Solar Reincarnation
Entry 004 | 29.7.24
‘What’s the Rasta Coffee?’ I enquired, to which the short, friendly woman laughed.
‘Okay, I’ll have that one’.
By now, you may be aware that I lack the fundamental agency to make decisions independently. Instead, I live my life by, and dictate my travels with, a handful of arbitrary maxims and theorems, all unapologetically cliched and deeply flawed.
To recap thus far:
One weathered expat’s blown-out break can be another fresh arrival’s dream afternoon.
There are no complaints when travelling and in otherwise good health: only enjoyable experiences and less enjoyable experiences.
Indonesian shafting is usually obvious, negotiable, and never costs too much.
A bit of charm and a pack of cigarettes could open doors and get you the best seats.
If you are travelling, you are rich. And this is how people will see you.
And when it comes to eating, there are yet more prescripts.
I. Try strange and exciting things wherever possible.
II. If you succeed, immediately abandon this advice and proceed to try nothing other than what you now know and like.
III. If you do not proceed to II, repeat I until otherwise.
Kopi luwak was discovered by adhering to I and will now be enjoyed through the cyclical adherence to II. It’s a hot brew from partially digested coffee cherries, eaten and defecated by the Asian palm civet monkey. It is monkey-shit coffee, and it is delicious.
So, on a windless morning, we sat under an awning of corrugated iron and dried palm fronds. Two planks of thick and smooth stained hardwood made up our bench seat and a larger slab, our table. Under the shade, the wood was cool, and the stone tiling beneath our feet was not too hot, and everything, the awning, tiling, and stone fence behind us, were painted in red, yellow, and green. The wooden shack where our breakfast was being made, its half-pulled blinds, the stone stools and bench at its doorless entrance, in the easy-going trifecta. Rasta Cafe, unmistakably so.
Breakfast at Rasta Cafe (featured in TJ03 as well).
Medewi, Bali.
Like riding with a helmet or carrying a pack of cigarettes, sub-prescripts are optional but advised.
i. When implementing the above-mentioned three-part system for supreme sustenance, you must always try the signature dish or beverage, particularly when recommended by the proprietors themselves and without failure if recommended by the establishment’s namesake.
On that hot morning in the cool shade, I drank monkey-shit coffee on the chef's recommendation and ate a deliciously fluffy set of banana pancakes on the recommendation of her dreadlocked husband — Rasta. They had presently woken, so the blinds were only half rolled. But their mood was light, and their kitchen humble. I knew the meal would swiftly follow from I to II.
I had to squint when carrying my stomach to our scooter. The leather seat was too hot to saddle. I unbuttoned my shirt and laid it flat so Memphis and I could ride to Dobbo’s to say farewell. But halfway there, I took an erratic left, braking onto the dusty frontage of a second-hand clothing store I had spotted earlier in the week.
Memphis at Rasta Cafe.
Medewi, Bali.
Ten minutes later, I had a pair of loose-flowing, zip-pocketed track pants and a blue and white football shirt from an amateur club in Osaka. One for security in crowds, one for protection in the surf. 20K a piece, a good deal at any latitude.
But as we went to leave, a large man arrived on a small scooter. He had a young girl at his feet and an older girl in school uniform holding his shoulders from behind. I noticed his thick fingers and white knuckles gripping the handlebars. His arms — pythons. His legs — a Komodo dragon’s. I turned to Jarrod, who was stunned, white, sweating, and smiling. He must be the spoon-welding demon expeller. The man who found the last ivory tiger.
ii. When implementing the above-mentioned system, to always try strange and exciting things, one must, where possible, accept a local’s invitation to lunch at their home. Of course, situationally dependent.
Under the shade of two large frangipanis hides a pale yellow house with blue trim and white windows. Beneath an awning out front, a tiled porch marbled in cream and peach welcomes visitors, who must push past green plants and wooden chairs before ducking beneath a low doorway. The tiling continues throughout the home. We discovered this on hot days when we sat cross-legged with Ilham and his family for white coffee, fried banana and spiced fish.
The home was sparse, but it did not feel empty. You could hear the passing trucks and children playing, but covered from the sun and with room to breathe, you felt you had travelled a great distance for respite, like a longhouse on the banks of a Borneon river. And soon, the sounds faded, and there was nothing but the room and ourselves. In the middle of a set of shelves to our right sat a TV so old it couldn’t have worked. Across from us were two doors for the children’s rooms. Beyond the shelving and into an area of the house not so well graced with midday light were the rumblings of a kitchen and wherever the adults slept. Everyone smiled, even if they were shy. We all talked even if we could not understand one another. It was nice to be with family, however new.
