Praying mantis. (critter)
Spine.
To the boy who grew up in a house of mirrors. Who learned from the start that you can’t see the truth. Your anger is real, because behind it, is something that is real. Never pretend that there’s not. The things that you have to do, I cannot tell you to do. I can only take a picture. And deliver these words from a future self, who is not as alone as you imagine him to be: take care as you fight your way out.
Light on Tengger.
Maybe someday I will share the story of how H. saved my life. I otherwise don’t know how to describe him. He is a direct descendant of the first Tengger people. He has a deep acquaintance with the land, is quiet, serious, a secret mystic. Tonight he and S. visited us for nongkrong (chatting). I showed him my pictures of Tengger and he offered to take us trekking around the caldera, on private paths used by villagers and rangers. Just taking a moment to be wonderstruck by this possibility.
Here is an irony of anonymity, that anybody who knows you, will know that it’s you!
The beach is crowded with people, fully covered, women veiled. The waves are too strong to go in. The sky is indeterminate, a blinding bright grey, and an atmosphere of intense social engagement. Carefully planned outfits for selfies with rocks. Children playing with plastic. Men feeling useless. Women squinting at tiny mirrors, applying lipcolor. For whom? For the water? Ocean, though present, seems very far away. A symbol, abstracted from itself, in a sullen sort of mood.
The morning after a big (for me!) family picnic at the beach. My mind is full of words that I don’t understand. They buzz around like bees without a colony. New language (like new body) takes energy I don’t notice until it’s spent, unintentional work, the work of receiving. Receiving pieces, patterns, purposes, sounds. Bees looking for jobs, words looking for definition. Me, feeling depleted, but also rowdy inside. Discombobulated!
Ocean dreamy.
Blue.
Leftover notes from yesterday, recorded with morning coffee today. //
We met a guardian of the path at Ranu Pane, sitting on his sleeping mat, with a fire to keep his toes warm. And his bag of snacks, a jolly fellow. Stopped for a chat about mutual friends, traditional farming methods, and the corrosive effects of tourism. Always, what a small world it is, around here. //
The scent of woodsmoke in the mountains, memories of that. //
E. and I got a lot of weird looks from local tourists yesterday, this isn’t typical. Not sure why. People see me, assume E. is foreign too. Stare, heckle us, snap pictures with their phones. //
We saw at least two motorbike accidents on the mountain roads yesterday. Both women, one looked like she was fine, the other one looked very bad, she had blood running down her face, appeared pale and grey. Many had already stopped to help, so we drove on… //
A transport truck couldn’t make it up one of the inclines, it was overloaded with potatoes. “Boss goblok,” said E., who jumped out and helped push it to the next pull-over point. //
The high-altitude villages around Lumajang, which primarily grow green onions, smell like green onions. You catch whiffs of it as you drive through. //
I have clearer photos of the lutung but those feel private. //
I also have pictures of Gunung Batok, will probably share later. //
I have to relearn how to use “the good camera”, another reason it’s ok we didn’t see Bromo yesterday, my camera skills are not (yet?) worthy. //
I forgot my carnelian stone at home, I realized. //
Always, a beginner, again. //
Orang gunung/mountain person.
We wake up at 3 to reach Tengger before sunrise. G. drives me and E. in his truck, called “Sweet Orange”. E. (my husband) is a former ranger and guide in the park. G. is from a nearby village and has experience driving the roads.
I hope to see Bromo. (This hope will not be fulfilled.)
Sunrise comes, and I take pictures of Gunung Batok and the surrounding walls of the caldera. Batok is beautiful, swathed in green velvet, as a dream or a fantasy.
I still hope to see Bromo.
We’re not in a hardtop jeep, so entry into the caldera is prohibited. We decide to drive down from Tengger, to the east, and back up again, possibly to see Bromo from another place on the rim.
As we climb again in elevation, the drive gets scary, or at least I am scared. I can’t describe how terrifying it is. Hairpin turns, steep drops, no shoulder, broken asphalt. Clouds begin to obscure the surroundings. At some point, with steep drops on both sides, suspended in clouds, the road is broken enough that the truck loses purchase. G. is a good driver and gets us past, but I begin crying from fear.
