As most of you probably know, I have a bit of an unhealthy obsession with pirates. Maybe you’ve realized this because I’ve dressed as a pirate for Halloween almost every year since I was 18. Or perhaps you’ve figured it out because my facebook’s language function is set to pirate and if you use facebook on my computer, it will redirect you to “Ye Olde Facebook” and ask for your secret code instead of a login. Or maybe you’ve noticed the remarkable number of “yars” and “arrrgs” in my daily speech. Or there’s a chance that you’re a ninja and you’ve sensed a strange, inexplicable rivalry from me.
Regardless, I like pirates.
So you might imagine my secret glee when, back in September when we first entered Indonesia, Boyscout sat us all down for a serious discussion of what we should do if we were boarded by pirates. Now, don’t get me wrong, I do not wantto get boarded, but the idea amuses me greatly. I know just as well as you do that modern day pirates do not run around with eye patches and cutlasses, but even so… pirates!
Since entering Southeast Asian waters, we’ve been rather careful. We watch approaching fishing boats with trepidation and keep pirate watches on throughout the night in unfamiliar ports. So far, we’ve been extremely well received and have not had any trouble, so the idea of pirates still tickles me with glee. To be honest, I’m not sure I’d be any match for the pirates if they did decide to board our boat, but the idea is to be awake so if someone approaches, we can all leap on deck and look fierce. I fear if we ever do get attacked, we will be too sleepy to do anything useful, but so far, so good.
If that hasn’t given me enough pirate fun, our recent wanderings through Malaysia and Singapore have been even more pirate-centric. As it turns out, the Straits of Malacca, which is the body of water that runs between Malaysia and Indonesia, is a historical pirate paradise. I can’t believe someone hasn’t capitalized on this yet. There definitely needs to be a Pirates of the Straits of Malacca. Hmm. Well, that’s a bit too wordy. Maybe Pirates of Malacca. Or Pirates of Malaysia. Or Pirates of Malaya (as the peninsular region used to be known back in ye olde days). The reason this used to be a massively pirated area is because it’s really the only reasonable shipping channel in the area. Going around Sumatra takes way too long and so this becomes a bit of a bottleneck for boats going between the East and the West. Thus, the historic ports of Melaka and Singapore are absolute treasure troves of pirate history.
About two weeks ago, I traveled over to Melaka and, when I wasn’t feasting on chicken rice balls and visiting Buddhist temples, I jumped into the historical attractions wholeheartedly. In a haze of pirate inspired excitement, I ran around the historic sections of Melaka, standing atop battlements that used to fend off pirates during the Portuguese and Dutch colonial eras and pretending to fire canons at marauding vessels. It was so much fun. I even went on a search for a “Pirate Park”, but the map made it sound much more exciting than it actually was. The day-long search was concluded with the finding of an anticlimactic tiny theme park with a pirate ship ride, but on the way (and the following day) I found buildings painted with pirate themed murals, a huge model tall ship, the ruins of a Dutch church on a hill and, at the base, an old fort used by the Portuguese for fending off said pirates. Adub, who was my travel companion in Melaka, dealt with quite a few “yars!” and “avast me scurvy curs!” and even threw in a few of his own “yarbedadars”. I may actually have jumped up and down in glee atop the battlements where model canons pointed at the innocent river cruisers.
However, I do take this seriously when it comes to modern day pirates. One night on our crossing to Singapore, we were forced by the strong current to anchor for the night off a tiny island known as Bintan. This island, once the refuge of the ousted Malay Sultan during the colonial eras, has long been a pirate hotbed. As we pulled in and dropped anchor, Boyscout casually mentioned that the last pirate activity had been 8 days previously. 8 days. I blinked, hoping he was joking, but he was not. He then wondered aloud if we should set a pirate watch. Kitten and I demanded that we do so. Even though we were not a well stocked cargo ship, I saw no reason to give the locals any ideas and did my best to look extraordinarily menacing during my two hour anchor watch.
So, though I haven’t seen any pirates, I’ve still gotten in quite a bit of pirate fun. I suppose if they actually did board us, I would stop entertaining images of being tied in group to the mast (we’d never fit, our mast is far too small), or being made to walk the plank (we’d need a plank, I suppose), but for now, I will continue with my harmless fantasies. I’ve also heard the pirates in this area are rather friendly. Since I’m getting off before we sail by Somalia, I expect all will be well. But if they do board us, don’t be surprised if the next thing you hear is that I’ve joined up. And then ye scurvy curs best beware for ye olde Kirin is a mean sea dog. Once I be sailing the seven seas then there will ne’er be a moment’s rest until all the booty and grog in the world be mine!
Yarbedadar indeed. Drink up me hearties, yo ho!
Friday, November 19, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Proper Hygiene
As I sat here staring idly at my dirt caked ankles and wondered what next to write about, inspiration came to me. I’m sure you all want to hear about how we do (or don’t) keep ourselves clean on the boat! Well, reader beware, you’re in for a scare (as one of my least favorite childhood authors was fond of writing on his hundreds of horror hack novels). If you have an easily triggered gag reflex (looking meaningfully at a former roommate) or simply don’t fell like being grossed out, this post may not be for you.
In the midst of the ocean with no land as far as the eye can see, it is perhaps a bit ironic that our most precious commodity is water. Yet there it is. Our fresh water tank is reserved for drinking and cooking. For every other water related activity, such as flushing the toilet or washing dishes, salt water is pumped in from the sea. Though this practice leaves us with a slightly fishy smelling bathroom and salty dishes, we learn to live with it. I mean, we’re on a boat, after all.
But what does this mean as far as washing is concerned? How do we shower, do laundry or wash our hands? Well… by and large, we don’t.