Always chuffed at a meal.
Ilham’s Home, Medewi, Bali.
The little English Ilham knew helped explain the food his wife had prepared and that they shared two girls and one boy, who had returned from school before we arrived. Although his wife knew less English, she sat and joined the conversation in a fantastic abaya. Like an African sky, deep black and dipped in sunburst, intricately trimmed in yellow. I pointed to a framed picture on the wall above Ilham’s back, ‘Is that Mecca?’ Ilham wished to visit one day. Below the falcon’s view of the Great Mosque, its many white pillars, stone walkways and thousands of worshippers who had travelled many thousands more kilometres, the scribblings of his children decorated peeling blue wallpaper. I thought of the signs I had seen elsewhere in Medewi, advertisements for chartered pilgrimages at an affordable price. I drank my filtered water quickly to prevent it from mixing with the tap water ice.
‘I see en you, Gerrid,’ smiled our powerful host, ‘heppeness’. ‘You bring it and laughing, and people love you.’
‘Nd you Memfiss’, he continued, turning to face her, ‘I see calm. You are stable. Like support, strong.'
‘N you Latchy’, he concluded, ‘you see woman, and you love woman and woman love you. But no do enything. You have love.’
#
‘Enough about me; I want to hear the news,’ she demanded beneath her knitted blanket. ‘I’ve talked enough; you’re here to tell me what’s going on out there in the world.’
‘Well, this week was good, I think,’ he hesitated, regulating his body temperature with ease.
‘What happened?'
‘Uhmm, I had a bit of football on Wednesday and played golf with my friends on the weekend. Uhhh, oh yeah, I also got out for a surf on Sunday morning. On the West Coast.’
‘Marvellous. Just marvellous.’ she declared from her armchair.
‘But I’ve been a bit tired as I’ve had a lot on; what did you get up to, Nana?’
She scoffed and waved her hand his way, rolling her eyes toward each corner of the small care suite that now was her universe—to the bed hooked to cables, to the fluorescently lit bathroom with shiny steel handrails, over to the faux-marble countertop, then back to the white plastic bed-bench above her chest. It held an alarm clock, the day’s paper, a ballpoint pen, tissues and a small notebook with the numbers of her two sons and her best friend in her own writing and her grandson’s in his. She called this table her office and ritualistically arranged it, then rearranged it. People’s lives are like stars; they exponentially expand until they run out of energy and suddenly collapse. The larger we are, the heavier the space we leave for others to navigate. All we can do is hope for a final nebulous farewell and pray those we leave behind will not fall into darkness.
‘I guess you’re right,’ he laughed, looking at his phone. He had only arrived twenty minutes earlier, but it was almost half past five. The sun was low. From a crack between the thin grey curtains, he could see a streak of orange amongst the overcast.
‘You must have a lot on. You can leave if you need to,’ she suggested, rather than demanded, ‘you’ve already been here a while.’
‘No, no, sorry, I wasn’t looking for the time. I have nowhere to be. I was only wondering. I can stay for as long as you like.’
‘No, you really don’t have to worry.’
‘I’ll stay ‘till at least six.’
‘So what’s the news anyway? Please tell me everything.’
‘Well, there’s not much. Just the same old, I suppose. Uhmmm, I’ve been spending a lot of time packing up the flat. That’s what I was doing before I came here; sorry I was so late.’
‘No. Don’t be silly! I know you are so busy. You have much to do and must be getting on.’
‘No, no, I promise. I can stay ‘til at least quarter past six. I have to just get down for dinner with Mum and Dad later, but I have plenty of time.’
‘Oh, those flowers are wonderful—just wonderful.’ She said this with the absolution of a monarchal decree. At once, ‘The beauty of such a bouquet was never in doubt’, but also, ‘if it had ever been questioned, the matter is now settled’. Grandmothers can cast such edicts upon a bundle of hedge clippings or a thousand lilies; whoever gifted them would feel content in their choice regardless of crop.
‘You must stop spending all your money on them, though, as I have already told you. You need it for when you go away. Don’t spend money on flowers.’
The generous grandson was looking at a mapped route on his phone. It would take fifty minutes to get to the dinner scheduled for seven.
‘What time is dinner with your father and mother?’
‘Not till later. I have heaps of time.’
‘So what’s the news? Tell me everything.’
‘Uncle Clive and I went on that bike trail in the South Island. I think he may have already told you about it. It was a great trip. I really, really enjoyed it and spending time with him.’
