Gili Meno, Lombock,
Indonesia:
My fever finally broke while I accompanied a Frenchman on
guitar and before we began the second song my clothes were already soaked
through with sweat. A wet rag of a shirt hung limp and heavy on my body,
clinging with sticky hydrogen bonds to my shoulders which, in the tropical laze
that had come to set pace the past few days, had themselves been well-bronzed
by an equally heavy sun. The rupturing of my fever-addled levees was some time
coming. I had spent the preceding day swaying in hammock looking out over the
narrow channel between Gili Meno and Lombock and praying that, whatever this
sickness was, it was not malaria. This was, after all, my vacation and as a
matter of principal, I usually save the more serious maladies for fieldwork
anyway. The efficacy of both cigarettes and local herb to treat this latest
island bug was unclear, but certainly, of all the places to fall into a
feverish stupor for a day or two, Gili Meno was by far not the worst: a small paradise
where beer was cheap and plentiful, where one could sleep each night under the
stars by the sea, and where magic mushrooms grew wild in the small groves
between the palms across the island. And that Frenchman played one hell of a
goddamn guitar.
It’s funny--I had been
meaning to write about some of my traveling adventures for the past few months
which, since the beginning of 2016 at least, have taken me literally around the
world. In all the madness of flights and connecting flights, dubious internet
connections, and nights spent on couches, air mattresses, futons, floors and
hammocks in something like 10 different cities, a lot of those quiet moments
that I feel compelled to reproduce in prose, however inadequately, have instead
floated to the back of my mind. There they sit, buoying my mind and happiness even
as I linger stateside for the eternity of a few weeks. It is good to see
everyone though--that might be the only comparable feeling to being out and
about for me, the feeling of seeing my friends and family again, that is.
Nambung National
Park, Western Australia
There is nothing quite as still and haunting as the desert,
except for the desert at night. In the blackness of a rare cloud-covered
pre-dawn, I made my way down the narrow highway 60 north of Perth. My kangaroo
count exceeded 20 and the novelty wore off--these fuckers are everywhere and
would certainly present a significant liability to my rental vehicle regardless of its already tired and dilapidated disposition. The car itself was significantly
used, but like my tireless war horse of a minivan back in the US, it had
character and I liked that. It clicked and hummed and murmured and talked,
protesting or begrudgingly endorsing every shift in gear, change of speed, or
application of the breaks. I imagined myself some weary captain, with my every
muscle and attention tuned to the voice and quivering of his battled-hardened
ship. A romantic notion, indeed, but hardly resistant to the more pressing
reality that if this car broke down on me, I would be rather fucked.
My idea had been this: drive early morning into Nambung
national park and watch the sunrise play colors over the pinnacles (the great
limestone pillars that protrude like a jagged Stonehenge out of the sand and
silt of the desert floor). The trip would place me out of cell service (as the
vast majority of Western Australia tends to be) and quite alone, about 60
kilometers from the nearest town, in the middle of Nambung and the desert.
Still, I felt I had a solid plan and a hell of a day ahead of me, so I gently
coaxed my vehicle along the dirt roads and through the labyrinth of limestone
until I found a slightly elevated lookout from which I could commune with the
spirits while enjoying the solitude of isolation in the brimming possibility of
new morning.
I set up my small camp stove to boil some water for coffee,
an essential companion to any morning, desert or otherwise. Filling the
primer-cup of my wisperlite with white fuel, I closed the valve and lit a match
to begin priming the stove. The flame, immodest and jumpy as always, quickly
took on a here-to-fore unobserved behavior (and, having spent far, far too much
time in my life doctoring, diagnosing, and treating misbehaving wisperlite
stoves, I was aware of such details). The primer-flame grew to engulf the
entire stove outlet in a small ball of yellow made all the more vivid in
contrast to the pitch-dark night in the background. It was when the flame left
the stove and started running along the fuel line, eventually consuming
greedily the outlet valve of the pressurized fuel bottle, that I let fly an:
“Oh that’s not good. Jesus fuck. Fuck.”
