Land of Oz- part I

When you're in Bali and only four hours away from Australia, and one of your dreams has always been to dive in the Great Barrier Reef- you buy a ticket to Australia. So that's where I've found myself this morning, yes you've guess it, on a bus in Australia, and en route to the Whitsunday islands. I'm going to live aboard a boat, and dive in the outter reef to my heart's content. I even bought an underwater camera for the occasion. 

So far, Australia reminds me a bit of Florida...but with more German tourists and friendlier locals. When I arrived in Cairns, I noticed a travel agent in the front office of my hotel. She and I hammered out a game plan for my 3.5 week trip. And with that, I handed over my credit card, and went from a vague notion of what I wanted to do here, to a fully baked and booked trip.

Sitting on busses apparently gives me time to reflect, here are some thoughts for you:

Being here is like a whiff of home, but the smell ain't quite right. The expressions people use are insane, there's an openness you won't find in the U.S. There's a super western mentality, but it's still uniquely Australian. I can't quite explain it. But being here makes me appreciate so much after traveling in Asia. I get excited when there's toilet paper in a bathroom and hot water. I get excited to see a toilet-that flushes! My stomach is happy all the time. I know if sounds ridiculous and bratty, but squatting over a hole and then using a bucket of water to flush while trying to avoid urine- yours or somone else's being splashed on you just ain't that fun. But I have gotten really good at squatting.

And another thing:

Traveling has taught me that there's so much crap I don't need; I'd throw half of my suitcase away if I weren't going back to Western Europe and also cause it's super wasteful. I've gone through some changes in a short period of time actually. I've gone back to being a vegetarian, I don't really drink anymore, and I spend every waking moment outside (or on a bus). It's kind of amazing. I feel amazing. And no one believes that I'm 34! 

I'll report back soon.

Bali Bali Bali

I am not on a bus, no, right now I'm on a balcony; and this balcony faces the Java Sea. Though the wind has blown out the waves, making afternoon surfing impossible, I'm content. I'm more than content. I'm staying at a surf camp in Balian Beach, on the western coast of Bali. The camp is run by the village, and all the money goes back into the village. Children come by to clean the beaches, they take pride in their small town. And they should- it's heavenly here. And not just in Balian; after two plus weeks in Bali, I'll admit it, I fucking love this place. I love the kindness of the people here: when we arrived, our driver took us to all of his favorite spots along the way from the airport to our hotel because we were in Bali "and should be happy." I love that we signed up for surf lessons, ended up surfing at a pro surf break (more about that later) with a Brazilian instructor, who was so excited that S and I are both half Brazilian, that we ended up hanging out with a community of Brazilian expats.

 I love the colors here: the lush greens of every garden, the pinks and yellows and oranges of the tiny offerings everyone leaves in front of their home or business. I love the patterns and styles of sarongs that everyone tries to sell me. And the ones that line trees and statues throughout the island. I adore the loving details that go into every garden, door, and roof. I love the colors of the fruits in the market and the colors of every variety of tea available. I love how Jasmine grows everywhere here because it's a symbol for peace. And the smells. I love the smell of incense and essential oils that permeate every corner and the salt air that mingles with it when I'm by the sea. I love the smell of fresh nasi goreng (fried rice) which I've had about once a day...along with watermelon juice. I love the variety of fish you can ask to be grilled up for dinner. And I love their variety under water where every color and shape can be found. I love the names of places here- Uluwatu, Padang-Padang, Bingen, Kutu, Balian, Ciangu. And I love the names of people- every eldest born is a Putu, every second is Waygan. 

I love the massages here, the yoga here, the surf, the organic blah blah blah that's for tourists but tastes so good. I love the thoughtfulness, and spirit of this place. All are welcome, it is everyone's job to make the world whole. You pray to the spirit of the sun, the ocean, and your parents. Black and white checked sarongs wrap around trees and sculptures symbolizing he duality of good and bad-it's your job to recognize them but but hopefully embrace the good. Yellow and white mean your mother and father, east and west, right and left- we must seek balance and honor where we came from, and where we are going. Red and white express the physical and spiritual, earth and heaven, war and peace, impurity and purity. I love that no matter how hot the sun is, there's always a delicious breeze to temper the heat.