The last time I really did laundry was in Korea. Hang on- digest that for a moment. Scary, huh? Well, I did manage to do a semblance of laundry in Bali. Kitten and I snuck into the marina showers with detergent, a big bucket and backpacks full of raunchy smelling clothes. Terrified that the staff would catch us, and short on time anyway, we scrubbed our clothes as best we could, dumping out bucketfuls of black, yes, BLACK, water, and then rushed back to the boat to hang it all out to dry. Never before have I so appreciated the invention of the washing machine. There are still dirt stains on half of the clothes I “cleaned”.
Other than that, my only other way of cleaning clothes, towels and sheets is by hanging them on the rails during rainstorms. This does, surprisingly, do a good job of taking out smells, which most of the time is all I can really ask for. On the boat we keep down our laundry needs by changing clothing as rarely as possible. The fresh shirt I put on today replaced one I’d been wearing for the last four days, and this one will probably last me that long too.
As far as showers are concerned, rainstorms and sea baths are the way to go. We do have two pump sprayers on board, but splitting four gallons between five people means that they are mostly used for rinsing off after sea baths. Sea baths entail pulling on a bathing suit, jumping off the boat (not while it is moving- that would cause great alarm), clambering back on, rubbing shampoo into your hair as best you can (salt water doesn’t lather all that well) and jumping back into the sea. If you’re looking for a pressure wash, you climb up the ratlines (which is perhaps a rather generous term for the three thin lines going up our shrouds to a height of maybe 15 to 20 feet above the water line) and take a showy dive into the ocean.
Rain showers, when we can get them, are actually quite a luxury. Regardless of how well you rinse off with the sprayer, sea baths always leave you with white flecks of salt adorning your limbs. Rain when we are anchored is actually quite a boon. As soon as the first drops hit the deck, the smelliest laundry is hauled out and pinned to the rails, the pump sprayers are set up in the best places for catching rain, and the dirty dishes are strewn out on every available surface. Then it’s bathing suits, shampoo and soap again, with the wind driven rain giving you a rather high pressure but unfortunately low water density shower.
The rest of the time, we roll about in our own filth. We sweat like pigs in the equatorial heat, get covered in salt from the sea spray, handle dirt encrusted lines, get coated in diesel when we refill our engine and pick up filth in a myriad of other ways.
The stench is a force to be reckoned with and after a crossing we are truly a sight to behold. When even the homeless citizens of a third world country look askance at the state of our clothing we feel, more than ever, like real sailors.
In the midst of the ocean with no land as far as the eye can see, it is perhaps a bit ironic that our most precious commodity is water. Yet there it is. Our fresh water tank is reserved for drinking and cooking. For every other water related activity, such as flushing the toilet or washing dishes, salt water is pumped in from the sea. Though this practice leaves us with a slightly fishy smelling bathroom and salty dishes, we learn to live with it. I mean, we’re on a boat, after all.
But what does this mean as far as washing is concerned? How do we shower, do laundry or wash our hands? Well… by and large, we don’t.
The last time I really did laundry was in Korea. Hang on- digest that for a moment. Scary, huh? Well, I did manage to do a semblance of laundry in Bali. Kitten and I snuck into the marina showers with detergent, a big bucket and backpacks full of raunchy smelling clothes. Terrified that the staff would catch us, and short on time anyway, we scrubbed our clothes as best we could, dumping out bucketfuls of black, yes, BLACK, water, and then rushed back to the boat to hang it all out to dry. Never before have I so appreciated the invention of the washing machine. There are still dirt stains on half of the clothes I “cleaned”.
Other than that, my only other way of cleaning clothes, towels and sheets is by hanging them on the rails during rainstorms. This does, surprisingly, do a good job of taking out smells, which most of the time is all I can really ask for. On the boat we keep down our laundry needs by changing clothing as rarely as possible. The fresh shirt I put on today replaced one I’d been wearing for the last four days, and this one will probably last me that long too.
As far as showers are concerned, rainstorms and sea baths are the way to go. We do have two pump sprayers on board, but splitting four gallons between five people means that they are mostly used for rinsing off after sea baths. Sea baths entail pulling on a bathing suit, jumping off the boat (not while it is moving- that would cause great alarm), clambering back on, rubbing shampoo into your hair as best you can (salt water doesn’t lather all that well) and jumping back into the sea. If you’re looking for a pressure wash, you climb up the ratlines (which is perhaps a rather generous term for the three thin lines going up our shrouds to a height of maybe 15 to 20 feet above the water line) and take a showy dive into the ocean.
Rain showers, when we can get them, are actually quite a luxury. Regardless of how well you rinse off with the sprayer, sea baths always leave you with white flecks of salt adorning your limbs. Rain when we are anchored is actually quite a boon. As soon as the first drops hit the deck, the smelliest laundry is hauled out and pinned to the rails, the pump sprayers are set up in the best places for catching rain, and the dirty dishes are strewn out on every available surface. Then it’s bathing suits, shampoo and soap again, with the wind driven rain giving you a rather high pressure but unfortunately low water density shower.
The rest of the time, we roll about in our own filth. We sweat like pigs in the equatorial heat, get covered in salt from the sea spray, handle dirt encrusted lines, get coated in diesel when we refill our engine and pick up filth in a myriad of other ways.
The stench is a force to be reckoned with and after a crossing we are truly a sight to behold. When even the homeless citizens of a third world country look askance at the state of our clothing we feel, more than ever, like real sailors.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Of course I'm going to do one about Orangutans...
After surviving the heat, boredom and dangerous wildlife on our painfully hot and dull crossing from Bali, it was time for a new adventure. It was time for orangutans. Unlike our previous attempt to see impressive mega fauna (you remember Komodo, yes?) we actually succeeded in finding our quarry this time. So, of course, a tribute and story is due.