In an effort to save myself (images of myself as Two-Face
came quickly to mind), my poor rental car, and of course, the very fire-prone
landscape around me (the pinnacles in Nambung have very limited vegetation, but
fire is always a threat in the desiccated landscape of WA), I began heaving
arm-fulls of sand onto the small stove interspersed with rabid attempts to
stomp out the flames. Like some crazed desert recluse, I found myself alone in
an empty place dancing madly over an iridescent ball of flames. This lasted maybe
20 seconds, but felt like eternity; in response to every stomp or heap of sand I
imagined an explosion. When finally I had reduce the threat to a steaming heap
of bent metal and a conglomeration of sand-melted-glass in front of me, I sat
down on the sand, heart-racing, lungs heaving, and dejectedly, still without my
life-blood coffee. Such chemical addictions may be the end of me, quite
literally. The stove carcass simmered angrily and defeated beside me
as I calmed my autonomic functions. I now felt far lonelier in this place than
ever before.
I attempted the feat of watching the sunrise instead without my coffee but of course, soon found myself asleep, only to wake after the sun had risen significantly in the sky. I spent the rest of my time wandering barefoot through the
pillars and across the sand, occasionally stopping to read from a book I had
with me, or to rest. What a buttfucking idiot I kept thinking (and still think
now), what a ridiculous way that would have been to go: alone in the desert,
surrounded by nothing, killed by my own folly, hubris and misguided
hermeticism. There is still plenty of time though, and the way this franchise
has been going, I have no doubt that such a fate may still await me some day.
Hopefully, not soon.
When I first got back
to Allentown, I took the stack of mail that had been accumulating for the past
few months down to the basement. With a flip of a switch, I put on the gas
fireplace, pulled up a rocking chair and sat absorbing the mechanical heat
while I paced through the endless series of statements, bills, notices,
advertisements, invitations, and limited-time offers(!). About halfway through
the pile, I set the remaining letters aside and buried my head in my
hands--what in god’s green fucking earth am I doing here? How, and in what
ways, is being saddled with the mindless chatter of a decaying Western culture
better or even remotely preferable to life on the road? For convenience?
Comfort? Dear lord--traveling may present its fair share of difficulties,
challenges, discomforts, stresses and hardships, but nothing, and I mean
nothing, can be comparably soul-crushing as the monotony of everyday spent
somewhere comfortable. I say this as someone who always assumes being home will
be a relief or a respite from the chaos and hectic pace of traveling, but once
again, I am reminded that such a notion is born of the very cultural attitude
that I seem to be struggling to resist. Life, however, in the very insularly
and provincial sense of the term, needs to happen. I have a social security
number, student loans, a job, and obligations (financial and otherwise)--I am
on the grid, mother fucker. So romance and silent, dystopic, Orwellian horrors
aside, I pick up the half-discarded stack of letters and keep flipping. No Penn
State, you can’t have any of my goddamn money. Go fuck yourself and your cult
of self-righteous idol-worship. Your football team sucks.
Ubud, Bali, Indonesia
Rules of life on the road (and rules of life, more
generally): Never get arrested. I originally made this rule for myself while in
Paraguay under the juridical auspices of the ever-corrupt Policía Nacíonal and the diplomatic guise of the US Peace Corps. This
rule was expanded and reiterated as I continued traveling to communist
countries and countries that are otherwise not well known for their leniency
towards criminals, especially foreign criminals (Indonesia, for example). This
does not mean a complete aversion to certain illicit activities, but instead, a
strict policy of attunement towards local knowledge, custom and conditions
along with a reasonable acceptance of risk. I should note: I have never before
encountered any issue of this sort while traveling.
To date, Bali has been the only exception to this rule, but
not for the reasons you think.