And yes, there are the infernal pseudo yogi-types. And yes, there is a Aussie spring breaker contingent. And yes, if you drop in on a local's wave, you will get chewed out-true story. And yes, you will be asked multiple times on a daily basis where you are from, where you are going, do you need a taxi or will you buy this- it's good luck- I'll make it really cheap. But from where I'm sitting now, on this isolated, beautiful beach, facing roaring waves, I'm not gonna complain about a thing. But don't come here...there are enough tourists.

Luck

I'll post about Bali soon, but in the meantime, I wanted to write something about luck. Dumb luck. Super typhoon Lando has been pumelling the Philippines and though the people I met are safe, their towns and livelihoods lay in ruins. 

I missed the storm by a week, and here I am on a boat in Bali with nothing but blue skies and calm seas ahead. It's unfair that I'm just a tourist- a traveler- I breeze in and out, I take in the beauty and bounce. Yes I'm lucky that I'm safe and that I missed the storm, but other than my own physical safety, I have nothing to lose, while everyone I've met along the way did.

Dumb fucking luck.

I wish everyone blue skies, perfect swells, safety, and luck.

Kalinga then Manila

I'm on a bus...again. But this time, the landscape is dramatically different. Up up up in the mountains, where clouds and pine trees meet and dwarf the shining South China Sea below, we are slowing making our way towards a place called Tinglayan in the Kalinga region of Luzon.

Though I could barely find the place on a map, Tinglayan is home to a mountain tribe whose tradition include tattoos done by fearsome women who tap ink made of coal into the skin using a stick with a thorn insert. Though I was not getting a tattoo, the three others I was traveling with from San Juan were. So off we went. 

We went up into the mountains bus bus, further into different mountains by van, and finally 12 hours later, (Did I mention that everything takes forever to get to in the Philippines? The good news is that it affords me the opportunity to read, a ton.) we were there...but not exactly. A guide met us upon our arrival-5:30 am- and we began to walk. 

I know where the sun meets the mountain tops, cause I've been there. We walked and saw the sunrise over a mountain called "sleeping beauty" and then we climbed, up steps, over waterfalls, up up up, until finally, we made it to a tiny village filled with smiling children demanding candy, dirt floors, and Whang-Od, the last Kalinga tattoo artist.

At 95 years old, Whang-Od is a sight to behold. She's beautiful and maybe it was the thin mountain air, but that woman had an air of grace, wisdom, and power that's palpable. She's a celebrity. She's a hard ass, and she still works creating tattoos one tap at a time, whenever a pilgrim makes his or her way up the mountain pass. 

So I spent the next 24 hours talking with townspeople and watching Whang-Od work. 

She now has two apprentices- her granddaughters Grace, 19 and Elywan, 16. Seeing people come and sit through each painful tap was both gruesome and inspiring. And no, it did not inspire me to get a tattoo. But it did inspire me to learn more about the lives of the women there. They were hilarious.  They were tough. They told me the secret to their happiness: fucking and kids. No joke. They said that's what keeps them happy. And it must be true, because that village boasted more kids than I could count- and they all asked me for candy- their favorite English word. 

 Once they'd torn through the peanut M&Ms I brought, they interrogated me. Where was I from? How old? Why am I not married? Where were my children. When I informed them that I have neither a husband nor offspring, they were shocked- how could someone with skin so fair and legs like mine (no one has ever complimented my legs, but ok) not have a husband. "I'm picky," I respond. "Ah, that's good." And with that they stopped probing.

After my fellow travelers completed their tattoos, we went back to our host family- which was actually Whang-Od and her daughter. We bought them a chicken, and they cooked up a feast. We slept on hard wood floors, we pissed in an adjacent outhouse, and in the morning, walked back down the mountain.

