July 12, 2010
To be fair, Ken would probably say that the worst part of the Bali trip was the overnite eco-tour to Ceninghan Island. In fact, I think he did say that earlier in this blog. The way he’s described it, is EVERYONE said Lembongin Island was a must-see, but Colleen insisted we go on an “eco-tour” to the neighboring island, staying with a village family rather than at a hotel. Everyone on our bamboo-balanced boat was going to Lembongin Island, but no one was going to Ceninghan.
And, that was the way he felt BEFORE we even got to the island. He dreaded the ocean boat ride, since he gets extremely sea sick. In fact, the last ocean boat ride we did in Costa Rica, I nursed Alice, Boom, and Ken while they all vomited. This boat ride, they all only felt nautious, thank god. Our affable Eco-Guide, Gede, was a bit confused by how completely uninterested and ill Ken was in response to the information he told us on the boat ride.
Once we arrived at Ceninghan Island, we were greeted by a few motorbikes, one driven by the woman who would be hosting us at the eco-tour village. Boom, Alice, and Grif’s jaws hit the ground when they saw that they’d be riding those motorbikes, and WITHOUT HELMETS! They freaked out. In fact, we all smiled giddily the entire ride to the island. The only way to get to and around the island was by motorbike because no cars were allowed on the island. We all quietly squealed as the motorbikes sped across a very rickety suspension bridge, barely wide enough for motorbikes, with many missing slats of wood.
Ken’s worst nightmare was realized once we got to the rooms we had, in the small village center. There were flies swarming our food. Bugs in our rooms. No air conditioning in the rooms, just a small fan in the sweltering heat. Despite the amazing fried banana snack, Ken was melting and thoroughly grumpy. The kids started speaking of New York City longingly, how there were no flies on the food and it was so clean there.
Then, we went for a snorkel, the kids’ first snorkel experience. While waiting for the boat, Gede showed us the seaweed and how it’s farmed. The island villagers used to be very, very impoverished about 20 years earlier, before they were taught how to seaweed farm. Now, other Balinese saw these seaweed farmers as relatively wealthy. They work from 6am to 6pm, resting on a bamboo platform next to the sea midday. Their wives string together long strings with small bits of seaweed tied onto the string, to be dropped back into the lagoon for regeneration. They harvest the seaweed monthly, laying it out to dry, then ship it off to other Asian countries, like Japan, who will pay the big bucks for seaweed. When we looked out onto the lagoon, seaweed fisherman walked through the lagoon with a small canoe attached to them by a rope, tossing seaweed into the canoe. It was a slow, meditative harvest.
We finally took the small boat out to a reef off the island, with no one around. The kids dropped into the water like they’d lived on a desert for a year. It didn’t matter that the snorkeling mask and tube were too big. Or that the current was almost too strong for them. They went crazy for seeing fish via snorkeling for the first time ever. And, the fish-filled reef was vast and so colorful. At one point, Ken and I held hands underwater, just pointing at the great expanse of reef. It was amazing.
We were new people when we got back in the boat. Even Ken was in a good mood. Our version of a Hindu holy bath. The trip had taken a turn for the better. I told Gede on the way back to the village that Griffin loves soccer, and he immediately laid the groundwork for a soccer game to happen among the boys back in the village. Boom was the goalie, butting out the usual village young goalie with a jolly smile, and Griffin was ecstatic. It was a spirited game next to the lagoon, with the older boys being very patient with Boom’s goalie rules – He’d yell “Time out!” then “Time in!”
When the game broke up, a bunch of the village boys walked away down the road, with badminton rackets in hand. Boom ran up to me saying “Can I go with them?” I couldn’t say no. Then, I sat there, watching him walk away, with some of the older boys guiding him to the side of the road when motorbikes came down the road. I eventually walked behind him to keep an eye on him, feeling kind of awkward about following him, like I would embarrass him, reminding his new peeps that he’s only 3 years old.
There were so many twists and turns in the road that I completely lost Boom and his boyz. Really. I turned up one alleyway, surprising a girl bathing nude. I came back to the winding road, hugging the coast, and blindly went further down the road, not sure if he was ahead or had turned up one of the many alleyways where I’d seen some boys turn. Finally, after starting to freak out, I found him and his boys laughing and playing badminton. Actually, the boy playing with Boom was laughing at Boom as Boom repeatedly took the badminton racket, missing each serve of the birdie, but insisting on endlessly repeating his serve saying, “No, I got it.” “I got it!” each time.
I turned and saw that two village adults had stopped on their motorbikes to watch Boom for me. When I arrived, they quietly left. That was the tenth time another Balinese adult had watched over my kids, without any fanfare, comfortably scooping him up to coo over him or filling my spot at a key moment.
They whisked us off yet again on motorbikes to see a sunset and more of the island. On the way, I made them stop when we heard gamelan music being played. There was a family cremation ceremony occurring, and they welcomed us in until they realized we had no sarongs. Yes, sarongs again! By this time, I wished I’d just bought $3 sarongs at the start of the damn trip and kept them in my back pocket. So, we sat outside the big family temple to listen to the family playing instruments and the priest chanting. When they took a break, they sent out their English-speaking family member who apologized warmly for our not being able to join the festivities. They then brought out treats, eggs, and fruit for us, feeling bad for our having to sit outside. Even when we’re the ones intruding on their family rituals, without sarongs, the Balinese can’t help themselves from being warm and welcoming.
Then we motorbiked to a cliff where swallows nested in a sea cave. These swallows nests were seen as very valuable to the Balinese, they were viewed as good for eating, settling your stomach, and played a role in spiritual rituals. They were so valuable that people from all over Bali used to come to these nest caves, repel down or boat into them, and take the nests. Now, the village has reclaimed the nest caves, claiming the nests as a natural resource owned by the village. The village pays young village men to guard the swallow caves round the clock now.
After a sweltering night’s sleep, or lack of sleep, (Yes, Ken was right!) I woke the next morning to yet another amazing meal by the woman whose rooms we slept in. I looked up from the breakfast table to see Boom having wandered down the street to sit with Gede and some villagers, chatting with and surrounded by them as if he was the Village Chieftan.