Crying, then sobbing, I just break open.
G. parks the truck. E. holds me. We decide we have to go back down. But I am afraid to go down in the truck. Two local people come and offer E. and me an ojek, a ride down on their motorbikes. We accept.
The locals are understanding. I know they have driven this road a thousand times, at crazy fast speeds. E. has explained the situation, they won’t go fast with me. I feel safe. We get down past the scariest parts. (G. follows in his truck.)
We all sit and have coffee together. I am still shaking, most of what I remember from the conversation is that one of the men asks me to help him with English, which I do. (This was very kind of him.) They realize we have common friends, in our village on the other side of Tengger. These men trade in green onions and potatoes, while our friends trade in flowers. (Crops that grow in the tropical highland climate.)
We part ways with the Tengger people. We’ll drive the rest of the way back down in the truck.
Shortly after, my eyes still hot from tears, I have an encounter with a lutung (an East Javan langur). I spot him in a tree as we drive. G. stops the truck, I get out. I have my camera.
He is a black shape against the cloud. At first I think he’s a macaque, but he isn’t. E. says, from the truck, “lutung.” They are shy, they have been hunted by humans. This one at first jumps down from his lookout. I think he will run away. But he doesn’t, he keeps looking at me from behind ferns and shrubs. He starts climbing back into the tree. He comes out, looks at me. Then, like he knows better, he hides. He does it repeatedly, where he hides for a minute, then climbs up or comes out, looks at me. Slowly, with intent. I speak to him. I say I don’t want to hurt him. I make a hand gesture like a little wave. He lets me take a few pictures. I say goodbye, then go back to the truck.
G. starts up “Sweet Orange” and we continue home.
I feel this was Tengger, telling me that I’m not ready for Bromo. (I’m not sure where these big feelings come from, it’s a turbulent time of the month, I’m tired, more sensitive than usual, the terror, I’ve only felt fear like that one time before, hey, also on a mountain, and the breaking.) Then, the lutung. It felt like a gift, or a secret, or a word. Or something, I don’t know.
We will try again. (I will keep practicing and trying again.) I know we can just take a jeep. (Mas B. wants to drive us.) … But I will keep working through what happened today, because I pay attention when a mountain speaks.
Es teler durian. (ice)
Birds singing in the garden to the sounds of Zuhr, the mid-day prayer, being sung from the mosque.
Birthday plans.
(Head spinning), after dark. Warm welcome, quiet children, fragrant oolong tea. This desire to collapse on the soft bed with the clean sheets in the room that isn’t moving. Steady the mind, organize needs: eat, drink, bathe, sleep. Close the door and trust that unconsciousness will fix everything.
Mid-morning, over water. Parked behind two coconut trucks. We get out and seek a shady spot. School girls in white jilbab, green skirts, cushy foam sandals crowd the deck, eat pop mie and laugh together. The strait is calm, glinting turquoise blue, a few rolling swells. (Water does weird things when switching seas.) The tip of Ijen shows through its topping of whipped cream, in front of us, with Baluran a hulking silhouette to the north. Our way lies between them.
Arrival at the pier in Ketupang. Men and boys swim at the waterline and heckle us for cash, slipping between boat and bumpers as we maneuver into place. School girls toss them crumpled bills, everyone is laughing. Lines secured and everything is a rush. Pick through the crowds, squeeze past the trucks, climb into the car. Azan sounds as we drive off the ramp (rumble and clank of steel joints) and onto the island of Java.
Travel day. Cotton candy sunrise. The whole back seat of the car to myself, that’s nice. Out the window, seen between jumbled warungs, a beach, west coast of Bali, beige-black pebbled sand, pale surf. Hazy. Rumbling, growling, belching of trucks. Bob Dylan//Desire on car speakers, not even my choice, good music for moving. E. plays air violin in the front seat, chats with G., who drives. Sun climbs, blue deepens, shadows turn solid. We make progress toward the ferry at Gilimanuk.
Jeki mood 2.