Down, down, down, and many hours later- with a few sight-seeing pauses along the way, we made our way back to Manilla. The road was long, again, of course, but what I could not get over was the contrast. We had booked an apartment via air B&B at the Grammercy Residence, which was as fancy as it sounded. With two doormen, multiple security guards, a rooftop pool, laundry and concierge services, this was as white glove as a building gets. And there we were in a bustling city whose traffic is so bad, Waze is utterly useless. You just expect to sit and wait a while to get anywhere. We napped a while (cause who the hell can sleep on two overnight busses and a wood floor with roosters crowing every ten minutes), then we made our way to WildFlour, a patisserie/brunch stop. We ate like fat kids, we ate decadently, we kept eating, then took pastries for the road. We enjoyed our very western brioche French toast, and wild mushroom salad, our Mac and cheese, Nutella croissant, and coffee. Hadn't we just been walking down a mountain? Hadn't we just been in a village so remote that cell phones didn't work and women worked to separate their rice in order to prepare meals? S didn't seemed fazed. But I just couldn't get over how little they had up there in Tinglayan, and how content they all seemed. While Manila boasted everything one would expect from a wealthy city, and everyone seemed weary, and the air so dirty. 

We spent a few hours wandering the city, managed to have our laundry done, ah white glover perks, and with fresh and perfectly folded attire, we packed our bags and headed to Denpasar.

Local Color

I know I'm on a bus. I'm in the Philippines. I've been on this bus since 3pm. It's now 9:30. At times when I look out the window, I think I could be anywhere. There are palm trees, and telephone lines. Strip malls with Starbucks' and KFCs- eerily reminiscent of Florida, but the comparisons end there when I see that the parking lot is filled with hundreds of mopeds and the bus stops and a bevy of vendors get on. And for five annoying, strange-smelling minutes (every hour or so) they offer me (and the 30 other passengers) everything from soda and hot corn to fried pig skin in a bag and hot pies. A man in a Dunkin' Donuts uniform even had some boxed fresh donuts for sale-this ain't Florida.

There's a strange dynamic at play in the Philippines- on the one side there's this raw beautiful nature- landscapes I've yet to see anywhere else, mountains and lush green islands flanked by blue-green still waters and white sand. Then there's the bustling, noisy and messy uber western filth that's everywhere else. Packaged food so over-processed that MSG is a noted additive. It's not pretty. But then all of a sudden it is. My destination-which hopefully is less than two hours away- is San Juan, a surf town many many hours north of Manilla, which S and I flew into earlier today. I must admit, I'm looking forward to quiet and raw nature again....

A few hours later we arrived in a small town center well after dark. There were no tricycles available, and our air b&b accommodation was, according to google maps, less than half a mile away. But since there are no actual addresses, finding the places proved challenging. So we walked, and walked, until we trudged, cause our bags were heavy and even more so when the pavement gave way to sand and gravel. The street lights ended, and I thought- oh great and now there are animals to contend with- as a pair of glowing bovine eyes glared at me. We quickly realized we'd missed the turn off to our bamboo cottage. And by the time we did get our beachfront bungalow, I know it was located on the beach because of the nearby sound of  pounding waves- which were nice- but at that point a shower and bed sounded much sweeter. So after a shower and 8 glorious hours of sleep, I awoke to find myself in some kind of paradise.  Not only were we sleeping at the beach, it was quite a beach to behold. We got dressed and headed into a tiny and underwhelming town to find food- turns out we were looking in the wrong direction. The action was happening not in town, but at the beach break ten minutes south of us. S has a friend living there- she told us where to go and there it was- a surfer haven. Cabanas packed with surfboards and willing instructors littered the beach. Hotels and restaurants of every kind perched above-all fairly typical of a surfer town. 

