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| (Original unedited photo via: Fox Photos/Getty Images via http://theweek.com/captured/461586/6-vintage-surfing-photos) |
Day 1
Headcount:
4 South Africans (that’s us)
An Australian family of 4 (mom, dad, 2 boys)
5 more Australians (unrelated, as far as I can tell)
1 Dane (who I keep mentally referring to as “The Norwegian”; he keeps gently correcting me when I ask him about fjords)
1 American (not sure if he’s shy, hungover, tired, feeling poorly, or is just a cool cat)
Total surf count:
13 surfers, 1 sort of surfer, 1 absolute non-surfer (that would be me)
Total gender count:
13 males
2 females
We arrive at G-land to an enthusiastic welcome by porters. I assume that they’re either well-trained in the art of welcomeness or are truly desperate to see some fresh faces. I could be wrong, but I swear that the people who are departing on the same boat on which we just arrived have a somewhat crazed look in their eyes. Yes, a definite eagerness to leave the remote, pristine paradise on which we now found ourselves.
My dismount from the boat is about as graceful as when I first climbed on board. Which is to say -- I rocked the boat. The sand isn’t really sand but instead is a rather brutal mix of ground up coral and shards of broken shells. As I sink knee deep into the violent coral-sand, I make a mental note to start my diet immediately. Yup, nothing but fruit and water for me for at least the next six days (maybe for the rest of my life.)
But before I start my fruit and water diet, we are served a hearty, if somewhat boarding-schoolish breakfast. I’m not sure what the mealtime protocol is going to be looking forward, (this could be our “last supper”, so to speak) so I tuck into the omelettes and banana pancakes.
Group by group we’re shown to our rooms. BK has booked us a VIP room. Phew, lucky me. While the sleeping area is sufficient in a functional, Bali-meets-SANPARKS-in-the-80’s kind of way, the bathroom is channelling prison chic. Still, I’m thankful that there is an actual loo (one up on Afrikaburn-which-I’m-never-going-to-I-don’t-care-how-lifechanging-it-is). After seeing what VIP rooms look like I’m curious to see what the less VIP rooms look like. I quickly established VIP simply means: more space, aircon and a bar-fridge. The Spartan furnishings and mould spores are constant design elements throughout all the rooms.
After a flurry of fin keys, surfboard wax and sunscreen application: silence. The surfers exit the camp in search of waves and I’m left to my own lonely devices.
Milling around, I find myself on a scenic patch of grass that adjoins a coral crusted sea shore. A little hut – you know the Balinese kind that have red tiled rooves, a suspended wooden floor and no side walls – stands on the edge of the grass. I ensconce myself in its inviting shade. I breathe in the glory of it all and think to myself…
Fuck, I’m bored.
Lucky for me, Gavin from Adelaide has flu and can’t go surfing. He joins me in the little hut and before long, we’re chatting away merrily. I’ve even started changing the way I speak? In that kind of Australian way? Where every sentence sounds like it’s a question? I’m enjoying Gav-from-Adelaide’s company so much that I’m considering slipping him a salmonella snack just so that he can’t surf for the rest of the stay and I can have someone to chat to. I decide against it given, you know, salmonella and time spent alone in the bathroom.
Just when I think that we must have at least spent three or four hours chatting, an American fellow saunters down to the water with a Bintang.
“Ha!” says Gavin “11 o’clock and you’re having a beer eh?”
11 O”CLOCK!!!! It can’t only be 11am, I think in horror. Have we actually gone back in time? Turns out we actuallyhave, though only by an hour because Java is an hour behind Bali.
Shit. I feel like I’ve been caught up in some kind of surf-camp time warp. Is this how slowly time will drag on for the entire trip? I consider having a Bintang myself.
As I chat with Gav (I actually keep asking him questions so that he keeps talking), something magical happens:
Picture it. The sun shines on a seascape that has turned golden, pink and red. A young deer walks up to me and starts eating green string beans RIGHT OUT OF MY HAND. And just as I think to myself, Sigh. Everything is right in the world -I’m complete, Gav gets up and says,
“I think I’m going to lie down for a bit in my room.”
I shout out at the top of my voice, “No! Don’t leave me! I don’t want to be alone!”
But I don’t say it for real. Just in my head.
Day 2
I wake to a smell that’s a mixture of oriental spices and sewage.
BK has kindly rustled me out of bed with a cup of Bali coffee (which I like to call Sip-n-spit because the coffee grounds kind of come with the coffee.) With sleep in my eyes, I stumble to yoga.
