Ever been alone in a very foreign country? These diary extracts recall the first time I travelled abroad alone, in 1990 to Indonesia as a naive university student...
Bemo Corner
I arrived in Bali desperate to get off the plane—one of the first—but one of the last to clear customs. Fair is fair. Within seconds of disembarking I was covered in a sheen of sweat that I would wear for the next month. As we drove into Kuta, it quickly became apparent that there was not a scrap of sidewalk unpatrolled by someone trying to sell something. It wasn't long before I hated Kuta. It was not only the heat, but the humanity, that was stifling.
I knew that my rest house was on the main road, so I proceeded left down the street until I came to Bemo Corner, the transport hub of Kuta. Now I had a reference point. One gentleman must have followed me for two hundred meters before he finally gave up the sell.
"Gal. Gal", he said.
"You want gal?"
Now innocent as I was back then, I must have looked quite confused. I stared at him dumbly.
"W.o.m.a.n", he spelled out. "Nice woman, for you!"
I don't remember what I said to him, or if he said anything else to me. Suddenly he wasn't there anymore, and I realised I was blocking the path.
The next day, with my eyes on the look-out for a certain gentleman of questionable intent, I went back to Bemo Corner and struck out for the beach. There I met a more reputable character, who stood silent whilst I brought the pair of us a Coke for twice the usual price. It wouldn't have been sporting for my new friend to point this out in front of the fellow trader who was simply trying to make an honest kill. I understood, and lapsed into a defensive attitude of global suspicion. He helped me fine-tune the Indonesian I had studied before arriving. This is something I like to do when travelling, to be familiar at least with the civilities. Essential phrases, like tidak terima kasih: "no thank you!". That evening, I ate in an atmospheric open-air restaurant, wondering whether the guy who had tried to sell me marijuana had found custom elsewhere. No doubt. The soft music, in chorus with the frogs to the left, and geckos to the right, did enough to unwind me without breaking the law.
My third night in Kuta, I felt so very weak. The humidity was sapping, but the prevalent source of stress was being alone in a foreign country for the first time. It took a while to acknowledge this, as though it meant that I was finding fault with myself for feeling such intense emotion. I could not sleep for anxiety. Had I brought enough money? What if I got sick? What if I got robbed? Why hadn't I gone someplace where they spoke English? I'm sure those of you who have made a similar journey know what it's like, being truly separate from all that's familiar. In the morning, stunned by the strength of my depression in the night, I made an effort to escape Kuta. My pack strapped to the carrier on my rental bicycle, I bade farewell to Bemo Corner.
Frog Pond Inn
On higher ground, in Bedugul, the air was cooler, more breathable. My room at the rest house was a small concrete cell open to the outside through a paneless window. It was my first experience using a squat toilet: I'd heard about these. The idea was that because you weren't actually sitting on anything it was more hygeinic, and cleaner, since this posture was said to allow the unhindered passage of whatever it was you were passing. Trouble was it took most of us long enough to graduate from potty to toilet bowel, and it was quite a thing to be unlearned. It was a regression that tore at the very fabric of adult existence—grown-ups simply did not use potties. The mandi did not require such gymnatic prowese. This is essentialy a tank of water which is poured over oneself using a plastic bucket. The idea is that you then lather up, and rinse off. Very effective.
In the morning, having been lulled to sleep by the tropical rain, I felt well rested. Soon I was continuing my journey to the north coast, but on my gearless and heavy Chinese bicycle it was slow going, especially in the wet. I did more pushing and coasting than actual pedelling. In the dense mist I could see only a short way in front of me. I could see well enough to avoid stepping on a snake hiding in the grass verge, and to observe the monkey troups as they in turn observed me. Drenched and surely a pathetic sight, I made a number of locals hysterical. Children ran out of their yards to yell "Hello mister!" and "Give me money!", and soon I was as tired of saying "Hello" as I has been of saying "No thank you" in Kuta. That evening I arrived at Lovina, a black sand beach on the Java Sea. As the sun set, croaking frogs interrupted the rhthymic crashing of waves on the shore.
After two more days of riding, I decided to treat myself to a more expensive room at the Frog Pond Inn in Ubud for a few days rest. At the bottom of the road was the Monkey Forest, where the gatesmen had clearly added a liberal sprinkling of zeros to the figures in the donation book. Between this and the Inn were a number of craft shops, but one stood out from the others. The quality of the carving was simply to be marvelled at. So elaborate, intricate. The "Art is Life. Life is Art" expression applied to Bali certainly seemed true enough. I bought two garuda, incidentally the birdman symbol of the national airline. Representation of the human form in art is an interest of mine. A short walk across the rice paddies, overflown by bats, took me to the resturant for my evening meal.
