Krakatoa (Indonesia)

“Many a trip continues long after movement in time and space have ceased” - John Steinbeck

I carried further south into Indonesia. I should have reversed directions if it weren't for the momentum pressing me in that way - south of the equator and into a new hemisphere and a new country - but as it was, I followed the natural progression of any traveler with his nose pinned to a certain degree of the compass. I entered Jakarta to the realization that it was no place to linger for long, and readily made my way to Sumatra, and the small shore town of Kalianda. All the while I was traveling; whether it be by bus, or ferry, or taxi, or by foot, I was alone in my foreign skin with my foreign affairs and my foreign gait. Surely South Sumatra is off any tourist route, and I found it out by the countenance of surprise on every local as I passed them by en route to no where in particular. Now, Indonesia is a Muslim country and as it happened to be the month of Ramadan and all the locals were traveling back to their villages and towns to be with family, it also happened that I was tramping through it all as passively as if I was traveling through a super market. To suggest the locals were confused by my attendance on their holiest of weeks would be correct but in need of an upgrade. Perhaps flabbergasted. I don't suppose I pass as a Muslim on any day of the calender year. As I strolled meaningless down the streets in search of necessities like food and water, parents would alert their children of the stranger behind them with a tap on the shoulder and a point in his direction, and the children would be struck possessed judging by their long and deep gazes. And as for the older children, why, I have never known a simple “Hello” to bring a group of respectable looking adolescents into spontaneous smiling and euphoric laughter. But this was the way of the town, and I grew quite comfortable with my instant celebrity, even sometimes thinking I deserved it. Once they were over their shock, and I got to communicating, I understood them to be very happy and hospitable people, always willing to point a wandering jackass in the right direction, and most times with a smile to go with it. Yes, it was good enough town, I think.

Now, to the matter of why I was in Kalianda to begin with: Krakatoa Volcano. It has international fame as one of the most powerful, and one of the most deadly eruptions in recorded human history. It also has international fame as being one of the most seismically active and dangerous volcanoes today. When it last erupted in 1883, it killed multitudes of Javanese and Sumatrans who were unfortunate enough to be caught in its demon path of fire, mud, hurling projectile boulders, and steaming, boiling ash. The scene would have been taken from the hallways of Hell. The scores of villages and communities obliterated from existence not even being the whole story. See, the volcano was so powerful that it blew itself off the map; this is to be taken literally if this is to be taken accurately. Once all the ash settled over thousands of new graves, the location where Krakatoa once stood in the Straights of Sumatra was entirely ocean. Indeed, it erupted so violently as to remove itself from the geographic space which we call the surface of the earth. By and by, in 1927, Krakatoa's offspring appeared in the form of Anak Krakatoa; several lava flows creating a new island volcano where its father once ruled. I would visit this ill-tempered child of the sea, as I wished to witness its volatility on a personal level close up and first hand. Volatility is best taken this way. Perhaps I would even tell it some jokes to ease the tension, but not before I saw its thermal features, the jokes perhaps rendering it dormant.

Very well, as comedy would have it, I entered into a double outrigger canoe with bamboo trunks for floatation, a weed whacker motor for propellant, a cracked slab of wood for rudder, a paint job for laughter, and a crew for the same. I was assured the thing was sea worthy by the man who was capitalizing from the day; the man who profited either in the success or failure of the voyage; him being paid up front, and insisting on it from the beginning of negotiations. He would be on land counting the money I had given him while I would be out on the sea battling the high swells of the straights with his three crew members who could not speak English. One of these smoked the whole while, another bailed out water which continued coming into the hull, and the third - our captain, our leader, our navigator, the man in charge of our lives, well, he was busy in and out of sleep at the helm. Presumably, he had perfected this strategy of piloting over the years to enhance his alertness in case of trouble. See, he would be well rested and ready to tackle any emergency that arose. Why, the only emergency was that he was steering the damned thing! Anyway, this motley crew of rubes did their job, which apparently was to keep me alive, so I suppose all that was not lost was gained; except the 95 dollars.

The island of Anak Krakatoa smolders with sulfurous steam winding up through its various vents. As the wind shifts direction, one gets the full wall of odor at once, and then is relieved by another shift in wind direction. During these intervals of fresh breathable air, I hiked up the flank of the volcano over basalt so sharp that it cut through my boots with little effort. As I approached the last safe outlook before the cone became too dangerous to go further, I rested and took in the whole thing. Indeed, the volcano is alive with activity and seems almost to have a personality, and not a particularly nice one. In fact, I think if it could say anything, it has already said it in 1883, and will invariably say it again for all those within earshot, though it shall certainly be a short lesson! Very well, I had my time enjoying the Jurassic feel of the landscape with all its eccentricities and peculiarities and, by and by, I left the island and its blackness behind in favor of the white sand beaches of the mainland, where I laid content the rest of the day, thus ending this chapter of Krakatoa.  