I spotted the yoga instructor yesterday. Johnny, is his name. He looks around 50 or so, but in truth could be an old-looking 30-year-old or a young-looking 80-year-old. Hard to know for sure. He’s golden-brown, has piercing blue eyes and is lean in that surfing-yogi kind of way. Needless to say, I look EXACTLY the opposite. I’m terrified of attending the class because a) it’s too hot to keep a T-shirt on which means I’ll have to strip down to my jog top (which is truly a frightening sight), and b)because I’ll bet that Johnny can do all kinds of strong moves like headstands and those balancing-on-your-arms kind of poses (I think it’s called “The Scorpion”.)
As it turns out, Johnny is a good instructor. A kind instructor. And although he does a nifty little from-sitting-to-lying move, I try and beat him at flexibility. Sadly, I think I end up looking like a malleable Pillsbury muffin man: white and doughy with lots of soft corners.
Johnny does speed yoga. It’s like flow yoga but fast, and I assume he wants to get done and dusted with his chore for the day so that he can crack on with his surfing. This suits me fine, because even with my T-shirt off, I’m slick with sweat. So ja, a glistening, pale, doughy Pillsbury muffin man.
I spend the rest of the morning on the beach, hunting down one shady spot after another. Despite the beach being home to a selection of stray flip-flops, it’s tranquil and incredibly beautiful. I ignore the glass vial I find lying at my feet.
In the afternoon I get all brave (boredom-induced braveness, I like to call it), so I take a walk on the track that leads through the jungle to a surf break called “Kongs”.
Though the sun is still high in the sky, the canopy is dense, making the pathway dark and looming. It’s round about now that I recall a story that Dave, G-land’s surf guide told us. He explained how, a few years ago, a woman was walking on this very track. She saw a panther and realized it was stalking her. To avoid its glinting teeth and sharp claws, she took her chances instead with the shallows of the coral reef. Arriving pale and all scratched up at the camp later that day, she declared that she had narrowly avoided being eaten.
Torn between whistling a happy tune and trying to remain absolutely silent, I contemplate that my Pillsbury muffin man form must look utterly delectable to a panther. Indeed, it’s unlikely he would be able to finish me in one sitting, which would be a horrible, slow death.
What doesn’t help my already frayed nerves is that monkeys swing and rustle between the boughs of the trees. My heart jumps at each sound they make.
From ground level I hear a kind of guttural grunting noise that I convince myself is a very old monkey either clearing his throat or maybe getting out of his chair. I quicken my pace but then remember that if you run, the predator will just run too. Which in my case would be very foolish, given my last performance at the moms-race at school athletics day. Accordingly, I opt to alternate between a casual stroll, a near jog and big, lunging strides. The result is that I look rather like someone from a Monty Python skit.
By now I’m dripping with sweat and am rather out of breach. Just as I’m about to yell out “Just take me already! I can’t do this anymore!”, I arrive at a settlement of sorts.
Now, if any of you have watched documentaries like “Drugs Inc.”, “Meth Storm”, or “So You Think You Can Cook Meth”, the settlement I found would look familiar to you.
Five or six shacks stand in a row. No-one is around and, in my mind, I can hear the banjo theme tune from Deliverance playing. At first glance, I’m utterly convinced that this is a meth-cooking outfit, so it’s with great relief that I spot a bunch of fishing nets hanging neatly from a line. My sigh of relief is followed by a new fear: are fishermen hungry like panthers? I wrack my brain and try to remember Java’s official policy on cannibalism.
I flee to the sea. It’s low tide and as I step out of the shade and into the sun I’m hit by a wave of heat.
Of course, there’s nothing like crushing heat to convince you that, panthers and cannibal fishermen aren’t so bad after all.
Slick with sweat once again, (I’m thinking of making “slick with sweat” my slogan for the holiday) I make my way back into the jungle. Despite feeling slightly more chipper on my homeward journey, I deduce that I must appear somewhat stressed. Why else would no less than four women I pass on the track offer me a massage? Friendly folk, these Javanese.
With no small sense of relief, I arrive back at Joyo’s, the surf camp. I treat myself to no less than four Bintang beers and as I gaze at the setting sun, I think it myself, are cats really afraid of water?
Day 3
Yoga headcount:
2 South African’s, 5 Australians.
That’s one South African and four Australian’s up from yesterday.
A whole bunch of young, gorgeous women arrived in camp yesterday afternoon. (I noticed that most of the men suddenly started sucking in their bellies and walking with some extra surf-swag.) Sadly, I feel no kinship with these femme fatalesas not oncehave I heard them mention the poor state of the bathrooms. Just what kind of women are they?!