We anchored our boat near the town of Kumai which is in the region of Borneo known as Kalimantan (Borneo is owned by three different countries- Kalimantan is the Indonesian part). It’s a common destination for orangutan seekers, since this is where primate research stations, “protected” forestlands and guides can be found. And you cannot go see the orangutans without a guide because the guides are necessary as protectors as well as pathfinders. So upon arriving, we went to find ourselves a tour and a guide. We did briefly think about going with our boatboy, Addi, but when he asked us if we enjoyed crystal meth, we decided to find someone a little bit more reliable.
The man we met and booked our tour with was called Jenny. Jenny loved orangutans. Loved them. You could tell just by looking at him because he played with them the only way orangutans know how to play- rough. Jenny had scabs up and down his arms and scars all across his back. You’d think that getting bitten by an animal with a jaw strong enough to husk a coconut would be traumatizing, but not for Jenny. He showed us album after album of his favorite orangutans brushing their teeth, washing towels, putting on shirts and paddling canoes. It was like hanging out with a proud and slightly too obsessed father, only his children were massive, powerful and unpredictable. And furry.
Unfortunately, Jenny was busy the following day and did not guide us on our tour. Our guide had a much healthier respect for the orangutans' overwhelming strength, so we did not get to see a human vs. ape wrestling match, but perhaps that was for the best. What we did get to see was some pretty awesome primates doing their primatey thing.
Our speedboats picked us up at 7 AM and zoomed us up the river through breathtaking jungle scenery. It was so green, it strained the eyes and the rich smell of dirt was almost strong enough to taste. We were about to get up close and personal. On our track to the first feeding station we clambered over twisted roots and through black jungle waters that smelled of decay. While we waited for the orangutans at the feeding site, huge butterflies roosted on our feet and fingers.
Then we actually saw them. They swung through the trees, these larger-than-man creatures, flashes of orange-brown against the green, hooting loudly in reply to the calls the rangers were making. And oh, how gorgeous they were. At that first station we only saw one male and a female with her baby, but we were smitten. The male stared at us, his huge cheek flaps quivering as he munched on bananas and oranges mere feet from our snapping cameras and awestruck gestures. The female largely ignored us and taught her baby how to climb and move from tree to tree.
But really, Camp Leaky, the research station and our second stop, was what it really was all about. There we met Siswi, the resident lazy orangutan who would abuse welfare if she were human. She demanded toll with an outstretched hand as we tried to pass her on the bridge, but later we got to lay down inches from here. Then Siswi petted us and fixated on Kitten’s elbow for awhile.
The feeding at Camp Leaky was incredible. Mother orangutans swung in with their young clinging to their backs and stomachs. By the end of the feeding, we’d seen perhaps 20 different individuals, though sometimes we lost track of them as they climbed overhead, or disappeared up a tree only to appear behind an unsuspecting tourist. One tried to poop on Adub (he dodged). Another stole a water bottle from an elderly British lady, then opened the bottle and drank all the water.
They were beautiful creatures. Thick fur, strongly muscled bodies shaped so much like a human’s and most of all, the eyes. Deep, soulful eyes that looked back at you with such intensity. You could see them thinking behind those eyes, judging the world with an understanding that was, well, sentient.
Only one word: incredible. What a world we live in.
We anchored our boat near the town of Kumai which is in the region of Borneo known as Kalimantan (Borneo is owned by three different countries- Kalimantan is the Indonesian part). It’s a common destination for orangutan seekers, since this is where primate research stations, “protected” forestlands and guides can be found. And you cannot go see the orangutans without a guide because the guides are necessary as protectors as well as pathfinders. So upon arriving, we went to find ourselves a tour and a guide. We did briefly think about going with our boatboy, Addi, but when he asked us if we enjoyed crystal meth, we decided to find someone a little bit more reliable.
The man we met and booked our tour with was called Jenny. Jenny loved orangutans. Loved them. You could tell just by looking at him because he played with them the only way orangutans know how to play- rough. Jenny had scabs up and down his arms and scars all across his back. You’d think that getting bitten by an animal with a jaw strong enough to husk a coconut would be traumatizing, but not for Jenny. He showed us album after album of his favorite orangutans brushing their teeth, washing towels, putting on shirts and paddling canoes. It was like hanging out with a proud and slightly too obsessed father, only his children were massive, powerful and unpredictable. And furry.
Unfortunately, Jenny was busy the following day and did not guide us on our tour. Our guide had a much healthier respect for the orangutans' overwhelming strength, so we did not get to see a human vs. ape wrestling match, but perhaps that was for the best. What we did get to see was some pretty awesome primates doing their primatey thing.
Our speedboats picked us up at 7 AM and zoomed us up the river through breathtaking jungle scenery. It was so green, it strained the eyes and the rich smell of dirt was almost strong enough to taste. We were about to get up close and personal. On our track to the first feeding station we clambered over twisted roots and through black jungle waters that smelled of decay. While we waited for the orangutans at the feeding site, huge butterflies roosted on our feet and fingers.
Then we actually saw them. They swung through the trees, these larger-than-man creatures, flashes of orange-brown against the green, hooting loudly in reply to the calls the rangers were making. And oh, how gorgeous they were. At that first station we only saw one male and a female with her baby, but we were smitten. The male stared at us, his huge cheek flaps quivering as he munched on bananas and oranges mere feet from our snapping cameras and awestruck gestures. The female largely ignored us and taught her baby how to climb and move from tree to tree.
But really, Camp Leaky, the research station and our second stop, was what it really was all about. There we met Siswi, the resident lazy orangutan who would abuse welfare if she were human. She demanded toll with an outstretched hand as we tried to pass her on the bridge, but later we got to lay down inches from here. Then Siswi petted us and fixated on Kitten’s elbow for awhile.
The feeding at Camp Leaky was incredible. Mother orangutans swung in with their young clinging to their backs and stomachs. By the end of the feeding, we’d seen perhaps 20 different individuals, though sometimes we lost track of them as they climbed overhead, or disappeared up a tree only to appear behind an unsuspecting tourist. One tried to poop on Adub (he dodged). Another stole a water bottle from an elderly British lady, then opened the bottle and drank all the water.
