Mesoamerica Now This link will direct you to a new website featuring newly worked and selected images from an overland journey around Guatemala, Belize and southern Mexico in late 2009. Clean, uncluttered format. Horizontal scrolling. Enjoy!
Mesoamerica Now This link will direct you to a new website featuring newly worked and selected images from an overland journey around Guatemala, Belize and southern Mexico in late 2009. Clean, uncluttered format. Horizontal scrolling. Enjoy!
Update! I'm making progress. Early draft of my new travel blog can be found here: Curves&Levels - Mesoamerica
Last day in Puerto Morelos, tomorrow Belize via Chetumal. A few more photos of the area. I hope I can come up with a format and presentation strategy for a dedicated Mesoamerica blog while I'm riding the bus.
Let's just say I had a window of opportunity. I ditched my apartment, bought a new camera and found a cheap flight to Cancun. The anxiety of getting all this to fall into place just so is now mostly gone; I'm at this moment under a palapa roof 30 meters from the green Caribbean Sea nursing a Pacifico. What a century!
Puerto Morelos is a half-hour drive south of Cancun's airport. I'm told it's the last community on the Mayan Riviera to succumb to the tourism boom. Yes, there are clusters of pink condominiums stretching up the coast and every third person seems to be a tour guide, but the town retains the laid-back feel of a Mexican fishing port and prices are geared to the budget-minded.
From here, without a strict itinerary, I'll be heading to Belize and into Guatemala, mostly by bus, with side trips to Honduras and El Salvador if conditions permit. Due to a packing disaster, my fancy road map and guide book wound up in a storage locker in Montreal, so I'm traveling blind. Maybe it was meant to be.
I setting up a new blog for this trip, not yet ready; this entry is meant as a link and intoduction. Until I get the design and format issues worked out, I'll post my early pictures here without much comment. You'll find them after the jump.
Bali, Indonesia. April, 2003.
We were well-travelled by now. About nine weeks for me and thirteen for my partner, collectively through Laos, Thailand, Malaysia, Sumatra, Java and finally to Bali, where we had just left our "villa" in Ubud to spend the final ten days by the lengthy stretch of sand lining the west coast of the island's southern tip. This was Kuta Beach.
Kuta's probably not Bali's prettiest beach and it doesn't have the most awesome surf, but it's long curve is nicely situated between Denpasar city and the international airport. Meter-high waves roll in reliably and the tightly-packed sand is clean and safe for strolling, if not gleaming white as we heard it once was.
There's Mt. Agung, Bali's sacred volcano, looming over the daily sunset gathering.
Kuta's other great attraction is it's tourist scene: lodgings, bars, restaurants, night clubs are jammed into a highly concentrated urban grid just back from the shoreline. Surf shops, souvenir stands and crafts stores add to the mix. Out on the main boulevard, half a km. away, you'll find the same high-end brand boutiques as in Switzerland or Shanghai. Ho hum, right? The savvy shopper looks for knockoffs. (Hint: go south.)
The red flags warned of strong currents and undertows, and seemed to be universally ignored. One walks out for about a hundred meters into the shallow sea to find a very predictable surf rolling in at a 90 degree angle to the shore. The signs had more meaning to the surfers who ventured beyond the boogie-boarders.
Teams of nail and hair stylists patrol among the sunbathers, ready to swoop. Fresh pineapple, brought to your personal sun spot and chopped while you wait, had a booming trade along the beach.
Removed from the commerce, the flat tidal zone has an elemental appeal. Time slows down for weekenders from other Indonesian islands who come to join the afternoon throngs waiting for a dramatic sky.
Hinduism is Bali's majority religion and its devotees hold processions and celebrations along the beach, marking important occasions on the religious calendar.
To placate the deities, offerings of incense, flowers and even Indonesian paper currency are left on the sand just below the high tide mark. Gamelan musicians and dancers in gold finery gather under the palms between the road and the sand, awaiting their part in the carefully-rehearsed proceedings.
The low-rise commercial district back of the beach is divided by narrow passageways called gangs. These are fine for pedestrians, even those pulling hand carts. Here there is a pleasantly chaotic atmosphere of ready commerce.
Your sense of order and courtesy may be offended when you see taxis and SUVs attempting to negotiate the same thoroughfares. Be vigilant and prepare to be bumped on the the hip or the elbow by a passing side-mirror. The drivers seem impervious to pedestrian outrage.
At the time, we were only six months past the horrific bombing of October 12, 2002, that slaughtered 202 people, injured hundreds more and destroyed several building`s in Kuta`s core. The fenced-off wreckage zone became a memorial site for those wishing to leave condolences and offer messages of hope at the tragedy site.
