Oct 27

Written by:
10/27/2011 9:21 PM 

Jargo is full of food and fuel.  The NW Monsoon is closing in and once again it is time to set sail and start making miles.  In the past three weeks I’ve developed a love hate relationship with this island.  It seems only fitting as the island itself is one very large contradiction.  In the whole of the Indonesian archipelago Bali is the sole Hindu island amongst a thousand or more Muslim dominated islands.  It is at once serene and chaotic, pristine and filthy, traditional and touristic, friendly and predatory.  Each morning the women of the island prepare one off works of art as offerings to the many, many gods, both good and bad.  The offerings litter the street bringing  colorful splashes across the island scatted about like glitter.  Offerings above the waist are meant for the good gods while those on the street are appeasement for the evils gods.  In Bali religion permeates every day life and the living spirits must be tended on a daily basis.

 

Just after dropping the anchor near the small seaside village of Serangan I bumped into a tight knit group of Frenchman.  They were six in total and to their great credit brought me into their group despite my distinct lack of ability with the French language.  In what felt like the beginning of a good joke, six Frenchman and one American piled into a van.  Our goal was the city of Ubud, the arts center of Bali.  We got an early start on the day and found ourselves at the Monkey Sanctuary before the preserve had even opened.  In the typical laid back Bali style the locals ushered us in, free of charge, to explore the park and greet the macaques who call the park home. 

The macaques, apparently having already had morning coffee, raged around us as we meandered through the monkey village.  Elders the size of Labradors battled it out in the trees for dominance.  Youngsters wrestled and frolicked not yet seemingly aware of the need to establish a pecking order.  Groups of two, three, and four monkeys would line up each grooming the other in turn.  Watching their society it isn’t so hard for me to think of them as brothers from a different branch of the same family tree.  From the news I’ve gotten lately on the HF radio I am not sure we have evolved so much further ahead of our furry friends as we’d like to think.

One of the big draws of Ubud is the ability traipse slowly trough the local countryside.  Everyone was keen to get out and see the landscape an eight kilometer track would wind us through.  Laughingly, we expected maybe two hours for the hike.  Just like my cruising plans, everything we did took much longer than expected.  Bali is a large rice growing island.  The hills have all been terraced and the small streams of water diverted to cultivate paddies of rice.  The native hillsides are covered with some of the thickest jungle I’ve ever seen.  The effort required to clear, terrace, and irrigate these hillsides is beyond my comprehension. 

Meandering slowly through the countryside we happened past a large temple.  It was full of activity as a major Hindu ceremony was being celebrated over the weekend.  Peering through the gates at beautiful Balinese girls making offerings and men slaughtering and eating chicken we were fascinated.  Approaching the entrance gate we were advised not to enter as it was a sign of disrespect given we were in western tourist dress.  To enter with respect we must find sarongs for the men and women and sleeves for the ladies.  We were not going to be deterred.

Walking back to the closest small warang, or family store, we asked about the possibility of buying inexpensive sarongs.  In seconds we were ushered past the storefront and into the living quarters of the woman we’d spoken with.  She had no sarongs to sell us, but her family had dozens we were encouraged to wear.  Like fish out of water we’d no idea the proper way to wrap, tie, and walk in the sarongs.  One by one we were taken next to the family temple and dressed in traditional Balinese garb.  The hour or so we spent being dressed to enter the temple consisted of one of those priceless moments that reminded us all why we had chosen this lifestyle.  It was the simple type of exchange that warmed the hearts of everyone involved.

Properly dressed, we returned to the temple in our borrowed threads.  The couple dozen locals inside the temple were clearly pleased and shocked at our transformation.  We were welcomed inside amid many questions.  Anyone would be hard pressed to determine who’s curiosity was higher, the locals or ours.  Inside we were shown into the sacred areas where the various religious artifacts were kept for worship.  Everywhere were the contorted, tormented faces of stone idols, dancing masks, and even dancing dragons.  As we each quenched our thirst to explore the holy site we slowly congregated under the dance pavilion.  The elder men present made gifts of a crazy spicy chicken coconut rice dish wrapped in paper.  Again, the kindness of strangers never ceases to amaze.

 

Back on the boat it was time to keep a promise I made to myself years ago.  Two of the Frenchman, Franck and Etienne, are mad surfers.  I joined them for a paddle out to the waves just visible outside the entrance to our anchorage.  It took no time at all to realize that not only did I have no idea how to ride my seven foot three inch board, but that I was miserably unfit for paddling.  Enter Odyssey Surf School located on Kuta Beach.  I booked myself in for a three day class knowing I needed all the help I could get.