In order to get through the day, I’ve started compiling a list of suggestions of how to improve the surf camp:
1) Bomb it.
2) If no bomb available, knock it down some other way.
3) If no way to knock it down, or of knocking down seems excessive, knock down bathrooms only.
All kidding aside, I really have started a list. These include things like removing the plastic packing from the bed bases, replacing the outdoor furniture cushions with mildew resistant fabric, re-grouting the floor tiles (daily), putting day-beds outside (so that we don’t have to sleep inside.)
Alas, the list goes on.
We interrupt this broadcast to discuss the saying “Rock out with your cock out”. I remembered it yesterday as I was putting on my crocs and thought yup, I’m gonna rock on with my crocs on. I don’t think folk should rock out with their cocks out. Not even if they can do fancy moves.
Back to Joyo’s Surf Camp and G-land.
BK and TFTF come back from Kongs. BK has snapped his leash and TFTF found the swell too big and wants to go to Tiger Tracks (or Tiger Stripes, as I keep erroneously referring to it to the Norwegian…erm, the Dane.) As the jeep that normally carts us to and fro from Tiger Tracks is already in commission (those dang gorgeous girls are using it), the camp makes a plan and gets the baggage tractor to shuttle us to the surf break.
I can only deduce that the Javanese don’t feel the same as what we do about kidneys, which is to say that we like ours to stay in their rightful place. While the journey couldn’t be more than 6km or so, my kidney’s, who now found themselves relocated in my chest cavity, suggested that the trip took days, if not weeks. Gav laments his back, stating clearly that he’ll need a visit to the chiropractor on his return. I wish I’d brought along a Bintang or four. You know, for medical reasons.
Some of the svelte, young women are already out surfing when we arrive. Rotten show-offs with their surfing skills and flat stomachs. “Enjoy it while it lasts!” I shout out loudly to them. (But not for real. Only in my head.)
I look around and spot the same lonesome, lost flip-flops that dot the shoreline. The same glass vial still lies surprisingly unbroken and I can only hope that it was once filled with Vitamin B and not some deadly virus. I see what looks like a baby’s bootie, but I can’t be sure and don’t really want to fiddle with it. I feel a bit bad that I didn’t bring along a big bag to do a beach clean-up. But then I think, Screw that, these Javanese should be less coffee-coffee, ciggie-ciggie and be more cleany-uppy, scrub-the-mouldy.
As I sit on the beach, the bruise I got on my arse in Ubud still hurts. In fact, it’s positively resplendent and I hope no-one asks me how I got it because frankly, I feel a bit foolish about it all. *Despite the fiercely dangerous bathroom we had in our last lodgings, I find myself longing for its cleanness, air and light.
It’s overcast today and so is my mood. I googled “Hotels in Bali, Best bathrooms” this afternoon. Not only did it not yield any results, but I remember there’s no way off the island. Today’s boat has already sailed, and there’s not another boat for three more sleeps.
Bintang o’clock.
Day 4
I feel more and more imprisoned in this bloody island paradise. I feel like Tom Hanks in Castaway but with catering and more clothes.
“Prison” is the theme that keeps coming to mind and, much like a prisoner, I am living from mealtime to mealtime. The hours between are filled with making small talk with other travellers, but because I don’t speak surf, the conversation quickly runs dry. I’ve decided that surfers are total sluts for waves. They’ll sleep anywhere for a bit of wave action.
I’m so bored and lonely at times that I find myself searching for stray hairs on my chin, just so that I can savour the exciting activity of tweezing them out. I’m thinking of finding a coconut and calling it Wilson. I’ve also started running a one-man competition with myself to see how quickly I can pack and unpack my suitcase. My aim is to look like those military guys who time each other to see who wins at disassembling and then reassembling their rifles.
Just to break the monotony, I even toy with the idea of committing a crime but then I remember the state of prisons in Indonesia and reconsider. An evil thought crosses my mind… What if I “tell on” the young, svelte girls and get them arrested for the weed I smelt wafting from their cabins last night. Better not. We might all find ourselves in prison.
--- o OOO o ---
I have officially become a two-beers-at-lunch person. To be fair, I had planned on only having one, but when I noticed one of the models ordering a second beer I thought, Why not? It seems to be working for her.
Did I mention that the group of girls who arrived yesterday are here for a fashion shoot? Well of course they are, aren’t’ they. I want to hate them with their small bums and muscular arms but truth be told, they all seem so nice.