And so concludes the recounting of our six-and-a-half-year-old Asian adventure. Happy traveling to all and if circumstances keep you close to home, take the time to enjoy your surroundings. Your neighborhood just may be someone else's exotic destination.
Southeast Asia, 2003, in chronological order:
Down the street from Centre Saint-Louis, where I take my French lessons, I found an alternative view of a seasonal Quebec phenomenon, a vine-like plant climbing a logement wall, already turned a deep autumn red. Below is the weather-stained front of Eglise St. Jean Baptiste, where folk legend Buffy Sainte-Marie is performing Thursday night.
Update: According to the poster on the church, Buffy Sainte-Marie is playing on Friday, Oct. 2. The website I linked to says the 1st. Best to make sure if you plan to attend.
Bali, Indonesia. April, 2003.
After a week spent in cultural Ubud, witnessing the spirited Tawur Kesanga festival and the following day of silence and inactivity marking Nyepi, the Balinese new year's day, we arranged a long-term scooter rental and set off to see the eastern part of this fabled island.
My memory of these excursions is disjointed and unreliable, so for this report I'll confine my narrative to providing brief captions for the photos. They will refer to the photo(s) directly above.
Here's that map again. The routes marked in yellow above are an approximation of two outings. The loop along the southern coast circling the eastern headlands lasted three days; one night in Candidasa, near Padang Bai and one in Amed, on the northeast coast. The run going north to the great crater lake, I did alone in one day.
Close to Candidasa, is the village of Tenganan, a walled compound where only Bali Aga (original Balinese) may live. A craftsman displays an illustrated history of ancient Bali, meticulously drawn on thin slats of bamboo, joined with string.
As you can see from the map above, the headlands of far eastern Bali are formed by an extinct volcano. The coastal road is an incredibly twisted affair with roller-coaster dips and numerous small bridges in various states of repair. At times it was necessary to dismount and walk our underpowered scooter up treacherous inclines.
Just west of the Amed coastal area is relatively flat agricultural land. These pictures and the one of the cow below were taken from the road leading back to central Bali.
The eastern slope of Mount Agung, Bali's most sacred mountain. This was the site of violent explosions in 1963 that took the lives of up to 2,000 Balinese villagers. The classically shaped volcano can also be seen in the distance from Kuta's main beach.
I took a rest stop at this mountainside tropical forest during my long uphill ride to Gunung Batur, a massive defunct crater containing a large lake and a few scattered villages.
Once over the lip of the main crater, I was treated to this surreal vista; two smaller volcanos poking up from the sparcely-grown cinder floor.
There were a few villages and settlements inside the main crater. Although Bali seems in general a prosperous, happy place, this area was marked by brutal poverty, perhaps due to the collapse of Bali's tourist trade following the 2002 Kuta bombing.
Almost half the crater's area is submerged by a large scenic lake, also named Batur, which supports a local fishing industry. Swimming is offered at some resorts near Kintamani. On October 16, 2006, Bali-based world-record ocean swimmer Monte Monfore made the first-ever-recorded swim across the holy lake as part of a UN-sponsored anti-poverty initiative.
I'm drawing a serious blank over the location and significance of the monuments pictured above. Wish I could tell you more. Next and final Southeast Asia report: Kuta Beach; coming soon.
Bali, Indonesia. March/April 2003.
Bali's airport is well away from the island's only city, Denpasar - located next to the water on the narrow isthmus connecting the mainland with Jimbaran and Nusa Dua. Thus the cloudless morning air was fresh and bright as our plane skimmed low over the glistening ocean. Parallel lines of white surf appeared below us, rolling relentlessly landward and visible in foamy detail during the final approach. We were arriving from the city of Yogyakarta in south-central Java, ready to begin the final phase of our three-month Asian odyssey.
The map above is placed large in this report because it provides an excellent, uncluttered representation of Bali's topography.
Bali is an anomaly in Muslim Indonesia; about 93% of the island's inhabitants are devotees of Balinese Hinduism - holdovers from the time of the Majapahit empire, a kingdom that stretched from the Malay peninsula across Indonesia's archipelago from 1293 to around 1500. Religion permeates the island's culture, seemingly holding a place far above life's more mundane considerations. Bali may be thought of as a select destination for gorgeous beaches, epic surf and stunning tropical scenery, but it was the art, history and pageantry of the ancient faith on such heartfelt display here that gave our island visit a special resonance.
We were grabbed outside the airport by the driver of a Toyota 4x4, who was happy to take us to the upland artistic haven, Ubud, for the usual Indonesian fair price. This was where we stayed first; an attractive central location from which to take various side trips, before spending our last travel days enjoying the ocean at Kuta Beach. Like all good taxi drivers he acted as both tour guide and expounder on world affairs as we drove through the green and tidy Balinese countryside. (He chose a route that skirted Denpasar, which was to remain a blank spot in our itinerary.)