They were beautiful creatures. Thick fur, strongly muscled bodies shaped so much like a human’s and most of all, the eyes. Deep, soulful eyes that looked back at you with such intensity. You could see them thinking behind those eyes, judging the world with an understanding that was, well, sentient.
Only one word: incredible. What a world we live in.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Cramped Quarters
Life on a boat has much charm. I could wax poetic about being rocked to sleep by gentle waves, popping my head out of a hatch first thing in the morning and being treated to a whole new view, gorgeous sunrises and sunsets, visits by dolphins… and so forth. But this post is not about that, for that would be idyllic and too sappy for anything but my private journal to stomach. No, this post is about the opposite side of the coin, the drawbacks of living on a 40 foot boat with four other people. This post is to complain. (And perhaps I may incidentally provide a view into daily life on the boat.)
An overview of the layout of the boat. We have five main areas- the deck, the V-berth, the head, the engine compartment, and the galley (bear with me on nautical terms, ye landlubbers, I’ll explain everything and keep them to a minimum).
-The Deck: Easy enough, the deck is the top part of the boat. There’s a seating area near the back where the wheel is, we call it the cockpit. Most time on deck is spent changing sails, on watch at the wheel, or entertaining ourselves while not on watch. Normally we amuse ourselves by reading and such in the cockpit, but occasionally we grow tired of this and resort to staring off into space from further forward locations. Best place by far to be on the boat when the seas get stormy- since below turns into a bucking madhouse filled with the crashing of unsecured items, and above has ample places to vomit over the sides.
-V-Berth: Forwardmost below decks area. Houses all of the sails not in use, all of the tools, and our brawny buckos Adub and Brazen. This six foot high space is about six feet deep and starts out with plenty of space between the two bunks that line either side of it. However, many of you have probably noticed that boats come to a point at the front. This is also true below decks and means that the boys’ bunks join into one communal (connubial?) bunk by the time you have reached the V of the aptly named V-berth. Loath to cuddle, especially when the sail driven tilt of the boat sends them rolling to one side, Brazen and Adub have erected cloths to keep them chastely separated into their own (tiny) spaces.
-The Head: I have no idea why bathrooms on boats are called this, unless it is because they are always so small that you are constantly hitting said body part on various items when all you wish to do is relieve yourself. Our head consists of a space smaller than the average port-o-pottie (oh what luxury it would be to have the space of a port-o-pottie!). This contains a defunct sink, various stuffed cabinets, a tub of Purell, a large 2 gallon canister with a nozzle (our shower) which rests in our defunct sink, and a toilet.
The toilet requires special care. It is filled with sea water and whenever one has finished doing their business, they must push the foot pedal to open the inlet, pump the handle to run water through the bowl and into the waiting storage tank, and brace themselves as best they can to avoid the extremely unfortunate circumstances that falling into the head might entail. Once you have pumped enough- 30, 40, 50 times- then you release the foot pedal and pump until all the water is gone. Then you pull the little silver button next to the toilet. This activates something I fondly call the Grinderator (a much better name than its rather pedantic moniker- “Macerator”).The Grinderator munches up everything you’ve just pumped out of the bowl and spits it out into the sea for the fish to eat. Yum yum. Then you Purell as is appropriate and either toss your used toilet paper out of the window and into the water below (if wind allows), or hop up on deck, smile at the person at the wheel, and throw it into the water from wherever the wind will allow you to do so.
-The Engine Compartment: This part of the boat, as you may have guessed, houses the engine. It is also home to Kitten and Boyscout who are each nestled into their own little cocoon-like bunk on either wall with the rather large bulk of the engine between them. The engine itself is housed within a box on top of which is our “chart table”. Perhaps this might better be known as our “excessive amounts of stuff that needs to be put away table”. I have yet to see a chart grace its surface, nor, actually, have I seen said surface. I venture into this room (which resides in the back part of below decks) only when it is unavoidable, and usually then I am on a mission to locate something that has disappeared into the mountain of stuff.
-The Galley: Unless you have not been paying attention (or you already know this because I have spoiled the punch line for you in a recent email), you may be wondering “Where does Kirin sleep?” You especially may be wondering this if you know something about boats and know that “Galley” refers to the portion of the boat used for cooking. Yes, my esteemed comrades, it’s true. I sleep in the kitchen.
This compartment, which is really the major part of below decks, is often referred to as the living room. It is in the center, where the step ladder descends from the deck, and consists of a small table, a cushioned bench that wraps around this table on three sides, a sink, a free-swinging oven and stovetop, a bit of countertop and more food storage space than one might believe possible. And where does Kirin sleep? Why, on the bench that wraps around the table, of course! It’s a bit like sleeping on the couch, but also like sleeping on the bench seating in a restaurant. An unfortunately narrow bench that is meant for upright bottoms, rather than entire reclining bodies. And it’s also like sleeping on the pantry door, since much of the food is tucked away into the bench. I have learned not to sleep when others are cooking.
As I live in public space and above most of the food, this means that all bed items must be tucked away as small as possible when not in use. I am discovering a newfound respect for the Japanese. I am sure there is some advantage to this pseudobunk (as I tend to call it), but I haven’t figured it out yet. Sufficient storage space? No. Privacy? Well, no one sleeps in the same room as me… but often my sleeping space is shared with the waking. Let’s go with no. Softer? No. Bigger? Definitely a no. Hmm. I think maybe cooler, since I cuddle with a wooden table, rather than a hot engine or another too close human. Okay. Cooler. I can work with that.
