Around the Lens - The Crotch Beetles of South Sumatra

For most of the month that Justin and I spent in Sumatra, we each had our own motorbikes.  The family we rented our bikes from only take the steep and barely maintained but surfaced road snaking its way through the coastal barrier mountains to Liwa once a week at the most.  Today, they needed a bike for the 4 hour round trip, so I happily offered mine and Justin and I would share his bike.  Since we were doubling and would stand out more than usual, we decided to augment our daily adventure with matching blue and brown striped board shorts.  

Two grown men with surfboards trying to navigate a road occupied by cows, goats, dogs, people, chickens, and other bikes erratically darting in all directions is no small task.  I trust Justin completely and am not concerned watching him thread a tight line between different species as we make our way past small concrete homes backed by dense tropical jungle silently dangling in the light early morning mist.  I do however start to break a sweat when we swerve quickly as Justin folds over the handlebars grasping at his chest.

Justin manages to get the bike stopped at the side of the road and tells me that something about the size of a hummingbird flew out of the jungle and hit him in the chest.  We take a few minutes as a large bull saunters past, seemingly unaware of our presence.  Justin seems okay, albeit a little rattled, so we continue towards the beach.  We had come across this remote beach break a few days ago while exploring the coastline in between surf sessions at one of our favorite reefs.  We weave our way along a muddy track through tall coconut palms and over slippery dew soaked grass before popping out onto the beach.  The deep fine sand is too much for our heavily laden bike, so I get off and walk.

As I make my way down towards the water, I watch as perfect A frames march in from the Indian ocean in regimented succession.  Luckily the sandbanks haven’t been washed away with the monsoon rains and heavy swell of the past few days.  I make my way down to where Justin has propped our motorbike up against a log and we survey the waves.  Out of nowhere, he starts screaming and swatting at his cloths.  

“Holy shit, what is it man!?!?”  I say.  “A bee, what??”

Frantically jumping up and down, Justin is clawing at the draw strings of his shorts.  When he finally undoes the ties and yanks his shorts to the ground, he delivers a furious slap between his legs.  

Breathing heavily with his shorts around his ankles, he stands over a gigantic beetle at least 3 inches long.  Large black pinschers and spiky spindly legs protrude from a shiny purple and teal metallic looking shell which is straight out of a futuristic sci-fi movie.  He looks at me stunned and says

“That thing just latched onto my cock!”

Laughing, we deduce that this must have been the creature that hit Justin in the chest, then had fallen into his tank top and somehow made its way into his shorts.  Relief slowly settles in as we calm down and after a few minutes, we head out into the warm, empty waves.

- September 2010

Around the Lens - Galungan

Galungan is one of the most important holidays on the Balinese Hindu calendar.  It signifies a time when ancestral spirits return to the earth, and so, is a time for the Balinese to return home to visit family and participate in various ceremonies.  Special offerings and prayers are necessary to accommodate these incorporeal guests.

I went to a large gathering at the picturesque Padang Padang beach, poised on the souther tip of Bali.  The small white sand beach is hemmed in by low, overhanging limestone cliffs draped in jungle foliage - the perfect place for an exorcism!  

Passing a few of the less devoted men rowdily betting on a cock fight, I made my way down the steep stone steps.  Standing trepidatiously at the back of the beach beside battered fishing boats, I was unsure if I should move in closer or keep my distance.  The ceremony was already in progress.  Throngs of patrons were dressed in dazzling white and seated facing the water with hands lifted to their foreheads, pressed together in prayer, eyes lowered, gazing at the sand.  Cleansing the devotees, the priests dipped a bamboo brush into a golden pot adorned with carvings filled with holy water, then touched the brush to each persons forehead while delivering a prayer.

I struck up a quiet conversation with a man beside me, asking about the ceremony.  In his words, Galungan represents the struggle between dharma and adharma (good vs evil) with dharma being the victor.  In this particular ceremony on the beach, people have come to cleanse their souls and get rid of any bad spirits which may be inhabiting them.  The first stage is the purification with holy water and a blessing, which we could see happening.  Next was the more intense exorcism through entrancement in prayer.  

A large circle formed around a bamboo mat sprinkled with colourful flowers and ritualistic offerings of food.  A central priest lit a red bowl full of incense.  As the thick grey smoke rose from the bowl, he wafting smoke into the faces of those sitting cross legged in the circle with their eyes closed.  Each chanting softly, rocking gently back and forth with the goal of this spiritual trance being possession by one of the many deities patrolling the circle.  

Suddenly, a man violently shot up from the sand knocking people sitting behind him to the ground as he squirmed, trying to release himself from the grip of the many helping hands that were now upon him, trying to hold him down.  There was an intense yet blank look of horror in his giant eyes as fear gripped the man and you could tell he was witnessing a battle within and not registering his outer worldly surroundings.  Then another, and another - bodies lurching and faces clinched in pain and disillusionment, all experiencing struggles unseen by the onlookers outside of this inner circle.

- November 2008

Around the Lens - The Surfing Chief of Tia Via

From first sight, the bay looked like a surfing paradise - like one you would draw on the back of a notebook while day dreaming in class.  Clinging to the steep volcanic spires, the dense thicket of jungle avalanched as a chaotic, twisted mass of trees and vines, unbroken down to the crystalline sea.  The coral fringing a group of jagged black sea stacks was clearly visible from our vantage high above the pristine bay.  Waves peeled perfectly in every direction only a few feet above the colourful ocean floor.

We had our pick of three distinctly different waves.  A left hand point on the west side of the bay was pitching top to bottom barrels along the entire length of the reef.  The wedging river mouth would rear up out of deep water to double in size at the take-off, trouncing the unwary while peeling off in both directions.  And a gigantic heaving right bombora - waiting in vain for a courageous soul.  All sharp, all shallow, and all perfect.

The rusting blue Toyota rav4 bounced and squeaked its way down the steep dirt path, sending bright brown mud flying in all directions.  As we reached the village gate, a big Samoan smile waved us on through.  Almost all of the villages on Samoa have a toll gate to enter - usually manned by the chief of the village or one of his family members.  

“We don’t have to pay here?” I asked our Aussie ex-pat surf guide Brett.

“Na, I let him use one of the old boards and he’s cool with us surfing here.  Although, he breaks so bloody many of them, it’s not really worth the toll!”

We parked in the shade of a giant banyan tree to get suited up.  Immediately the chief who was at the toll gate sauntered over to us and in his thick South Pacific islander accent, asked us if we had a board for him to use.  Dressed in a typical lava lava (sarong) he was much slimmer than your average Samoan with deep dark eyes.  His muscular body was covered in traditional tattoos - presumably, like most Samoans, administered with a sharp bone and wooden hammer.  He grabbed one of Brett’s boards and immediately started to paddle out towards the wedging river mouth.  

“He’s heading out just like that, huh?” I asked.

“Yup, you might get an eyeful out there…”

The rest of our group paddled against the currents to join the chief at the river mouth.  The water was a beautiful deep dark blue and clear enough to define between the individual plates of coral below.  Mesmerized at this colourful aquarium under my feet, I almost forgot where I was as a large set approached.  Paddling out towards the relative safety of a deep water channel, I watched as the chief took off on a bomb of a wave.  Completely out of control, he somehow managed to stay upright as the wave pitched over his head, slotted him inside the barrel.  He came up the face towards me and nearing the top of the wave, the board and his legs went skyward while the lava lava along with the rest of his body headed for the depths of the sea.

A few seconds later, he popped back up from the foaming whitewash laughing through that gigantic smile.  Bare assed, he clambered back onto his board and paddled around looking for that pesky lava lava.

-February 2012