In Bali, a villa can be a stone-and-glass marvel bolted onto a ravine wall with a cantilevered swimming pool floating above the jungle foliage. Ours was more modest. Up a hill, just west of town, it was one of a grouping of well-constructed, two-storey cottages; dark woodwork inside and a red-tiled deck cut inward under the top floor that served as the living room. The front yard rolled downward and outward, sheltered by tropical flora. Beyond that was a watery rice patty. We even had a small kitchen, although it was oddly located at the back of the house, only accessible from a separate outside entrance.
Ubud is at the latitude where the island begins to rise at a gentle but steady increase toward the northern mountains. Water that would flow swiftly back in deep ravines is attenuated and diverted by an ingenious system of ancient canals and earthen pathways criss-crossing the lower slopes, spreading the constant supply of tropical rain more usefully among the farms and fields before it reaches the ocean.
Fortunately, Bali is blessed with sharp sea breezes. All this slow-moving water exacerbates the usual tropical humidity, but it doesn't weigh as heavily in these green hills. The air is further freshened by tumultuous rainstorms that reliably cool things down every afternoon. So when it's not damp, it's very wet.
The picture to the left is evidence of a morning I spent with a fogged-up camera, so that's not actual steam in the air, only a representation caused by moisture finding its way on to the lens elements. A nice effect, sometimes, but I was sure glad it wasn't permanent. Those are prize roosters inside the bamboo baskets. Their crowing seemed to begin long before daybreak; perhaps they were protesting captivity.
Above: the neighbor's cow. From Kinaya Tours and Travel:
These amiable, beautiful creatures with long eyelashes, delicate features, dew eyes, manicured velvet coats, slender necks, trim bodies, slim legs, and short tails look more like fawns than cattle. Like most cows in the tropics, they give no milk. Unlike the Hindus of India the Balinese don’t consider cattle as sacred; they are bred for their meat and exported to other islands. Nevertheless, cows live a privileged life on Bali, lovingly bathed in village streams, billeted in cozy hay-strewn mangers, let loose on village lawns to feed.
Below: more animal news. We see evidence of a vexing crime problem; marauding gangs of ducks taking over the roads and devouring rice in a locust-like frenzy.
The ducks' road was the same we walked to town, an easy trek beginning in farmland fronted by discrete dwellings and occasional shops, down a curving hill to the stone walls and leafy abundance of Ubud. This is recommended as a daylight walk only. The lack of streetlights and sidewalks make the sharp curves dangerous at night.
Ubud's lively commercial district is easy to navigate with a dominant east-west thoroughfare and three running north-south, with many smaller connecting roads forming a rough grid pattern. You'll find banks, supermarkets and internet cafes, an outdoor market at the town center plus numerous galleries and shops selling local arts and crafts.
An upscale component, aimed at the gilded classes with attendant stratospheric pricing, thrives in the local economy - opulent restaurants, posh galleries, exclusive hotels. It can seem a little forbidding, but one can find plenty of places here that cater to more down-to-earth budgets.
South of the main business zone we found the famous Monkey Forest, a park-like enclosure so named for the creatures who live in great clans among the old stone ruins and enjoy the run of the place. Ubud central is relatively flat, but here the land folds up again into parallel ravines. A system of pathways and bridges guides visitors around the leafy terrain.
Can you guess which picture in this report wasn't taken by the author?
The main road going west crosses a bridge and then curves northward past public art galleries and design-intensive furnishing stores. We scored a couple of crazy, colorful lamps at The Design Unit and were then driven back to our villa in the shop's mahogany-appointed, open-air V-dub as part of the service.
One can spend hours or days wandering the museums and galleries in Ubud and become fully immersed in Bali's cultural history. I stumbled across a haunting installation at one recently-built gallery space. A memorial to the 2002 Kuta bombing, one entered a large blacked-out chamber, given only a flashlight to navigate between piles of sand and dirt, the torch beam inevitably falling across huge text-scrawled aftermath photographs and bits of wreckage taken from the terrorist tragedy.
Back in the town center, we could feel the gathering energy as the island prepared to cleanse itself from this most terrible year.
We had arrived in Ubud a few days before the Balinese New Year or Nyepi. This falls on the day following the first new moon after spring equinox - April 2 in 2003. The last day of the old year is called Tawur Kesanga and brings with it a wild evening celebration meant to chase away demons and renew one's place with God.