I arrived in Ubud a day before the yearly Ogohogoh festival,
which heralds the beginning of Nyepi and the end of the Balinese yearly
calendar. During the festival, massive effigies of demonic Balinese gods and
goddesses in the Hindu tradition are paraded through the streets to music and
drumming. The Ogohogoh’s are then convened at a central location where they are
burned as an act of spiritual purification in preparation for the New Year. The
whole scene is wild and maddening and, as with so many things in Bali, a
complete aesthetic and sensory overload. It seems only fitting that following
Ogohogoh is Nyepi, or the Day of Silence, in which every family remains in
their home, typically fasting, meditating or offering prayers to ancestors. On
Nyepi, as a means of encouraging self-reflection and cleansing, no Balinese
people are allowed in the streets, a rule strictly enforced by the pecalang, or a local community police
force.
While in the city, I stayed with a fantastic host family
just off the main square in central Ubud. They were wonderful and took great
care of me, providing heaping bowls of fresh tropical fruit every morning and
an endless supply of tea and coffee. Not to mention that, despite some
linguistic barriers, they were incredibly gracious company. On the morning of
Nyepi following a raucous night of Ogohogoh excesses, I woke to find the family
already engaged in the various mindful practices of the day. They offered me breakfast
and told me that they would be remaining home for the day, explaining the
significance of Nyepi and the various ancestral alters around the small
household compound. Intrigued, I asked if I might be able to participate with
them, but the answer I received was one that politely indicated their
preference to celebrate and commune as a family. Message received, I prepared
my bag and camera for a walk around town in the quiet and largely empty city
streets, figuring this would give them some space.
As the name of the day unambiguously suggests, on the
streets it was eerily silent. I saw almost no people, except the occasional
neighbor at their door lighting incense, making offerings and saying prayers to
the large stone gods and goddesses that guarded each household entrance. When I
reached the main square I saw the first pecalang. He was young, slightly
shorter than I with a checkered sarong swaying smartly as he walked the
streets. Upon seeing me, he approached, asked where I was staying, and kindly
asked that I return home. The rules of Nyepi, he explained, were to be followed
by everyone, Balinese and foreigners alike. I apologized and he offered to walk
me back. No sooner than we had turned around than another pecalang appeared,
this one significantly less relaxed and visibly perturbed. He immediately began
chastising me for my ignorance to which I pleaded equal parts guilty and
apologetic. Flustered and with a final word of admonishment, he turned to
accompany me home.
Off the cuff and as a seeming aside, he asked, “Where are
you from, anyway?”
Now, usually when interrogated abroad, I will claim some
more innocuous nationality without the heavy historical, emotional, and
political baggage that US citizenship often entails. But in this brief
unthinking moment, for whatever reason, instead of replying “Canada” or
“Australia” or “the UK” I said, “I am from the US.”
My agitated pecalang escort turned on a dime and threw an
accusing finger into my face in front of his own satisfied grin, “Of course you
are,” he replied with a zeal that immediately told me that I had confirmed
whatever preconceived opinions he had of peoples from the US.
“What happens if a Mexican breaks the law in the US?” he
demanded.
“I am not sure what you are asking me.” I replied, nervously
maintaining my calm.
“They go to jail! Don’t they. Well guess what, you’re in
Bali and you broke our law. Now you’re going to jail!” He
grabbed my forearm and began forcibly leading me in the opposite direction of
my host family and presumably, towards the local jailhouse.
I am the first to admit that lots of anti-American sentiment,
while perhaps misplaced at times, is nonetheless well-founded and based on a
serious and highly-problematic history meddling intervention and
neo-imperialism. Often in my travels have I, as the token American, been asked
to account for my country and its actions, which I have never sought to justify
but instead provide nuance and conversation. What more can one do in the face
of the US’s unignorably and inexcusable hegemonic reality? That being said,
never have I had the burden of my country’s troublesome history placed so
squarely and wholly upon my own shoulders, and certainly never in a situation
where my immediate well-being and impending incarceration were the terms of the
exchange.
