Day3,  Oct 12
We awoke at Hotel Indigo and were driven down to the boat docks near the eastern side Kuta where we’d catch a fast transport to the Gili Islands .  On our way, we enjoyed seeing a small family on a motor scooter.  The 2-year old child was sandwiched in backward between its mother and father – some car seat.  The child had these big eyes looking at us with wonder on his face.  


Crossing a bridge onto Serangan Island (also called Turtle Island), it got noticeably trashier everywhere.  Finally we reached the boats – a very primitive and filthy place overall, and interestingly, a freshly white painted building sported a sign pronouncing this was the “Royal Bali Yacht Club”.   The only thing “Royal” about it was the blue colored lettering on their sign.  Despite the unsightly muck, friendly people greeted us, asked where we were from (my first mistake was to open my mouth), I asked to take a photo of a kid with corn cob.  Then, this greeting party went through a metamorphosis and turned into pushy trinket sellers equipped with beads and turtle carvings.  I felt obligated to buy something from the woman with the child (my second mistake was to say “How much for this?” - I was robbed for $10 and hounded repeatedly as I helplessly waiting for something to happen so we could  load our luggage onto the boat. One gentleman put a turtle carving on my thigh; trying to confuse me into thinking it was a gift to gauge my interest.  Back to my first mistake – asking where you are from; this technique was used to set a price well in advance of the sale.  They know a bit of Japanese, and my wife’s nationality no doubt increases the price.  Mine, well, if I don’t say anything, they can’t tell I am from the US which is also bad for price.  I figured I should say I am Iranian in an accent, which would no doubt make them go to someone else and not waste their time with me, or at least counter the Japanese uplift.


Finally, we got ferried out by a small boat with an engine that sounded like a weedeater.  The much larger powerboat, called the “Mahi Mahi” would make the long crossing to the Gili islands just off Lombok.  A frightening sight for us, we passed a small boat with 4 fishermen, and 1 was wearing a white motorcycle helmet.  The fish here must be dangerous, perhaps a cross between steel nose and those flying fish.


The crossing was almost 3 hours, and with my GPS tracking our progress and speed, it relieved some of the boredom.   It got bumpy in the open channel as we left the island of Bali behind, and the boat kept slowing on the rough waters.  When asked how much longer to Gili, I always said “about 30 minutes”.  It got to be a joke after awhile.  I got a strong back massage lying down and leaning my back against the wooden boat railing – the ocean chop pounded into by back and felt good in a way. 


Gili Trawangan, our destination came into sight.  It was about a mile long, and half mile wide.  This island paradise was the most remote island in a 3 island chain from the island of Lombok, which itself was removed from the more commercial island of Bali, which itself was a remote island for Indonesia, and Indonesia is a remote corner of the world – so 5 remotes total ensured total isolation.  I was away from it all, and did not expect to see Starbucks here.
We waded ashore to a large sign with a sunbathing woman’s silhouette saying “No naked in this swim area”.  Being visitors, it’s nice they come out and say what they don’t want the decadent infidels to do on their land; I can think of how this instructive spirit might be helpful in other places.  No cars were on this island – only bikes and pony-drawn carts.  There was only one road (‘like the ‘strip’) on the eastern side of the island, with small shops, huts, and restaurants lining the road.  No police were on this island, which we believed to be a good sign of an uncorrupted society.

Our rooms were not ready yet, so we went for lunch.  We went to Cocos where many ordered bacon lettuce, and tomato with fried eggs baguettes, I ordered the vegetarian quiche.  All were tasty.  Eating an uncooked salad leaf, I took a risk – it turned out fine.  Looking across the blue water channel to the next island, we saw the white sand shores of Gili Meno.  The boats in the channel, consisting of dive parties and people ferries to Lombock, seemed to be in no hurry.

We checked into our bungalows.  Surrounded by beautiful flower gardens, these bungalows were almost works of art in themselves:  an elevated wood teak planked floor, with carved wood ribbed joists supporting a straw roof.  The bungalow contained a queen sized bed with a back door leading to a step-down outdoor bathroom area with 10-foot high walls.  From the bathroom, the palm trees towered over, the shower area was fashionably lined with volcanic stones and rocks.  The exotic but comfortable atmosphere came devoid of telephone, TV, or internet.  Reading the room guide, they wisely did not allow smoking in the room due to the flammability of the bungalow; a said fire extinguisher was to the right of the front door – I found this was missing in the bungalows.  The refrigerator was well stocked, but later to be found with the thermostat turned all the way down and unplugged.  The bedside table had a defective power cord that had to be wiggled to get light – now where was that fire extinguisher?  The room had a Japanese style A/C hanging on the wall with remote control.  Running water was not always coming out of the faucets; we had to get the staff to turn on the pump to hoist water up into the water tower since there was no automatic water level switch to know when the water tower gets low, and the staff seemed unable to anticipate the tank getting low when people come back from dives to shower off.
I befriended the only 24-hour staff person,  Ismail, maybe 12-15 years old who worked in the place.  Later, he’d help us deal with the local merchants as there was an ‘honor’ system of rentals of gear – you just told them where you were staying, and you needed no deposit or paperwork.  Ismail help us with some repair work later with Kaori’s lights. 




While renting snorkel and fins across the street, the teenage boy renting us the equipment asked where we were from, and not wanting to repeat this mistake of saying where I was from before the price was presented, I simply told him “Santa Cruz” to try and throw him off, then he shockingly offered us marijuana.  I don’t know if it was coincidental or he knew the reputation of our little paradise on the Central California coast.  I suppose the lack of police on this island makes them brave to challenge their death penalty.

The island was teaming with people from Australia, New Zealand, Sweden, Germany, and a few from Korea, Japan, and France.  Not many if any Americans.  The dive center seemed to be run by 20-somethings out of Australia and was very laid back.
Another group filling the island was the feline nation of cats.  The island is full of inbred cats resulting in crooked tails.  At our dive center alone, the scrawny cats would meow constantly at us for food.  Where are the dogs?  The Muslim influence here shunned the dogs, thus the cats.  It seemed out of balance, and Par was allergic to cats.
Our 1st Dive that afternoon was a packed boat, wonderful water, coral, and fish.  A bit of a dream world - the water was crystal clear, the coral bright and alive, and on the surface white sand beaches framed the warm blue waters between the islands.  


After showering, we enjoyed gin and tonics from the deck of Alan/Tanya’s bungalow, then had dinner at a place called Scallywags.  We ordered every small plate on the menu to the surprise of the staff.  They managed to bring almost all out at once.  We saw places where you could sit on an elevated mat above the beach, get drinks and watch movies.  Even a place with Hookah’s on the beach.  We saw these signs for “magic mushrooms” – again, is this due to no police on the island? 

An evening parade/procession came down the streets- people with lanterns and torches, a loudspeaker being carried on a gondola with pounding drums taking up the tail.  It seemed it was a local-inspired ceremony.  We couldn’t make out the words coming form the loudspeaker, but wondered.  We stayed out of their parade and just watched.

All afternoon, evening, and middle of the night, the local Mosque calls came through our thatched roofs.  It was the end of Ramadan, and passion echoed from the preacher’s voice.  Par later commented that he could not understand a word, but the tone seemed almost angry or hateful - not poetic or musical.