Odyssey above all things has figured out the importance of customer service.  They provided a van and a driver to bring me from Serangan to Kuta and back every day.  With only three surfers per instructor the group lesson still provided more than enough personal instruction to get the greenest of surfers up on the first day.  Geared up with a nine foot longboard, sunscreen, and rash guard we made our way to the beach.  The first half hour or so consisted of learning how to paddle, stand, and posture on the boards.  It all seemed too terribly easy with our boards still laying stationary on the beach.  After leading us through a solid round of stretches we made our way into the water.  At best, I can describe my first day of trying to ride as humbling.

For some odd reason I spent the first day trying to ride my board goofy footed or right foot forward.  Naturally left handed, I grew up in a family of right handers.  Somehow ignoring the fact I play all sports right handed I attempted surfing like a lefty would and failed miserably.  A bit distraught, but undeterred I wrapped up the first day without catching one good wave.  Day two however was a completely different story. By shear luck I was the only surfer who’d returned for a second day of instruction.  Even though I’d booked a group lesson again I found myself one on one with my instructor.  After another good stretch, I leashed up to my board, but mixed it up and went normal or left foot forward.  What a difference a day can make.  On the second wave I was up, surfing, and managed to ride the wave all the way to beach stepping gently onto the course sand from the board.  Completely stoked with the ride I made my way back to the break and repeated the performance several times over. 

Day three was the return of humility.  Now with two other surfers I’d brought my own board along for the lesson.  An hour or so on the foam longboard had me off to a good start.  Riding from the break to the beach I got hungry to learn how to surf my own board.  It is still long at seven three, but at only 18 inches wide it requires a degree of balance far past my skill level.  Undeterred, the instructor encouraged me to try and helped me wave after wave until I was standing on my own board.  I say standing, not surfing.  The balance is far more critical with my board and I somehow managed to stall out on nearly every single wave.  That said, I am close.  Very close to being able to manage a good ride on this bit of balsa.  Fortunately for me Indonesia and Thailand have plenty of miles of coast with more waves than I could ever hope to ride.  Now, three days out of Odyssey, all I need are more waves, practice, and the fitness that is slowly building.

 

In a long overdue return to the Mission of Sailing for SOS a visit was arranged with SOS Children’s Village Bali.  The Village deserves and will get it’s own blog, but I can’t help but throw in a few highlights now. 

The timing of my visit was fortuitous as they were celebrating the 20th anniversary of their opening here in Bali.  I was informed there would be a bit of dancing and that a band would play, but I had no idea just how large a celebration they had planned.  Arriving after a two hour scooter ride from Serangan I was greeted by Novie and Mr. Suweca, the secretary and director respectively.  To say that SOS Children’s Village (SOS CV) Bali has a lot going on is a massive understatement.  In 20 years they’ve built 12 houses with eight children living in each home.  The village has two ponds providing fish for food along with banana, mango, coconut, and snake fruit trees.  The whole village is Hindu which means it is as decorated with offerings as the rest of Bali and an intricately carved temple for religious ceremonies.

One aspect of the village that was totally different from those I’ve visited before is their Family Strengthening Program or FPS.  Late in the afternoon a hundred or so families from the surrounding area arrived at the village for a meeting.  The goal was to help unify the community and work to build strong families where poverty threatens the family unit.  SOS CV Bali helps to provide work training and micro funding for small business that provide the financial means that allow families to stay together instead of breaking up.  Unlike so many non profit organizations, SOS CV works hard in the communities they operate in to keep children from needing their services.  Their greatest goal is to eliminate the need for the village in the first place.  When they say their mission is a loving home for every child, they do not mean within their organization except as a last resort. All of that said, I am touched every time by the happiness I find in these villages.  The children are happy to laugh, play, and be themselves in an environment where they are supported and secure in their SOS CV family.  As the evening grew late after many traditional and modern dances, music bands of all kinds, and speeches from community leaders the question repeated itself in my mind, “what is the value of a stable home to a child”?  I don’t know the means or method to answer this question.  I only know that with every interaction with SOS CV I know they have figured out a way to improve the lives of thousands of families and children the world around.

 

I’ve drunk heavily from the society that is Bali in all it’s forms, pure and polluted.  With miles to make I’ll lift the anchor within hours of posting this blog.  The next destination is Phuket, Thailand, but I’ll be exploring the West coast of Sumatra along the way.  Less than five or ten boats a year take the Western Sumatra route, but I am craving the road less travelled.  There is no guidebook or waypoint for the anchorages I’ll find.  What I do know is that the water is clear, blue, surfing breaks abound, and traffic isn’t one tenth of that I’d find in the Malacca Strait.  The next blog, tweet, or email of any kind may be long in coming.  Until then, do something crazy and chase a dream.  John Steinbeck wrote to Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, “it is a thing to put into the half sleeping mind, to think of in the half dawn when the first birds sing, and in the evening; they call it the dimpsy in Somerset.  These are the times for the good and the permanent thinking which is more like musing – the garden path toward dream.  I have always been at odds with those who say that reality and dream are separate entities.  They are not – they merge and separate and merge again.  A monster proportion of all our experience is dream, even that we think of as reality”.