In what would have been an ultimately idiotic reactionary
moment, my first thought when faced with the possibility of imprisonment in an
Indonesian jail was to shake free of the pecalang’s grasp and make a run for
it. Thankfully, the more level-headed of the two pecalangs intervened to reason
with his colleague. While this did little to diminish the anger and frustration
of the first, it seemed like progress was being made.
My Balinese being unpracticed (or non-existent), I could not
tell what these two discussed hurriedly as I stood there, heart beating,
forearm-in-hand of my would-be incarcerator. That being said, I imagined the
conversation being something along the lines of:
“Do you know how much fucking paperwork and hassle it will
be to put this stupid little white boy in jail? Just let him go home.”
I was led back to the home where we found my host-mother
standing at the door, smiling and laughing and as happy to see me as if I were
a long-lost son. I was ingloriously returned by the pecalang who no doubt explained
to my host-mother, “Your white American got loose. Keep a better eye on him. He’s
not very smart.” To the credit of her infinite graciousness and humor, she laughed
it off and in response offered her own bit of chiding to the one pecalang for
his bad-cop routine. I, for one, rightfully felt like a piece of shit and
dipped between the wooden doors of the home quickly and without a further word.
When my host-mother herself came back into the compound, she
saw me seated by my room in a wicker chair, eyes cast shamefully at the sky.
She quietly disappeared into the kitchen, returning a few minutes later with an
extra generous bowl of fruit.
“Please do not worry, it’s no problem, no problem” she
insisted, “Here, have some fruit!”
What wonderful people. What a stupid, silly American. But
what wonderful people.
Two dollars. That is
the price for coffee at the local coffee shop in State College. The barista
offers me the steaming mug along with a practiced smile. All I picture is
Marlin Brando as Colonel Kurtz in the final scene of Apocalypse Now as he whispers
off-screen, “The horror….the horror,” offering up his own summation of the
world around him. Not that I am about to go all Heart of Darkness on everyone,
but simply that it’s hard to reconcile two seemingly opposite modes of living:
that on the road, and that of easy, suburban parochialism. Never one to waste a
good cup of Joe, however, especially knowing how mercilessly such things can be
taken from you in near-catastrophic incidents of desert escapism, I take the
cup, drop a thank you and a small tip in the jar, and retreat to a seat in the
corner where I can watch the traffic buzzing through this small-town café.
No doubt, so much of
what I am able to do through my propensity for great and frequent mobility is a
function of my own positionality and privilege. I do not mean to deride or
dismiss the very world that has given me such freedoms, or the society which
has bestowed upon me the privileged capacities of white male-ness. That is the
thing about privilege anyway--you cannot get rid of it, and you cannot downplay
it (unless you’re a total asshole). You can only acknowledge it and attempt to
use it for good. I don’t know if this is what I do, and perhaps such a
judgement is not mine to make, but still, I certainly do hope so.
I am a lucky
sonofabitch to be able to travel the way that I do. And in the same token, I am
appreciative and sensitive to the different decisions and/or dispositions that lead
people to living their lives in completely different ways. I would be lying and
a fool to give the impression that I have somehow figured this shit out and
that everyone else has got it wrong. No--I question who I am, what I am doing,
the decisions I make, and the road that I am on constantly. I have no idea
whether this will all turn out alright, whether I am in fact sowing the seeds
of my own demise (certainly, of my own destruction), and whether I am
contributing a goddamn thing worth of good to this world I care about so deeply.
I do know that, right now at least, what makes me happy, what excites me, what
gives me a reason to wake up and buckle under when need be is the prospects of
wandering and the endless allure of the road.
How buttfucking romantic.
I know. How naïve. No doubt. But traveling makes me happy in a way that nothing
else--no person or relationship, no accomplishment, or material thing--ever
has. And with that, I don’t know what else to do except to keep moving as much
and as often as possible.