So that’s it, our cramped quarters aboard the boat. It’s not a lot, but it’s what we got, and it does. Every now and then, I do reminisce about my old loft apartment in Korea, with its big living room, extra bedroom/closet, and oodles of storage space all for me, but then I remind myself that tomorrow I’m going to see orangutans, and then I feel much better.
An overview of the layout of the boat. We have five main areas- the deck, the V-berth, the head, the engine compartment, and the galley (bear with me on nautical terms, ye landlubbers, I’ll explain everything and keep them to a minimum).
-The Deck: Easy enough, the deck is the top part of the boat. There’s a seating area near the back where the wheel is, we call it the cockpit. Most time on deck is spent changing sails, on watch at the wheel, or entertaining ourselves while not on watch. Normally we amuse ourselves by reading and such in the cockpit, but occasionally we grow tired of this and resort to staring off into space from further forward locations. Best place by far to be on the boat when the seas get stormy- since below turns into a bucking madhouse filled with the crashing of unsecured items, and above has ample places to vomit over the sides.
-V-Berth: Forwardmost below decks area. Houses all of the sails not in use, all of the tools, and our brawny buckos Adub and Brazen. This six foot high space is about six feet deep and starts out with plenty of space between the two bunks that line either side of it. However, many of you have probably noticed that boats come to a point at the front. This is also true below decks and means that the boys’ bunks join into one communal (connubial?) bunk by the time you have reached the V of the aptly named V-berth. Loath to cuddle, especially when the sail driven tilt of the boat sends them rolling to one side, Brazen and Adub have erected cloths to keep them chastely separated into their own (tiny) spaces.
-The Head: I have no idea why bathrooms on boats are called this, unless it is because they are always so small that you are constantly hitting said body part on various items when all you wish to do is relieve yourself. Our head consists of a space smaller than the average port-o-pottie (oh what luxury it would be to have the space of a port-o-pottie!). This contains a defunct sink, various stuffed cabinets, a tub of Purell, a large 2 gallon canister with a nozzle (our shower) which rests in our defunct sink, and a toilet.
The toilet requires special care. It is filled with sea water and whenever one has finished doing their business, they must push the foot pedal to open the inlet, pump the handle to run water through the bowl and into the waiting storage tank, and brace themselves as best they can to avoid the extremely unfortunate circumstances that falling into the head might entail. Once you have pumped enough- 30, 40, 50 times- then you release the foot pedal and pump until all the water is gone. Then you pull the little silver button next to the toilet. This activates something I fondly call the Grinderator (a much better name than its rather pedantic moniker- “Macerator”).The Grinderator munches up everything you’ve just pumped out of the bowl and spits it out into the sea for the fish to eat. Yum yum. Then you Purell as is appropriate and either toss your used toilet paper out of the window and into the water below (if wind allows), or hop up on deck, smile at the person at the wheel, and throw it into the water from wherever the wind will allow you to do so.
-The Engine Compartment: This part of the boat, as you may have guessed, houses the engine. It is also home to Kitten and Boyscout who are each nestled into their own little cocoon-like bunk on either wall with the rather large bulk of the engine between them. The engine itself is housed within a box on top of which is our “chart table”. Perhaps this might better be known as our “excessive amounts of stuff that needs to be put away table”. I have yet to see a chart grace its surface, nor, actually, have I seen said surface. I venture into this room (which resides in the back part of below decks) only when it is unavoidable, and usually then I am on a mission to locate something that has disappeared into the mountain of stuff.
-The Galley: Unless you have not been paying attention (or you already know this because I have spoiled the punch line for you in a recent email), you may be wondering “Where does Kirin sleep?” You especially may be wondering this if you know something about boats and know that “Galley” refers to the portion of the boat used for cooking. Yes, my esteemed comrades, it’s true. I sleep in the kitchen.
This compartment, which is really the major part of below decks, is often referred to as the living room. It is in the center, where the step ladder descends from the deck, and consists of a small table, a cushioned bench that wraps around this table on three sides, a sink, a free-swinging oven and stovetop, a bit of countertop and more food storage space than one might believe possible. And where does Kirin sleep? Why, on the bench that wraps around the table, of course! It’s a bit like sleeping on the couch, but also like sleeping on the bench seating in a restaurant. An unfortunately narrow bench that is meant for upright bottoms, rather than entire reclining bodies. And it’s also like sleeping on the pantry door, since much of the food is tucked away into the bench. I have learned not to sleep when others are cooking.
As I live in public space and above most of the food, this means that all bed items must be tucked away as small as possible when not in use. I am discovering a newfound respect for the Japanese. I am sure there is some advantage to this pseudobunk (as I tend to call it), but I haven’t figured it out yet. Sufficient storage space? No. Privacy? Well, no one sleeps in the same room as me… but often my sleeping space is shared with the waking. Let’s go with no. Softer? No. Bigger? Definitely a no. Hmm. I think maybe cooler, since I cuddle with a wooden table, rather than a hot engine or another too close human. Okay. Cooler. I can work with that.
So that’s it, our cramped quarters aboard the boat. It’s not a lot, but it’s what we got, and it does. Every now and then, I do reminisce about my old loft apartment in Korea, with its big living room, extra bedroom/closet, and oodles of storage space all for me, but then I remind myself that tomorrow I’m going to see orangutans, and then I feel much better.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Look Before You Leap
We are four days into our crossing from Bali to Borneo. The wind free crossing has been two things- brutally hot and crushingly boring. We became so overwhelmed with both today that we stopped the boat and took a swim break. We’d done this yesterday and it had somewhat revived us. Little did we know, this break would give us more than our fair share of excitement.
As soon as he cut the engine, Boyscout leapt from the boat and into the sea, dispensing with the shark lookout formalities from yesterday. Kitten followed shortly thereafter and then I too followed suit, jumping in a rather haphazard vault over the rail, for it was too hot on the deck to take the time to climb over. Brazen (our newest crewmember that we picked up in Bali) and Adub held back, either too brain boggled by the heat to change into their bathing suits, or unwilling to coat their bodies in salt.