But I didn't learn what makes this place so very special until the next morning. S and I signed up for surf lessons, which is frankly something that I've done at every beach. Two reasons: 1. To learn the particulars about the break. 2. To get to know locals. Anyone who's seen a surfer movie knows about the locals v, tourist rivalry. It's time honored, it's real, you respect it. And we met some great locals. Young guys who are truly gifted surfers and my instructor was great. But two crazy things happened: 1. Finally after two years of on and off again surfing, something finally clicked and I was able to surf every wave. The break was friendly, my timing was good- I even learned how to turn right, and for a goofy beginner, that's no small feat (goofy in surf parlance refers to ones footing- you can be regular, left foot forward, or goofy- leading with the right). And here's the second thing, and this one is even more astonishing: San Juan is something of a miraculous anomaly; the locals are the kindest, most encouraging community I've ever beheld. I mean if someone cuts them off, the locals shrug it off. When I finally made a right turn, another surfer congratulated me. Later that day I decided to surf again, this time on my own, and I was tired, so I lacked the strength needed to catch waves, so there were a few I just wasn't able to catch, but then, finally, I mustered up enough juice to grab one- and rode it all the way to shore-I felt incredible just coming over the wave, but then something out of an 80s movie happened, a bunch of locals cheered and clapped for me. They saw how hard I worked to catch the wave and they were impressed. I mean...what? That actually happened. It was utterly insane and perfectly amazing. Sadly the next few days proved to be flat, which was ok, because we enjoyed meeting new people and hanging out in town. 

I'm almost tempted to delete this post. Because I know what will happen. I will help spread the word about a sleepy surf town only beginning to be built up. And I wonder if more and more tourists arrive, will the locals still clap when a beginner catches a wave? Will they shrug it off if someone cuts them off over and over? Will the spirit of San Juan la Union change?

The Road to El Nido

After a mere hop, skip, 10 hour 

flight  to Seoul, followed by a 5 hour layover, 4.5 hour flight to Cebu, overnight sleep in a hotel, a 1.5hour flight to Porto Princessa, finally a 6 hour van ride, and jump, I finally arrived in the pouring rain to the town of El Nido on the island of Palawan in the Philippines. Nothing looks as disappointing as a tiny tourist town at night during a rainstorm. My friend S and I (who I met up with in Cebu) and I went to the tourist trap of a restaurant which was of course recommended to us, ate our crap-tastic meal in exhausted silence, and happily passed out at 9pm

But not to worry, I didn't travel all that way to be disappointed. Here's where the happy part of the tail begins:

We awoke to a sunny day and hopped on a boat to one of the thousands of islands the area boasts. The town and surrounding islandswere nothing short of spectacular; it's as the the ocean birthed rock formations and painted them with lush green trees. The mountains come out of no where and boast such incredible beauty.

We snorkeled, and hiked and saw all the place had to offer, then did it again the next day. When the snorkel felt more like a tease than anything else, I ponied up the funds and went diving. Apparently the region was a favorite of Jaques Cousteau- and with good reason- I witnessed a massive tropical aquarium  only 12 meters below surface. Fish of every color, turtles, octopi, rays, all swimming about in a symphony. It was just devastatingly beautiful. 

S and I managed to eat fresh fish for both lunch and dinner daily, we also managed to find a bar that had a two-for-one happy hour from 4-6. The Philippine version of a caipirinha was our drink of choice, and our routine of boating, bar, shower, dinner was just perfect. Ironically enough, despite all that distance and my long travels, I managed to encounter more Israelis in El Nido than any other tourist. How do you like that? 

The Perfect Adieu

I could not ask for a better last day in Tel Aviv. I woke up, packed my bags, and met friends for brunch who greeted me with a bottle of wine. Basta is a restaurant located in the Carmel market area of tel aviv. It's known for its unusual twist on Israeli cuisine using locally sourced ingredients. So after stuffing our faces with small salads and crab bourekas, the owner (a friend of a friend) offered us two rounds of shots, which we less than reluctantly agreed to. Then we were off to the beach. The water was warm, waves nonexistent, and I happily floated until 6pm when I was time to go back. I showered and headed to the airport, thus ending what could easily be called a perfect tel aviv Saturday. Tel Aviv has my heart...what can I say?