Fresh meat arrived on the boat this morning and a whole bunch of surfers left. (What!!? There’s another boat!?) As I stood on the shore, staring longingly at the boat, I yelled out “Take me with you! Don’t leave me on the island!” (But that was only in my head. Not for real.)
Why oh why did I agree to a 6-night stay in a G-land surf camp? What was I thinking? Ah yes. I was trying to be cool and seem like a team player. Turns out I’m not. All the other surfers keep telling me “My wife would never come here.” I’m not sure if this makes me feel better or worse.
Now that some of the old gang have gone, the group has shrunk, leaving us with Gav, the Australian family, and Rich and Radar. Thank fuck they’re all really nice.
Even “The Dane” and “The Cool American” (turns out his name is Will and he IS actually a very cool, nice guy) have left. The new crowd are totally amped for waves and shit. Just as well. I ran out of small talk this morning and haven’t been able to lay a hand on a Bintang to refuel.
--- oOOOo ---
I found a really long hair on my leg this afternoon. They must’ve missed it when they waxed. I’m starting to look feral. The island is in me…
I wait till 4pm to wander down to the hut on the seafront and stare at the sea. (In other words, sink a beer.) I see some Javanese mafia types meeting with the camp manager. I assume they’re the owners and wonder if this is a good moment to bring up a few renovation ideas.
Day 5
I’ve taken to wandering around the jungle calling out “Here kitty, kitty” in the hopes that the panther might find me and eat me. I’ve also started strolling slowly past Gav’s hut (like when you used to ride past your crush’s house on your bike in high school) in the hopes that he’ll come outside and I can corner him for some conversation. Yesterday I made him explain the term “periods” in surfing. I pretended I was slow on the uptake just so that he had to take longer to explain it. Good ole Gav. He’s really grown on me.
Another new pastime involves me naming the insects I find. But not like “bee”, “wasp”, “ant”, but rather “Simon”, Trevor, Sarah etc. (I did, I confess, name an ant “Anthony”. I would have been a lost opportunity not to.)
This morning I tried to French braid the hairs on my toes.
Today I might be a two-beers-BEFORE-lunch person.
--- oOOOo ---
I have a confession to make: I AM A DISHONEST INSTAGRAMMER! I’ve only been posting photos of the awesome things in G-land. This is an outright lie and I feel like a fraud. While there have been moments of wonder, there have also been plenty of wondering WTF.
At this juncture, can we please take a moment to discuss the bathrooms. Again. We have a VIP room, which means we have air-conditioning and space. So, instead of having a small, mouldy, dark, dank bathroom, we have a big, mouldy, dark, dank bathroom. I can only assume that abluting must be a top-secret activity in Indonesia. So top-secret in fact, that all bathrooms need to be so dark that you can’t make out your small bits. Windows, and therefore ventilation, are a secondary consideration. Set mere centimetres from the ceiling, the windows are roughly the size of postage stamps and let through neither light nor fresh air. Accordingly, I’ve insisted that BK play slave-slave and hold my sarong for privacy while I shower outdoors.
They changed our bed linen this morning and I was unreasonably excited. Sadly, they didn’t give us fresh towels – which is devastating considering the musty smell coming from the old ones. It’s all fun and games in the tropics until you have to dry your towels.
Oooh! I haven’t told you yet about the Swedes that arrived yesterday. Three of them, two chaps, one girl, all un-unnervingly good looking. A geologist, a holistic health practitioner and a physicist (or rocket scientist, can’t be sure). So ja, great looking, smart AND they can surf. Fuck. I think I’m winning them over with buffoonery and silly jokes though. It’s not really an area Swedes can compete in. (The girl is gorgeous and an utter anomaly. Incredibly, her legs are shapely and muscular but she still has a thigh gap. How is this achieved?)
I met Kylie from Kauai today. He’s crazy in that ADHD kind of way and has the zip code of his hometown tattooed on his belly. I only found that out because another old surfer in the camp told me so - because he comes from the same town. BK thought it was a stroke of genius because should Kylie’s body get washed up on the shore, they’d know exactly where to send his body home to.
When I asked Kylie was he does back home, he replied (rather cryptically, I thought) “I’m a pirate.” And although he added “I don’t steal or nuthin’, I find stuff to do”, I made a mental note to stash my phone and iPad. “You can never be too sure of pirates,” is what I always say.
--- oOOOo ---
4pm. Bintang o’clock. Thank fuck.