The emergence of the boat video camera convinced them, or our cries of relief, for who can resist both a home video cameo and a chance to reduce his body temperature below 100 degrees? The boys went below to don their bathing suits and join us in the sea.
As I said before, we had dispensed with the formalities of a shark watch. Moments after Kitten, Adub, Boyscout and I had all jumped back in, two things simultaneously happened. One: Brazen flushed the toilet, which pumps out to the sea… unfortunately right next to where Adub and Boyscout were treading water. This caused the two of them to flail, yelping, away from the stream it released into the water around us. Two: I turned around and spotted, about five feet away, two rather large sea snakes gliding towards me. Yells of “Oh God, Brazen, no!” quickly changed to “Snake! Snake!” as I sounded the alarm and the rest joined in. Boyscout and Adub were already on their way up the swim ladder and I clambered up as well, desperate for Adub to move out of my way as the snake came within about a foot of my scrambling form. Kitten, seeing the congestion on the ladder, took a more logical route and swam around to the stern to escape, then evacuated the water via the rudder. Gasping and laughing once we all flopped onto the deck, we watched the snakes until someone shouted “Shark!” Sure enough, a grey and white form glided beneath us.
New excitement broke out and we rushed to open a can of tuna for our new friend. As he tentatively munched, in true stupid young people form, we challenged each other to jump in. We peered at his rather small form a few feet below the surface, but couldn’t get a good look at him. Eventually, Brazen worked up the courage to put on a mask and pop his head into the water to take a closer look. Our shark had no dorsal fin, which probably made him a fish, but box shaped jellyfish floated close to Brazen’s head. It was, perhaps, not our wisest choice of swimming location, but it made for a good story, an excellent home video, and at least (if you ignore the bit where we swam through human waste) we all got sort of clean.
As soon as he cut the engine, Boyscout leapt from the boat and into the sea, dispensing with the shark lookout formalities from yesterday. Kitten followed shortly thereafter and then I too followed suit, jumping in a rather haphazard vault over the rail, for it was too hot on the deck to take the time to climb over. Brazen (our newest crewmember that we picked up in Bali) and Adub held back, either too brain boggled by the heat to change into their bathing suits, or unwilling to coat their bodies in salt.
The emergence of the boat video camera convinced them, or our cries of relief, for who can resist both a home video cameo and a chance to reduce his body temperature below 100 degrees? The boys went below to don their bathing suits and join us in the sea.
As I said before, we had dispensed with the formalities of a shark watch. Moments after Kitten, Adub, Boyscout and I had all jumped back in, two things simultaneously happened. One: Brazen flushed the toilet, which pumps out to the sea… unfortunately right next to where Adub and Boyscout were treading water. This caused the two of them to flail, yelping, away from the stream it released into the water around us. Two: I turned around and spotted, about five feet away, two rather large sea snakes gliding towards me. Yells of “Oh God, Brazen, no!” quickly changed to “Snake! Snake!” as I sounded the alarm and the rest joined in. Boyscout and Adub were already on their way up the swim ladder and I clambered up as well, desperate for Adub to move out of my way as the snake came within about a foot of my scrambling form. Kitten, seeing the congestion on the ladder, took a more logical route and swam around to the stern to escape, then evacuated the water via the rudder. Gasping and laughing once we all flopped onto the deck, we watched the snakes until someone shouted “Shark!” Sure enough, a grey and white form glided beneath us.
New excitement broke out and we rushed to open a can of tuna for our new friend. As he tentatively munched, in true stupid young people form, we challenged each other to jump in. We peered at his rather small form a few feet below the surface, but couldn’t get a good look at him. Eventually, Brazen worked up the courage to put on a mask and pop his head into the water to take a closer look. Our shark had no dorsal fin, which probably made him a fish, but box shaped jellyfish floated close to Brazen’s head. It was, perhaps, not our wisest choice of swimming location, but it made for a good story, an excellent home video, and at least (if you ignore the bit where we swam through human waste) we all got sort of clean.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Balilicious
For years it has been a regular joke within JAAM (my group of close high school friends for those of you who didn’t know me before I was 18) that we would go to Bali. When we were coming up with places to go for our graduation trip, Bali was obviously on the list, but we never actually expected we would get there (except maybe Snarky, who has a tendency to end up in Asian countries almost at the drop of a hat). So, a little more than a year later, it struck me as an odd (but not unfortunate!) twist of fate that I would actually end up in Bali. Bali is a place like Timbuktu, or the moon. Yeah, they exist, but who actually gets to go there? It’s the opposite side of the planet!
Well, I can cheerfully report back that Bali is, like totally, rad. It’s got your perfect beaches, your tropical cabanas, palm trees, surf shops, dive shops, exotic fruit smoothies, more restaurant than you could shake a stick at, awesome Hindu temples, and an ungodly number of souvenir stalls. If you like bargaining, this is a place to go. The shopkeepers will lure you into their shops using any method they can (this includes grabbing you by the arm and dragging you in) and then will assault you with every piece of merchandise they possess. As soon as you pay attention to a particular item, they will pounce on you and at that point, only the bravest and penniless will be able to escape without purchasing anything. Be strong! Ignore their pleas for their children, their luck, and try not to buy anything unless you actually want it, or the price is too good to pass up.
Bali was very different from the rest of Indonesia. On the other islands we visited, the locals were unused to tourists, and our passing always created a stir. Children would run excitedly up to us yelling “Hello Mister!” (regardless of our gender) while the more sedate adults would simply smile, wave and say hello. We learned the different phrases for good morning (selamat pagi), good midday (selamat siang), good afternoon (selamat saray), and good night (selamat malam); whenever we used these, we’d get much bigger smiles and the same greeting. Men on motorbikes constantly asked “Where are you going?” regardless of whether or not they planned on offering us a ride. We wore conservative clothing, evaded stray dogs, roosters and trash in the streets, and mingled with the locals.