Exactly one day before Nyepi, all villages in Bali hold a large exorcism ceremony at the main village cross road, the meeting place of demons. They usually make Ogoh-ogoh (the fantastic monsters or evil spirits or the Butha Kala made of bamboo) for carnival purposes. The Ogoh-ogoh monsters symbolize the evil spirits surrounding our environment which have to be got rid of from our lives . The carnivals themselves are held all over Bali following sunset. Bleganjur, a Balinese gamelan music, accompanies the procession.
Ceremonial activity on the day of Tawur Kesanga includes the construction of out-sized papier-mache monsters, sacrificial offerings, musical processions and prayer meetings. We couldn't help but notice the proud bearing and perfect posture of the Balinese - long-limbed women and broad-shouldered men, this day dressed in traditional finery for the crucial festival.
As we walked back into town that evening we passed this stone stairway carefully adorned with fragrant frangipani flowers. This understated gesture seemed a symbolic counterpoint to the riotous spirituality that lay ahead.
The children marched first, gathering on the football field with torches and a monster they helped to build for themselves.
As night drew in, the main parades got underway. Whole clans marched together, their village monster held aloft, percussive Gamelan music reaching a fever pitch. The various village groups converged finally on Ubud's main intersection, filling the street space with a crush of revelers as outsiders like us watched in wonder from the periphery.
Balinese Hindus hold processions year-round, both in the day (see top picture) and at night, to observe the complexities of their faith. This was the culminating spectacle. We were lucky in the timing of our visit to Ubud.
This frog is a
metaphor simile. That was us the next day, stuck to our house and keeping perfectly still for Nyepi, the day of quietude marking the new year. In traditional Bali, the first day is for profound stillness and even non-worshippers are strongly discouraged from engaging in outdoor activity.
On day two, action restored, we set out to find a scooter.
I've put my camera down for the time being; concentrating blogwise on my travelogue series and, in the real world, taking a French course. I did happen to notice we've passed from high summer into the first glimpses of autumn. The September air in Montreal is bright and calm and a few leaves are already losing their verdure. (Verdure...I had to dig for that one.)
Soon the famous fall pageant of oranges and reds will be climbing the slopes of Mont Royal. While we're waiting, here's a shot I've always liked from the banks of Ruisseau Rouge in Magog, QC, taken last November.
This was the last stop of our motorized trek across Indonesia's main island, Java. We arrived in a mini-van shared with other western travelers, ending a day-long journey from the Indian Ocean beach town, Pangandaran, that included a slightly grueling, four-hour "cruise" through waterways collectively known as The Inland Sea.
Yogyakarta (yō-gyə-ˈkär-tə) is a sprawling city of about half-a-million, close to the geographical center of the island of Java. This is the capital city of the Special Region of Yogyakarta, the only province in Indonesia still governed by the area's precolonial monarch, The Sultan of Yogyakarta. The land rises north of the city onto green agricultural hills, then more mountainous terrain covered in forest and dotted with volcanoes. Thirty kms. to the south, the Indian coast runs in a more or less east-west direction.
At first, Yogyakarta looks typical of other southeast Asian cities we visited - hot, polluted, teeming with street noise, an off-kilter medley of vehicles defying the basic concept of traffic lanes. A little time, however, and a closer look, reveals something unique, even special, to be pasted into one's mental travel scrapbook.
Planters along the sidewalks, outdoor cafes, funky business signs painted with artistic flair, an abundance of smiles - there was noticeable fun in the air and an openness to outsiders. This friendly feeling was dampened during our visit by world events, unfortunately. The Americans had invaded Iraq a few days before, unleashing public anger and vivid manifestations among the city's Islamic population. One afternoon, we were surrounded, then rebuked, by white-robed youth on the Malioboro sidewalk while witnessing one noisy march. I wanted to show sympathy and my Canadian passport, but the tension was dissolved when my friend spoke back to them in French. We didn't stick around and chat, but an incident was averted. I decided not to take casual pictures of the political uproar, thinking they might be cheap and exploitative. Of course, now I regret this decision.
Two pictures above, we see the becak, the chain-driven three-wheeled taxi famous to the city, carrying a local woman on her rounds. Directly above is a line of these along Jalan Malioboro, Yogya's "Main" street, including a driver on downtime smoking the ubiquitous (among males) kretek, or clove cigarette.
We stayed in the Sosromenduran district northwest of the Kraton (Sultan's palace), recommended in guidebooks as well-located and traveller-friendly. Our visit lasted only four days so I have nothing to report about other areas, but 'Sosro' lived up to its billing with an abundance of budget lodgings (and a couple of swank places), art galleries and live music venues. Yogyakarta is a university town - the buzz of intellectual life was ever-present in these narrow streets.
