe in its magic waters. 

Chants of devotion and a smoke-like mist hung over the water's still, dark surface. Bodies wearing vermillion robes with paint-smeared faces materialized through the dense roaming clouds. One moment they were there, the next they were gone, but their voices remained--loud and soulful. Incense burned thick and offerings of scarlet cloth and candles floated in the black depths. The light from the candles glowed and created an erie ambience. We watched from afar, silently wondering at the strange beauty of the scene.  

In the waning light of the late afternoon the veil began to lift. Suddenly, unexpectedly the valley became visible from far below and the over-exposed world was restored with nature's blood-life. Earth, trees, and water pulsed with color. Patches of blue and the soft outline of cliffs began to appear, but the clouds still lingered obstinately. They did not want to unveil the castles in the sky. Desperately Dave and I took to our feet and headed towards the ridge that overshadowed our camp. Something deep inside pulled us. Some how we knew that if we gained that ground we would be rewarded. Sparked with hope, we climbed.

                                                                   ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Speechless. Awestruck. Shocked into silence. Descriptive words crawl up my throat and towards my larynx searching for release, only to be swallowed-up--incapable of expression. These words are digested; churned and then absorbed into the neglected corners of my heart and the deep crevices of my consciousness. A hearty meal of inexpressible beauty that nourishes and sustains my weakened soul. The only sound that manages to escape my uncoordinated lips are murmurs of astonishment, incomprehensible, and an occasional explicit word--whispered softly in disbelief and carried forth on a cold cloud of breath. The ugly word is immediately transmuted by the beauty of this place. 

I am driven to silence by my closeness to heaven. I am on top of the world surrounded by the Himalayan Mountains. They are intimidating giants threatening me with their terribleness yet, inviting, drawing me in with their inexhaustible beauty. I am at their mercy--a small animate, short-lived speck of matter standing in the shadows of kings as old as time. Who am I to look upon their majesties with chin raised high and eyes unyielding? How dare I stand tall and not buckle my knees in respectful worship! I am tiny and inconsequential, but for now, in this moment, I am full of vigor and as strong and formidable as those ice-crowned peaks. I am fragile yet unbreakable. Weak yet powerful. I am mortal and will soon be gone--not even a memory left of my name--but at this moment I am alive. So very alive.


The alpenglow from the sinking sun spills over the cragged faces, causing crystal-like glaciers to burst into flames. I am bathed in light and happiness. I have never been this high on earth before, carried by my hardened will and sturdy feet. The emotions that I cannot express with my voice begin to well up in my throat and eyes. These sentiments I choke down and wipe away. I hold back. When true beauty is absorbed into one's being it must find release. In words, writings, shouts of jubilance, tears of joy. It must be expressed. To hold these experiences captive is selfish as well as dangerous. As big and encompassing as some hearts are they cannot contain these powerful sites. It would be foolish to try. These moments were meant to break free.

Some illuminations fall beyond the borders of our vocabulary and are impossible to capture. I know my efforts, as pure and well-intentioned as they may be, will be a disappointment to the reality of this moment. Not even my memory will be able to recreate these vivid colors. Only a shadow will remain. But that shadow will have the ability to strike me mute again and again. I will treasure these memories until I die or until my mind is lost to age. They will live on, timeless and powerful. 

Once upon a time I stood on the top of the world--a pilgrim of Helambu.