Leaving Ubud, at Batubulan I stopped and talked with a stone carver. He showed me the raw blocks of sandstone carried from the river by 20 men. He happened to be part way through the creation of the God of Knowledge. One of these took about a month to finish: some of the wood carvings even longer—three months. When I got back to Kuta, I felt that I'd accomplished something. I'd got out and seen a bit more of the real Bali than the average tourist. I felt better. The hawkers didn't irritate me anymore when I arrived back in Kuta.
Snorkling in the sea off Bali
Java
Armed with instructions from my hotel's information desk, I walked to the bus stop and when a Ramyana bus came, asked: "Muntilan?"
"Ya", said the driver.
That was easy. Off the bus, at the terminus, I met an Englishman named Simon. Someone asked us: "Borobudur?"
"Ya", we say.
An Indonesian student named Johan offered to guide us around the temple when we finally arrived. Borobudur is a thousand year old Buddhist temple near Jogyakarta in Java. It is a step-pyramid, with each ascending level symbolising the reaching of a higher spiritual plane. As we climbed, we passed the carved stories of Buddha's own travels. Near the top, circular terraces were said to symbolise the state of no begining and no end, which was how I was begining to feel about the climb in the intense heat. At the top level, one is free of earthly bonds, but I felt more parched than cosmic. On the top sat Buddha, and the path to Nirwana, or salvation. It was difficult to believe that a place such as this could be forgotten, a distant memory, left to decay. Such passion there must have been, once, to toil over the creation of this structure. Like all else, I guess, passion is a passing whisper lost in the wind of time.
Construction at Borobudur began around 775 AD
Simon wanted to look around the market, and Johan wanted to buy a coconut, so I left on the bus alone. It was the reverse trip, but I was never sure I'd gotten the right bus until the very end of the journey. The road, being far from flat, caused me to spend a good part of the stage back to Muntilan airborne.
At Taman Sari, the ruined Water Castle, I climbed the Sultan's tower and stood in his chamber, surveying the courtyard below with it's pools and servant quarters. The compound also contained a mosque, the conical central chamber being reached through a dark tunnel. From the inner doors, steps rose to a central platform and from this further steps led to a balcony where the men would pray. The women, beneath men in this society, prayed on the level below. Passing a huge stone head, blasted from it's perch by Dutch artilery, I made my way through to bird market to the Sultan's Palace. My guide was a very wrinkled old man who moved with great effort as he took me around the Sultan's treaures. His accomodation was in contrast to that of a young student who invited me to his rented room—a small concrete cell furnished only with a matress. This student told me that sometimes he would have to eat one meal a day in order to keep a roof over his head and continue his studies. It made me guilty that I, also a student, could afford to take the becak back to my hotel and float lazily on my back in the pool beneath the stars of Orion, and the intermittent flash of far-off lightening.
On the morning I was to depart Java, I paid a visit to a batik factory, where I learned something of the art. A design is made in pencil on a piece of cloth. Wax is then applied to a certain area using a special instrument, something like a pipe, which releases hot wax as a pen would release ink. The cotton is then soaked in a colour dye, dried, and the wax removed with boiling water; this leaves areas of white. Further waxings are done, each time protecting the underlying colour of cotton from the new one. By evening I was in the Balanese fishing village of Padangbai, awaiting the morning ferry to Lomok. As I ate, I watched a prahu set off to fish for squid, with the bright lantern at it's bow rising and falling on the sea. I felt more confident in my abilities to get about in a foreign land, and had adapted to being alone here by keeping extremely busy.
Lombok and the Gili Isles
Contemplation on the veranda of my hut
I thought on expectation while visiting the Indonesian isle of Gili Trawangan. No doubt with expectations I had arrived in a country where what would be cast away as rubbish at home formed the utensils of everyday life. This was no surprise, but an expectation realised. However during my travels here I became acutely aware that something was missing. It was like a breeze without the rustle of leaves, or a morning dew without a sweetness in the air. I could not see with my minds eye what brush strokes were needed to complete the preconceived picture I had painted. I reasoned that it maybe that my expectations were too high, so that when reality was subtracted, disappointment was the remainder. Or perhaps my expectations were not defined with sufficient clarity, such that they could never be met: the island with no coast cannot be an island. Perhaps I tried too eagerly to see, and in so doing overlooked that before me.
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