Here and There (Malaysia)

“Now that we are poor, we are free” - Sitting Bull

Traveling on a budget is a bothersome thing. And, I suppose even in Southeast Asia a man should come to terms with the generality that spending money means he does not have that money any more. It is not green and it does not have a US president on it, so therefore it can be spent and spent with not a care or worry. In fact, some of the money is plastic and could readily pass for fake money, or money used in a child's game.  Certainly, at times, treating it as valueless has been great fun, but it does indeed have value, and value enough to plant me in Peninsular Malaysia for two weeks trying to recover my budgets dignity because of

errant spending in weeks previous. Well then, first I battened down the hatches in Kuala Lumpur and then decided the big city was no place to properly relax while budget recovering, so I journeyed back to the east coast destined for the small shore town of Cherating. As is requisite of any big city, I shall describe Kuala Lumpur as much as it needs describing and then leave it alone to go about its big city business. It is special for its relative diversity of Indian, Chinese, and Malays. Of course, among them are a large group of foreigners, as tends to be true of any large and cumbersome metropolis where financial matters are the main concern. I had the pleasure of staying in Chinatown with all the other irresponsible travelers. Very well, I explored the city as much as a curious wanderer with no funding cares to explore a city. I saw the Petronas Towers, some mosques of varying significance, some Hindu temples of varying irregularity, some restaurants worthy of revisit, some standard Asian shopping malls with unnecessary size and more floors than reason would suggest, and a cast of malevolent street characters – none of whom brought me any joy, but they brought me no usefulness. When a big city's quality of individualism wears off, one merely walks about tall buildings and filthy back streets with little purpose and no objective; similar to the stray cat and dog, and like the stray cat and dog, he fills only his basis needs. This was me on my last day in Kuala Lumpur so I immediately booked a bus ticket to the beach!

Cherating was my beach of choice. It is pushed up against the east coast of Peninsular Malaysia like the jelly fish that are pushed up against its shores. The beach itself is one long tidal flat where the water retreats two hundred yards daily according to the moons influence. It is famous for two things, and two things only: sea turtles and surfing. As the season only suggested investing in the former, it is where I put my money. See, the waves are quite pathetic during our summer months.

They meekly lapse over themselves, groveling as they make their way to your feet, and once they get to your feet, they are so exhausted that they lay there with no energy to speak of; it is a shameful spectacle. If only they would embarrass themselves at another beach, perhaps one without such a high reputation! At least the flats make for good lounging about, and the rather sedate tides make for a good bathing temperature, surely. It was the most objective-less week of my life thus far. Seemingly, life consisted of sleep walking to the beach 100 ft. from my door, falling onto the sand and then falling into sleep again. I should only compare it to college, I think, where the classroom was the beach.

By and by, I found myself releasing sea turtles into the ocean. It is at night when the enormous 200 lbs. mother turtle comes ashore to lay her eggs and then retreat back into the warm ocean. My task was to watch her struggle digging a hole, then to watch her struggle crawling back to the water, and then to watch her struggle swimming against the current; I did a wonderful job. Afterward, my job was to set down a previously born sea turtle and let it struggle its own way into the ocean. It was a magnificent feeling to participate in such a rare and beautiful thing. We released 100 baby turtles in all. As they swam away under our dim headlamps, I couldn't help but to think how graceful they were once in the water, and how precious an event it was, and how meaningful my participation was, and how amazing nature can be, and how quiet the night, and how magical. Also, I couldn't help but to think that statistically, every single one of those baby sea turtles

would be devoured by malicious and starving fish not five minutes after we let them go. See, they cannot dive at such a young age, and as they float about, dumb and blind on the surface, they become easy prey for nearly every hungry thing in the ocean. If our headlamps were a bit more powerful, why, we could have seen it as it happened! The fish were fed, I suppose that is also magical.

Now, there happens to be some minor glitches in the whole thing: corruption and tourists. Of course, the witless tourist is led to believe he is helping conserve the species, and preserve their existence for all the future generations of this peaceful planet, but, indeed, he is a fool as his title suggests. While he is bathing in his humbleness and his good will toward Mother Earth, he is flashing the mother turtle like paparazzi at the red carpet, despite numerous warnings that it may just well blind its delicate eyes. He touches the shell and fins while she is on her quiet way back into the ocean, again, despite numerous warnings it could have negative impacts on the natural birthing processes of the mother. But, alas, he gets his picture and his story, so all is forgiven. And, the fee he pays goes in large part to the conservation of the species! In fact, more than half of what he pays goes directly into the sea turtle preservation project. What a hero he is! Why, if I believe that, I believe dogs and cats are old friends! If my fee goes in any part toward the honest preservation of sea turtles in Malaysia then Jupiter is a moon of Saturn, and the tuk-tuk ride is not a belligerent scam. God bless their souls, the people in charge of logistics. They are local volunteers who dedicate themselves to a cause that seems failing, and see no money for it. Every night they are out attempting to protect the sea turtles from the marauding villager who comes to steal the eggs and sell them, and the savage tourist who comes to steal common sense and never use it. May they be rewarded one day.

PS: all pictures taken here were done so WITHOUT flash.