Day 6
I can’t tell a lie, I have a pronounced spring in my step this morning given that it’s our last day in G-land. Yeah baby! Strangely enough, I’ll realise that I’ll really miss seeing the people we’ve met here. We’ve become like a little family, though I’m sure that if resources were to run dry, we’d all turn “Lord of the Flies” in a heartbeat. It feels a little like the summer camp I never went on.
I once knew a girl who spent lots of time sailing. When I asked her what spending extended time at sea is like, she said “Well, your world becomes very small and small news becomes big.” She said that as time goes on, people start making announcements like “I think I’ll wash my hair today”, which then sparks a protracted discussion about how best this should be done. And, when the act is complete, a fresh, protracted discussion generally ensues about how the hair-washing experience went.
This is how life on G-land is. I find myself making random conversation about topics I truly know nothing about. I’ve even started pretending to speak surf and throw in words like “solid”, “section”, and “closing out”. My life has been reduced to one long surf conversation. I continue to corner people and asking open-ended questions that I know will take an age to answer, just so I can chat with them a little longer.
However, I will NOT be asking Gareth-from-the-Gold-Coast any more questions, open-ended or not. Yesterday at breakfast, he volunteered that sugar and milk were evil (which made me double up on my servings of both.) He then lit up a cigarette. Que?
Then, at breakfast this morning, he lamented the fact that though he’d love a pancake, he wouldn’t eat one because then he’d get fat and not be able to pull chicks.
I kindly let on that he could take it from me, a legit authority on femaleness, that “chicks” would choose a dad-bod over a neurotic food Nazi any day.
“NO!” he told me. “It’s not like that on the Gold Coast. The chicks there are hot: long blonde hair, skinny, fake tits, very superficial.”
And then I said “Well, why would you want a superficial girlfriend?”
And then he said “Because they’re hot.”
I rolled my eyes. But for real-real this time. Not just in my head.
And then I added “Well then, I guess you get the chick you deserve”, which was supposed to sound deep and profound but he just looked rather pleased with himself. Fuckwit.
--- oOOOo ---
Ha! A stroke of luck! I went along with TFTF to Tiger Tracks this morning and was braced for a lonely swim and sit on the beach. Just as I was starting to sing 40 loud songs to myself, one of the Swedes came in. He was feeling unwell. Yay! Company! What can I say; his loss was my gain. Hurrah.
--- oOOOo ---
Lunch is Singapore Lakse soup. When I see the mystery meat that it is served with, I’m gladder than ever to be a vegetarian.
I manage to persuade the family that they’re too tired to surf in the afternoon. I tell them that I think they might be coming down with a virus. Ha! They believe me. We all hang out together. On our iPads.
At 3:30 sharp I take myself off for a shower and slowly ready myself for my favourite time of day: Bintang at Sunset! Like Linus with his comfort blanket, I always take my camera and notepad down to the beach as though I’m busy, busy, busy with important stuff. I hope to come across as very Hemingwayesque.
At dinner I couldn’t be jollier. I make jokes with this one and that one, slap surfers on the back and say things like “When in doubt, paddle out” and “Come and visit us in South Africa”.
Just before I retire for bed, I jump up onto one of the tables and shout out “So long Suckers! I’m leaving tomorrow!”
But not for real. Just in my head.
*The dangers of showering in Ubud
Picture it: Cute hippie bathroom with a built-in, polished concrete bath that’s shaped a little like a water-slide. Lots of round edges and organic angles. The bath doubles up as the shower and stands alongside a window that is simply a frame, with no pane. Though it has a bamboo blind, I don’t use it as we’re on the second floor, there’s lots of foliage obscuring the window, so no-one can see in. Wonderful, light and airy bathroom. Bliss.
I’m having a magnificent shower, watching people passing by on the path below on their way to breakfast. After soaping and shampooing myself thoroughly, I notice the gardener pottering around below. By chance (or by deliberate, who’s to know?) I see that if he continues pottering the way he is, I will soon be in his line of sight. He’s positioned in the one and only spot in the garden from where our bathroom window is visible.
As I notice his head moving, time slows down and I’m so appalled at the thought that he might see me naked, that I crouch down very quickly. But what I learn is that if you’re soapy in a highly-polished concrete bath that is shaped like a water slide, you shouldn’t crouch down quickly. My feet slip out from under me, and I land hard and fast on the edge of the bath. As my head dips forward, I knock it on the tap mixer. I find myself in my final pose, which is very much like the child’s pose in yoga. White arse in the air, making groaning noises as I rub my head and butt cheek.
And that’s why bathing in Ubud can be fiercely dangerous.
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