Clockwise from top left: one of the long pedestrian passageways dissecting the district; tower for broadcasting Muslim call to prayer; street food kept warm by light bulb; chronological device at train station.
We were frequently approached by aggressive touts promoting "student art". One clothing store manager elaborately took time away from his shop to lead us through alleys to the "studio" of his good friend where we were cajoled by a succession of amazing offers. No doubt, there are many fine, talented artists in the city, but what we saw was no more than mediocre dreck that might be found anywhere. The enterprise didn't quite make sense; number one issue being this was the work of "students" who were "well-known" but willing to sell their work for a song.
We never were intending to buy; we just allowed ourselves to be carried along - a traveler's diversion that meant we could say, "Been there, done that," to any subsequent entreaties. I don't know if this is still happening, but, if so, watch your wallet, kids.
Pictured above: the soft colors of Yogyakarta's market scene. In some cases, a market might be an ad hoc spreading of wares on blankets at unmarked sidewalk locales. Below: a diptych displaying two extremes of the botanic odor spectrum; the foul durian fruit and the frangipani, or plumeria, a flower with a sublime, almost mood-altering fragrance.
What's that? Borobudor? The immense 1200-year-old Buddhist shrine on every Java traveler's must-see list? We didn't go. Our plans were changing and we decided to cut our Yogya visit short, thus sacrificing our visit to the monument. On the afternoon before our next-morning flight to Bali, feeling something like tourist's guilt, we took a last-ditch bus ride to the entrance area only to be put off by mobs of sightseers, the steep price charged to westerners and also by the time of day. (Borobudor, we had read, is best seen at the breaking of dawn.)
Prior to this minor fiasco, I did find my way northbound to Kaliurang, sitting up close under the angry eminence, Mt. Merapi, a perpetually active volcano. This is another former Dutch hill station, where colonial masters would retreat to escape the tropical heat. The bus dropped me at a crossroads restaurant, where I had tea alone among the staff. Then I went walking.
Going one way quickly brought me to a nice park, full of field-tripping high school students posing and singing by a shimmering waterfall. I retraced my steps to the cafe and then followed an old road winding upward, thinking a view of Merapi would be around the next curve. Or maybe the next. It became a daunting trek, high above the town, climbing into fog. I was standing, finally, at a mighty gully, losing initiative, when the fast-moving clouds briefly gave way and for a moment the volcano revealed itself between two steep ravine walls.
I banged off these two shots: above, missing the peak but showing the vast lava fields; below, the only one of the mountaintop billowing steam and ash. The latter is not a great digital file - I was working fast in changing light - and it manages to be both under- and over-exposed in the same shot. So I rendered it in black-and-white to help save the image and preserve the moment.
Another volcano story. We were bailing on an increasingly stressful Java. Confirming our eastward itinerary with travel providers became fraught with uncertainty and confusion. It made sense at the time to fly straight to Bali from Yogyakarta and simplify the final weeks of our Asian junket. Our biggest regret was having to pass up the pre-dawn hike to Gunung Bromo (video here and here), a smoldering landscape of active fissures and baby volcanoes lying within a massive ancient crater in eastern Java.
My companion and I were two out of only eleven passengers on the airliner during the early morning flight to Bali. About halfway along the captain directed the passengers to the right side windows. He was flying directly over Bromo. We were being luxuriously afforded a sweeping, unobstructed view of the vulcan spectacle under a cloudless sky, albeit without the pony ride.
It's a rather low-key celebration, the Mix'Arts festival; the Main is blocked for traffic, merchants and restaurants move out onto the road, street performers arrive and Montrealers can stroll between the tents and the tables dodging only fellow pedestrians. It's not loud or pushy or frenetic.
To keep with the casual mood, I tried for a few unforced photographs.
The first night of Festival Mix'Arts, brought to you by boulevardsaintlaurent.com.
From the Netherlands, a bicycle named Double Dutch. If you look at the headset and stem, you'll see two gears that reverse the direction dictated by the handlebars. Turn the bars right, the wheel goes left and vice versa.
This was a carny challenge with the trickery right in the open: ride this reengineered two-wheeler a mere fifteen feet without touching feet to ground and win $25.00. Only $5 for four tries. Even pushing off and coasting across the five-meter space was deemed worthy of the award.
Average unpracticed punter's achieved distance: between a foot and a meter.
Counter-intuitive steering advocacy has swept Holland, the spokesperson informed us, and he was on a mission to demonstrate that it was indeed possible to ride from one white line to the other. He insisted this chance to win money was a way of giving hope in tough economic times.
Another demonstration of balance. He seemed genuinely happy to find a winner and finally pay out his prize.
There will be more from this festival. Please excuse the redesign in progress.