As we sailed up to Bali, it was immediately apparent that this island was not like the others. Oversized speedboats strewn with bikini-clad tourists zoomed by us and huge tour boats with bars on every floor blasted Lady Gaga and Black Eyed Peas (club music, for my less nightclub oriented readers). I hadn’t shown my shoulders or knees on land since Australia, and alcohol was banned on half the islands we’d visited. Yet here was an island, in the midst of conservative, mostly Muslim Indonesia, where young westerners strolled the streets in bathing suits and tanks tops with beer logos, and every other doorway housed a five dollar massage parlor. This was not at all the Indonesia I’d come to know. This was a place that intentionally mixed western luxury with exoticism to create its own little universe. It was a true tropical getaway.
I put in my fair share of time in the clubs, particularly the five story extravaganza with fire dancers and fashion shows, and I put in more than my fair share of time in the shops (poor bank account) but for me, the truly memorable parts of Bali were part of its unique culture. The beautiful temples, the daily offerings in every doorway, the strange cremation ceremony we stumbled upon and the mysticism of the locals were the true treasures of Bali.
So if you ever get a hankering to go to a tropical paradise on the other side of the world and need a travel buddy, give me a holler. I’d love to go back.
Well, I can cheerfully report back that Bali is, like totally, rad. It’s got your perfect beaches, your tropical cabanas, palm trees, surf shops, dive shops, exotic fruit smoothies, more restaurant than you could shake a stick at, awesome Hindu temples, and an ungodly number of souvenir stalls. If you like bargaining, this is a place to go. The shopkeepers will lure you into their shops using any method they can (this includes grabbing you by the arm and dragging you in) and then will assault you with every piece of merchandise they possess. As soon as you pay attention to a particular item, they will pounce on you and at that point, only the bravest and penniless will be able to escape without purchasing anything. Be strong! Ignore their pleas for their children, their luck, and try not to buy anything unless you actually want it, or the price is too good to pass up.
Bali was very different from the rest of Indonesia. On the other islands we visited, the locals were unused to tourists, and our passing always created a stir. Children would run excitedly up to us yelling “Hello Mister!” (regardless of our gender) while the more sedate adults would simply smile, wave and say hello. We learned the different phrases for good morning (selamat pagi), good midday (selamat siang), good afternoon (selamat saray), and good night (selamat malam); whenever we used these, we’d get much bigger smiles and the same greeting. Men on motorbikes constantly asked “Where are you going?” regardless of whether or not they planned on offering us a ride. We wore conservative clothing, evaded stray dogs, roosters and trash in the streets, and mingled with the locals.
As we sailed up to Bali, it was immediately apparent that this island was not like the others. Oversized speedboats strewn with bikini-clad tourists zoomed by us and huge tour boats with bars on every floor blasted Lady Gaga and Black Eyed Peas (club music, for my less nightclub oriented readers). I hadn’t shown my shoulders or knees on land since Australia, and alcohol was banned on half the islands we’d visited. Yet here was an island, in the midst of conservative, mostly Muslim Indonesia, where young westerners strolled the streets in bathing suits and tanks tops with beer logos, and every other doorway housed a five dollar massage parlor. This was not at all the Indonesia I’d come to know. This was a place that intentionally mixed western luxury with exoticism to create its own little universe. It was a true tropical getaway.
I put in my fair share of time in the clubs, particularly the five story extravaganza with fire dancers and fashion shows, and I put in more than my fair share of time in the shops (poor bank account) but for me, the truly memorable parts of Bali were part of its unique culture. The beautiful temples, the daily offerings in every doorway, the strange cremation ceremony we stumbled upon and the mysticism of the locals were the true treasures of Bali.
So if you ever get a hankering to go to a tropical paradise on the other side of the world and need a travel buddy, give me a holler. I’d love to go back.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Monkeys, Color Changing Lakes and Other Cool Stuff Too
So, the internet. It’s a wonderful thing. And blogs, you know, kind of need it. And remote islands in Indonesia? They don’t have it. So yeah. That’s why (assuming we ever get internet), I will be posting a bunch of blogs at once. For now, I write them in my journal to be posted in more urbanized regions (fingers crossed for Bali).
Our last stop was the island of Flores. Sound familiar? Well, maybe. It’s the first place we’ve been to that I’d heard of and if you read the National Geographic article about pygmy humans, you might recognize the name too.
On Flores, anchored near a town called Maumere, we had a fun six days. We shopped in an outdoor market where squatting ladies sold fruits and veggies, fishermen displayed their latest catches with grins and sharp knives, and chickens were kept under tables to be sold live and squawking. From there we found that the chickens would be tied upside down to motorbike handlebars and rushed to their dooms. We feasted with the locals and learned how to peel the meat off the spine of a whole grilled fish. We watched them eat the eyeballs too, but we chose not to partake of this delicacy.
The best part of our time in Maumere, as far as I was concerned, was our trip up the volcanic mountain Kelimutu to see the fabled “color changing lakes”. Everyone we spoke to insisted that we go up early to see the sunrise, so we scheduled a private van to pick us up at (oh god) 3:30 AM. It had been rainy and cloudy the few days leading up to our adventure, and our local friends promised to pray for good weather for us.
Unbelievable as it may seem, I managed to awaken before 3 AM and wasn’t even the last one ready to go. We drove the dingy to shore and then it was off we went on our three hour drive. Up we drove through windy mountain roads, going slowly to avoid wandering goats and cattle, as well as oncoming motorbikes and buses.
