Open palm forest

Greetings,

Fresh air behind you in open palm forest. Aquamarine blue sea. Distant Lombok is-land and Rinjani volcanic dome edges blue sky as white clouds fly north.

Tribal wind music, wandering dirt paths through an Air village. A group of kids build a new fence using live branches from a tree. A boy high above hacks them off, they sail south, grounded. A girl lays out a branch and cuts away unnecessary stems. They hollow out earth bordering other branches along a field green with grass, filled with palms.

A living fence.

Star filled sky light. Pulsating waves.

See colors and hear music. Hear sounds, see colors.

Metta.

Music between notes

Greetings,

Lombok images of weavers and temples.

Every feeling waits upon its gesture. Dawn clouds, east wind. 

Every morning before the tropical sun became to burning, before the skiffs deposited white tourists on white sandy beach so they could snork waving coral and eat lunch in bamboo shaded pavilions and well before the cidimo horse cart tinkling bells and weather frayed faded tassels dancing in the wind echoed through intersecting village trail dust, people opened their yawning mouths to wish each other "Happy Holidays!"

Along one trail leading from the coast in a field of grazing oxen and serrated coconut palms were a group of boys. They chattered in Sasak. One boy left the group and began climbing a palm, shimmering his way up, skinny dark arms wrapped around bark, feet at an angle supporting his weight. Push-pull-push-pull. 

He was young, agile and fast. He reached a cluster of yellow coconuts, selected one, pulled it free and dropped it. It thudded among dusty broken palm leaves and shards of wild bird songs. A boy picked it up, punctured it and drank sweet juice.

The climber selected another one. Cradling it like a newborn he returned to earth.

Metta.

 

Spill ink in sand

Greetings,

Relaxing on white sand, 

swimming in crystal clear tourquoise 

infested waters

feeling intense sun on your face, back, 

thighs, 

shadow reading pages of far east stories.

Dream Divers, small skiffs, lie at anchor

waves sail past young Europeans boys

preparing their clown flippers 

floating into deep dark blue.

Mr. Fat talks about blizzards 

in Chicago as waves

repeat a timeless long wash

tumbling memories.

Metta.

One Air day

Greetings,

Someone else is writing this.

Now it is dark and I am sitting in a small private zone at Coconut. It is a raised platform with large comfortable pillows, a square table with a red and orange cotton runner. The hand carved flower vase holds two white frangipani flowers , hibiscus and bougainvillea.

The platform has a thatched roof and wooden railings on the sides. It is typical of Balinese - Lombok style. Perfect for snoozing, eating, reading. Delightful, clean simple and elegant in its simplicity.

Today's island walk was clean and peaceful. No motor vehicles, no merchants on scooters selling bread while playing a scratchy recording at ear splitting levels. No young "cowboys" hustling their 125 cc passive aggressive tendencies, such as you find on Lombok and Bali.

The day passed sitting, watching dive boats ply aquamarine blue, arching toward Lombok Strait depths. Lombok is across the way, beaches, palms, rising smoke from field burning, foothills and the rising dark blue clouds shading Mt. Rinjani and the volcano. Blue sky.

So it feels good to be sitting here in the garden. This is the University of the Garden. This blooming forth. Fragrance taken deep into lungs. A mask on the wall. Solemn eyes down, drifting. Yes, this bamboo wood-wind chime. Across the sea all blue calm, singing. 

White coral bones. A dreamcatcher. Feathers.

Swimming sand castles. Blue heaven light. Reflections and strong current desires dance the water.

Wind whistles through high wavering coconut palms.  

Metta.

 

Gili Air

Greetings,

I am beginning to upload images from the recent adventure to Gili Air is-land and Lombok. Word and image editing continues...

In summary: I sat down on Gili Air for eight days and then moved around Lombok for two. About 600-1,000 people live on Air. We should all live on air.

Meno, the next island over is quieter and Trawangan is the party island. Gili means "small island" in Sasak, the local language. 

Indonesia has 13,000 islands and 1,000 languages.

Men farm, build new bungalows, fish, commute to Lombok or work in the island tourist industry. Besides rentals - maybe 350 tourists at the max with small restaurants, the water business - diving, glass bottom boat tours and snorkeling provides income.

Women work in cafe kitchens. Some sell carved coconut bracelets, necklaces and fresh mangos, papayas and pineapples on the beach. Mellow hustle.  

I sat down every day near the sea. I walked around the island in 1.5 hours. Hot sun, clear blue water, strong southern coastal winds. No people. No motor vehicles. No engines. Only the music of water and sun mixed with the occasional bells from a passing horse cart.

Beaches are filled with tons of bleached out white coral. The men used to fish with dynamite killing the fish and coral. 

The distant volcano at Mt. Rinjani on Lombok played inside white and gray clouds.

Every day I sat near the sea, enjoying thick Lombok coffee, reading, writing in the trusty Moleskine, made images, swam inside a clear blue water aquarium, and snorkeled with large turtles. Hello.

It was stressful. Doing my work.

If I had more time I'd make it shorter.

Metta.