March, 2003. South central Java.
Information was uncertain during the great SEA travel slump of early 2003. The fear of passenger shortfall meant no guarantees from travel agents booking east from Pangandaran to Yogyakarta, so we were surprised the morning we traveled when a van arrived at the gate our modest resort on time, already well-loaded. Getting everyone seated and their luggage stowed turned into a game of full-contact tetris. At the Segara Anakan dock 15 kms. away - our passenger ferry was actually a no-nonsense commercial scow meant for hauling small loads of freight to and from isolated villages.
Thus began our half-day voyage through central Java's Inland Sea.
It sounds exotic and mysterious, as if one might find dappled light and large birds and not featureless tidal channels of ochre water filtering through a flat mangrove expanse. There was no verdant canopy overhead; these shores were lined with listless shrubbery growing too low to shelter our half-open boat from Java's midday sun. We were post-colonial versions of mad Englishmen, squinting into the haze, a flat drifting murk stretched ahead of us, untroubled by landmarks.
Exiled from habits of affluence for the next few hours, our little group of western travelers found places on the forward deck's hard perimeter benches. There was a shaded area aft in the crude pilot house but this meant crowding against the frightening diesel clatter of the boat's overtaxed engine.
It was a noise that drowned any hope of hearing coastal birdlife. We were left to don sun hats, stake out some deck space and read our books. Another option was to sit and stare forlornly outward. There were a few stops at remote settlements for exchanges of cargo, but the schedule didn't allow for shore leave. The picture above is a dredging operation that produced a decibal uproar even greater than our vessel's.
A certain kind of traveler derives a grim-minded satisfaction from these experiences and the assault on the senses is part of the bargain. Here was a fascinating slice of backwater authenticity - hard-working Indonesia unsullied by tourist frippery. My emphasis on the harsh is to counter what I've read in guidebooks and on the web about this journey; as if it's a jungle eco-cruise through a watery paradise. Maybe there is a passenger ferry without skull-crushing motor noise, but we didn't see it.
The Dutch built a prison on the great island south of the boat channel; it is now Indonesia's top maximum security facility. One look at the surrounding hectares of trackless marsh might well encourage a general hopelessness among the population and quell any realistic thought of escape. Below, a final vision of industrial dislocation: the refinery at Cilacap.
At Cilacap we boarded another van and drove until nightfall to get to Yogyakarta.
"Pangandaran! Pangandaran! Pangandaran!" Our ears were ringing with it.
The bus from Garut had a conductor on board. He stood up front on the bottom step and hung out the open door repeating this singsong mantra at the passing bushes as we slowed down for villages and crossroads and each unlikely cluster of rough dwellings. Patient Javanese would appear, hand over coins and ride a few miles, replacing others disembarking in the same piecemeal fashion. We might have been the only passengers who made the full journey down to the coast.
Lovely little Pangandaran (pan-gand-a-ran with a hard 'g') is a seaside village on a flat triangular spike jutting directly at the Indian Ocean. The peninsula's southern tip becomes a rising promontory of jungle - an oval of elevated land containing both a national park and a restricted-access nature reserve. It's a town that lives mostly off the sea, with a modest tourist industry catering to the intrepid. One can find good pictures, particularly of the town's colorful wooden tri-maran vessels, and other area details, at this website.
Traveling in this fashion, we weren't booking rooms ahead, preferring to visually reconnoiter and evaluate the ambience of potential lodgings in person. Accordingly, we sat at the town's outdoor market across from the depot, perusing maps and narrowing our choices, before seeking shelter nearby.
Our plans were altered by a woman who approached and offered enlightenment by means of a crude flyer.
It advertised a resort a few miles east, off the peninsula, situated on a lagoon and not listed in our books. Even from the homemade inkjet circular, the place looked attractive: a friendly air, a natural setting. So we called and waited for the promised pickup. Obviously, they didn't anticipate our overstuffed backpacks and sundry bags of Asian loot, because they sent two kids on tiny motorscooters to get us. After a lively discussion, they went back and returned with a van.
The worthwhile wait included a half-hour drive up the coast highway, then down a grassy cart-track across rice fields through a tidy workers' hamlet permanently shaded by giant palms. One more turn of the trail brought us to an archway made from branches. Beyond the gate, cute cabins were arranged in a horseshoe around a lily-padded lagoon, the interior courtyard a profusion of broadleaf plants and tropical flowers, linked by wooden bridges with rope railings. At its far end stood the main building with its large thatch-roofed deck offering passage to the exterior grounds
In this perimeter area, arranged for privacy under the palm leaves, two-story cottages stood on beams, a concrete bathhouse below a wood-planked living area. We chose one of these and hauled our cargo upstairs to a wrap-around balcony pointing across a canal at the ocean. We were close enough to hear the roar of crashing surf.