Now, I said that we left at 3:30 and the drive was 3 hours long. This would lead one to assume that the sunrise was around 6:30. Imagine our surprise when, with almost an hour to go, the sky began to lighten. By 6 o’clock, we could no longer ignore it, the sun was well above the horizon. Sunrise (I have since checked on an early watch shift) occurs around 5:45 around these parts. So sunrise at the top of the mountain- fail.
As it turned out, this was just as well. The volcano was wreathed in clouds. When we reached the trailhead near the top of the mountain, it was so foggy that the trees dripped down on us. For the first time in weeks (or has it been months?), I shivered.
And so it was up to the color changing lakes with us. I was somewhat dismayed to discover that we could not expect a rave party light show from these lakes. Rather, the lakes changed colors unexpectedly from season to season. Psh! What was so exciting about that? You leave a swimming pool untreated long enough and it will do that too.
Nevertheless, we pressed on. We witnessed a bird with an incredibly loud warble that resembled Nintendo shooting noises, and this raised our spirits as we shot imaginary lasers at each other in time with the chirps. But alas, when we reached the lakes, our hearts sank again. The craters were filled with impenetrable fog. Unless these supposed lakes were white right now, we were totally unable to see them. We hiked from crater to crater and peered hopefully down… nothing. We tossed rocks in, hoping to at least hear a splash… nothing. We searched the monkey feeding grounds, hoping for some form of entertainment, and though we sacrificed a cucumber in hopes of enticing them… nothing.
Disheartened, we took pictures of the posters so we could pretend we had seen something. As we prepared to depart, we climbed one last time to the first crater, to peer again over the “safety fanch” (a spelling error we found hilarious). Mournfully we tossed pebbles into the mist and then, as if some volcano god was pleased with our mineral sacrifices, the fog began to lift.
There were, indeed, lakes! One was red, the other, a brilliant turquoise with yellowish scum. The third was still mostly shrouded, but appeared black. And as we gazed, hooted with glee, and delightedly snapped pictures, distant screeches that could only be monkeys came drifting across the valley below. Lo and behold, at the monkey feeding grounds, there were monkeys. Kitten shared her apple with one while the rest of us perched on a bamboo structure, filming and photographing.
Utterly pleased with ourselves, and rather exhausted, we returned to our driver, and, 3 hours later, the boat. Kelimutu color changing lakes- totally worth it.
Our last stop was the island of Flores. Sound familiar? Well, maybe. It’s the first place we’ve been to that I’d heard of and if you read the National Geographic article about pygmy humans, you might recognize the name too.
On Flores, anchored near a town called Maumere, we had a fun six days. We shopped in an outdoor market where squatting ladies sold fruits and veggies, fishermen displayed their latest catches with grins and sharp knives, and chickens were kept under tables to be sold live and squawking. From there we found that the chickens would be tied upside down to motorbike handlebars and rushed to their dooms. We feasted with the locals and learned how to peel the meat off the spine of a whole grilled fish. We watched them eat the eyeballs too, but we chose not to partake of this delicacy.
The best part of our time in Maumere, as far as I was concerned, was our trip up the volcanic mountain Kelimutu to see the fabled “color changing lakes”. Everyone we spoke to insisted that we go up early to see the sunrise, so we scheduled a private van to pick us up at (oh god) 3:30 AM. It had been rainy and cloudy the few days leading up to our adventure, and our local friends promised to pray for good weather for us.
Unbelievable as it may seem, I managed to awaken before 3 AM and wasn’t even the last one ready to go. We drove the dingy to shore and then it was off we went on our three hour drive. Up we drove through windy mountain roads, going slowly to avoid wandering goats and cattle, as well as oncoming motorbikes and buses.
Now, I said that we left at 3:30 and the drive was 3 hours long. This would lead one to assume that the sunrise was around 6:30. Imagine our surprise when, with almost an hour to go, the sky began to lighten. By 6 o’clock, we could no longer ignore it, the sun was well above the horizon. Sunrise (I have since checked on an early watch shift) occurs around 5:45 around these parts. So sunrise at the top of the mountain- fail.
As it turned out, this was just as well. The volcano was wreathed in clouds. When we reached the trailhead near the top of the mountain, it was so foggy that the trees dripped down on us. For the first time in weeks (or has it been months?), I shivered.
And so it was up to the color changing lakes with us. I was somewhat dismayed to discover that we could not expect a rave party light show from these lakes. Rather, the lakes changed colors unexpectedly from season to season. Psh! What was so exciting about that? You leave a swimming pool untreated long enough and it will do that too.
Nevertheless, we pressed on. We witnessed a bird with an incredibly loud warble that resembled Nintendo shooting noises, and this raised our spirits as we shot imaginary lasers at each other in time with the chirps. But alas, when we reached the lakes, our hearts sank again. The craters were filled with impenetrable fog. Unless these supposed lakes were white right now, we were totally unable to see them. We hiked from crater to crater and peered hopefully down… nothing. We tossed rocks in, hoping to at least hear a splash… nothing. We searched the monkey feeding grounds, hoping for some form of entertainment, and though we sacrificed a cucumber in hopes of enticing them… nothing.
Disheartened, we took pictures of the posters so we could pretend we had seen something. As we prepared to depart, we climbed one last time to the first crater, to peer again over the “safety fanch” (a spelling error we found hilarious). Mournfully we tossed pebbles into the mist and then, as if some volcano god was pleased with our mineral sacrifices, the fog began to lift.
There were, indeed, lakes! One was red, the other, a brilliant turquoise with yellowish scum. The third was still mostly shrouded, but appeared black. And as we gazed, hooted with glee, and delightedly snapped pictures, distant screeches that could only be monkeys came drifting across the valley below. Lo and behold, at the monkey feeding grounds, there were monkeys. Kitten shared her apple with one while the rest of us perched on a bamboo structure, filming and photographing.
Utterly pleased with ourselves, and rather exhausted, we returned to our driver, and, 3 hours later, the boat. Kelimutu color changing lakes- totally worth it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)