‘Yes, I knew you’d have a fabulous time. He told me you both did, and you met such characters.’
‘Yeah, I would be keen to spend more time down there with him. Maybe when we get back, I can go down there for a while.’
‘You’re going for so long.’
‘Not too long, Nana. I’m sure the year will go by quick.’
‘Oh, I’m going to miss you.’ said the old woman with little time.
‘I’ll be back before you know it’, the young man said to his watch.
Outside, the grey clouds were now darker. One streak of orange was now many of blush pink and deep purple, like bruising across pale skin. It was ten past six, and the red veins of the mapped route estimated a travel time of fifty-five minutes. There was still dinner, and the car and the trailer were to be unloaded at home. But before that, a surfboard had to be dropped off to his friend and the golf clubs to another. It would soon be dark, and there was so much to do. There was also his bag to pack before the morning flight at nine. They were all to meet at the airport at six, so they had to leave by a quarter past five at the latest. It would be a long night and a short sleep. He tapped his leg nervously and had his whole life ahead of him.
‘It’s okay, but you must go now. You have to get to dinner.’
‘Yes, I should probably get going now. It’s just Maps says it’s almost an hour to get home, and I still have to unpack.’
‘Thank you for the flowers. They’re just wonderful. But you must stop spending all your money on them.’ The bouquet was in a clear glass bowl provided by a nurse. It was sitting on the kitchen countertop at the other end of the room, so the scent could not reach them, but he could smell a sharp green tang from his hands. He had sawed the stalks with a blunt knife and then a pair of borrowed scissors. The plastic handles had snapped on the scissors, and he had yet to hide the evidence.
‘And thank you for Teddy. Isn’t he just gorgeous?’
‘You’re more than welcome. I’m glad you like them and him. Hopefully, he can keep you company while I’m gone. Make sure you take good care of her, Teddy,’ he said to the little white teddy bear holding a red heart. ‘Sorry, I have to go,’ he said to the little white lady holding the bear. ‘I’ll be back before you know it, though, and I’ll keep you updated with our trip. And we will see Fraser and little Luca around February or March. We’ll send you photos once we’re there.’
She smiled. ‘You’ll have a marvellous time, I know it. What an adventure.’
‘Thank you, Nana. I hope you feel better soon.’
‘Oh, I’m going to miss you so much.’ The old woman said, clutching her new teddy.
It was dark, and the sky had lost all its vigour. She was only grey, and the blush and colour had left her face without him noticing. The ceiling light had not been turned on, so the yellow light from the kitchen spotlighted the red and orange flowers, casting long shadows against the thin grey curtains. All of the room looked grey beside the flowers and his Nana, who was dimly lit against her armchair but still glowing. He could now see in the reflection of the light from the window that showed between the curtains that her eyes were welling. He could now see it was wrong for him to go, and he could do nothing. He had spent the last week leaving.
‘I’ll miss you too, Nana,’ he promised, the last ‘n’s’ and ‘a’s’ mustering against a much weaker ‘I’', ‘Happy Mother’s Day.’
After dropping the boards and clubs, he started on the final short leg of the trip home. But the second friend had told him of a forecasted solar storm you could see looking south from the hill nearby. It was now seven-thirty, but he felt he still had time. He drove up the hill in the dark with the window down, letting in the cold, sweet air of the May evening. After reaching the crest and pulling into an empty parking space, he got out and walked between a row of giant oak trees, black against the night. Between the canopies, he could see many stars. Then he could see more. A gentle hue of pink appeared and strengthened until it finally washed across the entire sky. Her colour had returned, and she blushed as hard as when she was young, yet vigorous and prettier than ever. But it was now late, and he had even less time than before, which had already been none. He wished he could’ve stayed longer.
Solar storm from atop Pukekohe Hill, the night before we left - 11.5.24.
Nana and Teddy, the night before we left - 11.5.24.
In loving memory of Helen Claire Davidson, 23rd October 1926 - 20th July 2024.
Links & Extras
Ilham the Masseur’s Whatsapp: TBC.
Glossary
Abaya: Worn by some Muslim women, an abaya is a long, loose-fitting robe-like garment that covers the entire body except for the face, hands, and feet. Through the abaya, women can express their religious identity and dedication to following Islamic guidelines regarding modest attire.
Although she is pictured, I cannot remember Ilham’s wife’s name. She is pictured wearing what looks like an abaya, but I’m not sure if this is one. If anyone could look at the picture and educate me, I will update the journal entry.