It was a small revelation, having found this place by chance. Apparently owned by a long-absent Dutch woman, operations were left to an unassuming posse of bright, young Indonesian locals working a just-in-time budget model. This jocular bunch would always ask your plans - if you were returning for supper, if you wanted beer - before making a grocery run, even getting us to settle our bill after two nights so to have available funds to supply our next few days. An understandable situation and not a problem for us, although the Bintang was never quite cold enough. This was a common challenge throughout our trip in these hot-weather outposts. With intermittent electricity and many businesses relying on old equipment, learning who has reliably frosty beer becomes precious knowledge for the beverage-inclined.
The aura of impoverishment was neither bleak nor seedy - this was another self-contained paradise. Our ardent hosts kept it fun, serving sweet banana pancakes and rich coffee as guests lingered peacefully on the big patio each morning. A fine Goreng, Nasi or Mi, was a dinner specialty. According to their menu, we only had to ask, and a designated climber would scamper up and knock down the main ingredients for a coconut cocktail served in the shell.
Accessible from the resort by self-operated rope ferry, the wide beach was almost deserted, the water devoid of swimmers due to relentless asymmetrical waves and deadly riptides. Even going out just over the knees, the undertow was felt and our swimmer's keenness was limited to shallow bodysurfing close to shore. More swimmable beaches were found north of town; the best one needing a drive. (See below)
Left: Sarah, instant friend.
Cleverly disguised, our hosts were running a conveniently located motorbike rental agency as well. That is, they were renting their own bikes for extra coin; dirt bikes, not scooters, for a change. One morning, we set out on a sightseeing mission, choosing to act as our own tour guides.
Above: two images from the settlement next door to our resort. Below: rice-growing on the marshy lands between the highway and the ocean.
Following potted, busy roads about 25kms. north and west of Pangandaran to the village of Cijulang, we first went looking for Cukang Taneuh, promoted to western tourists as the Green Canyon. That morning, being the only customers at the roadside landing area, we were offered a private tour at a reduced rate. Rupiahs were exchanged and we climbed aboard a long blue wooden boat, half-sheltered by canopy and powered by outboard motor.
At first, the flat, green water flows down in a lazy meander as dense vegetation crowds in from the shore. We rode the river upstream until it narrowed into a twisting gorge. Here, the pilot and his mate used barge poles to guide their craft next to small rapids. This is where visitors are allowed, for an allotted time, to disembark and walk upstream over damp rocks as light-dappled waterfalls spill over both sides of the canyon. There are naturally formed pools for swimming, although the footing can be tricky along the water's edge. We didn't linger long in the close, humid air, deciding to go downriver, get on the bike and look for some swimmable ocean.
We found Batu Karas beach, a minor surf mecca, a little farther southeast from Cijulang. (There's a medley of roads here, but the signage was reliable.) At the east end, a curving point forms a surf break; to the west, away from this action, meter-high waves roll up gently over soft sand. That afternoon, we had this little crescent to ourselves - the sun up behind an overhang of bush, putting the shoreline in shade, even as the water remained exposed to its rays.
Properly aquified, the day lengthening, we made our way back along the same roads to the resort. Along a straight stretch of crowded highway running north out of Pangandaran, my friend spotted the workshop of a wooden puppet maker.
Puppet theater is part of an important west Javanese tradition. A very thorough explanation of puppet history and craftsmanship can be found here. The shop owner gave us a brief tour of the hand-making process before putting on an impromptu performance in the dim light.
The instruments pictured below were set up in a shrine-like corner of the workshop. They represent another Indonesian tradition. It was on the patio of our resort here that we first heard the haunting, melodic Sundanese Degung music. Our hosts played it each morning with breakfast on the portable stereo and we had an immediate response. This genre of Gamelan gets under the skin and will improve your mood. After that, the music seemed to follow us the rest of the way on to Bali. The CD we found in Yogyakarta remains one of our most precious souvenirs.
Our last day included a few fretful hours at a Pangandaran travel agency securing tickets for the passage east through the "Inland Sea" and overland to Yogyakarta in central Java.
Like me, now that summer is peaking, many others will be escaping the city swelter and seeking out campsites, cottages, market farms and lakes in this captivating region. Even an afternoon's drive through the greenery is change of scenery enough, if that's all the time one has.
Accordingly, I am posting a few images from a short-lived online publishing experiment called Memphreblog. These are from last May, when spring was trying to assert itself after a long snowy winter. To honor the project, I have created a new album, "Best of Memphreblog". It's listed in the right-hand column.
Pangandaran Travelogue coming soon.
July was iffy, but now humid, hazy Montreal has its heat wave, the temperature marking 30C by the time of the final picture ("feels like 38"). I set this up today to see if it could tell us something about the build-up of smog over the course of days like this, but the brownish tinge one sees with the naked eye in the distance doesn't register in these photographs. Instead, just subtle differences in the play of shadows and light as the sun follows its arc.
A night flight from Medan brought us to Jakarta in darkness. By the time our taxi rolled up to a point where we could find a hotel near Gambir Railroad Station, the hour was late. Indonesia's sprawling capital was on our itinerary only as a launching point for crossing the island of Java to Pangandaran on the Indian Ocean side. We recall little of the teeming, narrow streets - a long, mountainous Sumatra bus ride followed by a few hours of air travel had us wanting only a night's sleep before catching an early train to the inland city of Bandung.
Above: a daybreak view of downtown Jakarta from our hotel window. Now imagine the sound of dozens of loudspeakers broadcasting the Muslim call to prayer across the early morning air; an eerie, compelling noise to unfamiliar western ears.
Gambir Station (Google Map) was modern and spacious. We got to our train without jostling or drama and found two coach seats together at the back of the car. The usual hawkers came aboard, but it was a practiced routine. No hard selling, yet - we were free to relax and enjoy the morning journey to Bandung.
Look at a population-density map in any atlas and you'll see Java glowing deep red. It is the world's most populated island. It is also a large island, outsizing Cuba, Iceland and Newfoundland, meaning loads of people here, over 130 million.
When a good segment of these inhabitants are haphazardly driving unregulated vehicles, flaunting safety precautions, smoking wherever they choose, an impression of pandemonium asserts itself. Not quite lawlessness - we never felt danger, just beleaguered at times, almost overwhelmed by the seeming anarchy. Personal boundaries are differently defined in this crush of humanity. One needs to get used to constant, sometimes ridiculously persistent, offers of help in exchange for a little of one's travel funds. The inevitable conflicting priorities between local and traveller can add monumental futility to even the simplest task. This is a poor country. Understanding and a sense of humor are strongly advised.
Even with the Malthusian pressure, Java is a beautiful place; a strange, magical landscape of rice terraces, tea fields, perfect volcanoes, crashing seashores and the red-clayed soil from which the ubiquitous Javanese roof tile is made.
Above: he saw my camera, called me over and struck a fierce pose beside a bus at the Bandung station. In the end, instead of a bus ride, we negotiated a pretty good deal with a taxi driver to take us, in the relative comfort of a mid-sized car, on to Garut, famous for its thermal waters, where we were planning to stay one night.
Garut was a posh, thriving hill station in colonial days; now an air of decline pervaded the hotel zone. We knocked on many doors before finding a room with the piped-in natural spa waters promised in the guide books. Then finding towels required a minor mobilization of Garut's innkeeper community.
Surrounded by dark hills and distant volcanoes, we enjoyed a meal of street satay, cooked over coals stoked by a bamboo fan, in the sultry evening air.
Above: slowly but surely the huge tiled tub filled with comfortably hot thermal water piped directly from the mountainside. Below: a pond reflecting a faint volcano in the dawn light.
It was next morning that the crazy started. Commercial Garut is a rather different place from the resort district. Our search for the bus station resulted in a small mob following us through the streets, grabbing at our luggage, giving us conflicting directions. We were freaks: two blondish Canadians, far from home, out of our cultural depth, getting sneered and laughed at, even by passing busloads.
We finally found the empty Pangandaran bus, bought tickets, climbed aboard and then waited while it filled, as is the custom, to full capacity, meaning not a square inch left, sitting or standing, before we were underway. An interesting ride, with many, many stops, down to the ocean.
I'll be posting the next leg soon.
I'm preparing images from Java for my next travel report. In the interim, here's a candy-colored photo taken in May outside the Musée d'art contemporain de Montréal where I saw the Robert Polidori show and then walked out feeling photographic.
This is a combination of a long exposure with a very small aperture.
Corn Season! Finally ripe from Quebec's vast fields, city dwellers can now get the fresh stuff. "Picked this morning," was the promise at this venerable institution next to the Lachine Canal. (Google Map) Opened in 1933, Atwater Market operates out of an impressive art-deco structure (complete with clocktower), selling meats, cheeses, breads and other foodstuffs on the inside and surrounded by fruit and vegetable stalls supplied by the region's growers.
Come and visit for an afternoon and you'll be most of the way to having a good Montreal day. The following pictures are impressions from yesterday, presented in no particular order.
Photographs from Guatemala, Belize & southern Mexico at: