i have moved (blog) house

After a long relationship with blogger I have moved to incorporate this blog into my new website.
You can now find me sharing stories, photos and inspiration for an authentic free-range life HERE
Thanks to everyone for supporting Remote and Raw. The barefoot season continues; same beach and the same village, but now with a decent internet connection and a new blog name.  x

back in the days of puddles

The last heavy rain of the west season was on Sunday 13th April. There are two reasons that I remember this: one is that I am a weather geek and love to study synoptic charts, satellite patterns and record climate data, the other is that this particular rain was a tropical deluge unmatched throughout the wet season. It was Sunday morning, the power was on for church, and I thought I’d clean the desk in my studio, plug in my laptop, ring out some background tunes, write a few words and do a yoga session.  The rain started while I was in the shower and was so heavy I sheltered in the bedroom for 15 minutes. I couldn’t hear that the music had stopped and wasn’t to know what was happening behind the studio door.  

I returned to the desk to see my beloved Macbook Pro lying in a puddle – lid open, plugged in, screen black. Cue short repetitive expletives. I ripped out the power cord, picked it up and a waterfall poured out of the disk drive. The tin roof had leaked directly above the desk and flooded the studio. Poor Banjo, he wasn’t ready to die, he was still so young and vibrant. Despite three days in front of the fan, I was not able to resurrect his spirit, and when I plugged him in, smoke emerged from the depths. Not a heartening sight. 

I returned to Australia from Bali on a bargain $73 Air Asia flight, surprised mum and dad, and organized a replacement laptop in 48 hours. It is here I would like to give a plug for SGIO insurance who were outstanding in their service, understanding and support.  A week later I was back in Indonesia, and it is from Banjo Mark II Macbook Pro Retina that I write you this post.  

Meanwhile our internet is unreliable and choked, and my enthusiasm for blogging wanes with the moon. I read of the supportive, communicative blog community out there in the connected world, moving in vibrating circles of creative juice, gathering for Instameets, collaborations and Kinfolk dinners. I’m in the back end of Indonesia in a surf camp populated by 60 year old blokes who don’t even know what a blog is, with an internet slower than a smoke signal. Networking here means getting together with the neighbours to discuss the swell forecast, decipher village politics, play scrabble and eat banana muffins. I have nothing to sell, I’m not offering to take away anyone’s suffering, help them parent better, advise on shares, weight loss or how to be more popular, richer or more productive. If you are feeling the bite of winter and nursing a cold, perhaps seeing the waters of a tropical lagoon may even make you feel worse. What I have to offer are stories, authentic experiences, considered images; moments from a life of cultivating simplicity, awareness and love, with barefeet, a tan and gardener's hands. To all of you reading, thank you, I hope this is enough.

white roads to nowhere

Since gaining autonomy, our local island government receives an annual budget from Uncle Jakarta that they can play with however they see fit. In a country rife with corruption, transparency is murky at best, and coupled with our minimal understanding of the political wormholes, it is impossible to know how funding is channelled.  What is evident are new white gravel roads through uninhabited and rugged inland areas, that end in a swamp or at the foot of a cliff.  Many are built along former goat tracks, and do little but provide easier access for trucks to infiltrate the interior and pillage free rocks. No doubt the mayor's brother owns a truck or two and our local member happens to be in possession of earth moving equipment that can be contracted out at a handsome daily fee. 

Many of these roads are built in the wet season while we are away, so upon our return I am met with many exploring opportunities. We are fortunate to be babysitting a Yamaha trail bike that skips along the back tracks. Fuel has been scarce, as high winds have prevented the ferry crossing from the mainland, so long distance outings have to be timed with a full tank. 

Our village is relatively affluent since the introduction of seaweed farming as a profitable cash crop, and as a result almost all of the traditional houses have been replaced with brick hot boxes of mosquito infestation. For people in the interior, life is very basic and subsistent, and houses are still made from materials gathered in nearby bushland. Thanks to juice from the lontar palm, caloric intake is sufficient and stable, without an annual period of famine that effects other regions.

it's the time, and it's slow

String out your hammock, wax up your quiver, the season is well underway. We have been back on our island home for almost three months, arriving in mid March after two months of summer in Western Australia and one month travelling in Sri Lanka (you may have seen the photos on my other blog). Nothing happens fast on island time; our days are a gentle wash of tides, watching the breath, watching the mind, watching the waves.

It is officially winter in the southern hemisphere, and while the temperature barely dips below 26 degrees, the signs of the changing season are evident. The occasional black cloud dissipates without a drop and the green tinge of the wet season has already withered to brown. Trade winds blow with persistence, and the cold fronts pushing through WA are bringing us consistent swell. It’s been a solid start to the surf year, and Aquaman has notched his share of barrels on the bedhead. 

If the exasperating internet service will allow, I will begin to fill in the past and keep up with the present.  I am actively posting photos on Instagram @sallymaymills, and my Facebook page , but blogging is difficult given a connection that gets slower every year. 

away for the wet

You may have wondered where we are: have we disappeared down the crab hole of tropical torpor or into the heart of a deep green barrel, never to return from the bliss of the present moment? Fear not, we are in our summer residence in Western Australia, frolicking under days of cloudless blue skies while our island home sleeps through the wet season. The presence of Cyclone Christine last month whipped up a few waves and strong winds, but other than a couple of broken light bulbs we believe the house is at ease. The garden will be doing its wild wet season thing, and hopefully we will return to a six foot mango tree and fruiting papaya. More likely a tangle of creepers, weeds and a few goat eaten sticks. 

We are leaving Australia in less than a month for a long anticipated trip to Sri Lanka, then back to Indonesia for the barefoot season of 2014. There are some big plans and crazy ideas coming up this year; I hope you can paddle in for the ride.  Thanks for being patient with the infrequent posts; with the lack of internet connection last year, it was difficult to sustain a continuous online presence.

A happy new year to everyone, I declare it is still ok to wish this throughout January. Some of us take a while to warm up.

beach reverie

While the pace of western life accelerates in a flurry of infernal busyness, and the time stress tightens like a corset as Christmas draws near, I tend to get slower as the torrid wet season approaches. After eight months on rubber time it can be hard to muster up enough motivation to move anywhere - under stimulation being a converse problem to overload. Each day begins as a blank page, challenging me to be mindful and quiet, while the inner being never shuts up. It can be confronting when the distractions of the typical modern life are stripped away and you realise the commotion is in the mind as it fights with reality. 

See what pondering your navel does? In between times there is always the wind, surf and tides to consider.

a visa run around

There was a plan and it was good. Then there was a most unexpected incident and the itinerary went spiralling into oblivion, washed away by my tears. I had to dig very deep to accept the reality of the present and release my attachment to the outcome I had envisaged. Our highly anticipated trip to Yunnan province in China was foiled by a single sentence from the smiling immigration secretary at the Chinese embassy in Jakarta.

Do you have your KITAS? (a working visa for Indonesia). 

With a surprised stare we answered no. No KITAS, no Chinese visa. Next please.

The embassy had recently changed the rule, and we were going by the email I had received earlier when a passport and driver's license was all one required. No visa, no China, do not pass go…

In shock, we laughed, I cried and we regrouped with a strong coffee and discussed our options. We had to leave Indonesia the following day as our visa stipulated, so would take the booked flight to Kuala Lumpur. From there we had no plan.

Our Air Asia flights to China were non-rerouteable and non-refundable, a generous donation to their profit, and to book a last minute flight from KL to Bali was cost prohibitive. We are both averse to cities, traffic and noise - the very essence of our time in Jakarta - so were not about to immerse ourselves in the agony of central KL. I had visited Melaka, in the south-west of Malaysia, as a backpacker in 1997 and remembered it fondly. The old town has been UNESCO World Heritage Listed,and with a direct bus link from the airport, we had ourselves a destination.  With a large Chinese population, traditional shophouse architecture and green tea, we could squint and pretend we were in Yunnan, minus the mountains, yaks and snow, but with the added bonus of authentic and ridiculously cheap Indian food. 

One week after leaving our island home we were back, our unused thermals still in the bottom of the bag. We both picked up a horrid flu from excessive exposure to open mouthed coughs and snorts on every mode of transport. My birthday was spent in bed rather than at the foot of a glacier in a Tibetan home stay, and my surprise dinner postponed. Aquaman took it all in his gentle stride, proving he is just that little bit more enlightened than most (or at least me).

Yunnan, you will keep. I have a well thought out itinerary for anyone interested. Wherever you go, there you are.

300 steps

 

There is a tourist object on the south coast known as 300 steps. We have been aware of its existence for many years, however it was only this week that we finally made it over the potholes and dubious bridges to climb to the lookout and survey a new horizon. I didn't count the steps, so cannot confirm the accuracy of the title.

The idea of an afternoon outing sounds easy enough, but the reality is that our severe aversion to sitting in vehicles and travelling on headache inducing roads means we generally prefer to radiate out from home within a walk or bike ride distance; but after a while I grow restless. I have a very low tolerance for boredom and yearn for unfamiliar places and the thrill of experiencing the unknown. I long to indulge in the affair of travel and flex my shutter finger, and this desire outweighs the discomfort involved.  Plus there is the joy of sharing it with you my dear bloggies. Where have you been lately?

When we get out of the glass bottles of our ego,
and when we escape like squirrels turning in the
cages of our personality
and get into the forests again,
we shall shiver with cold and fright
but things will happen to us
so that we don't know ourselves.

Cool, unlying life will rush in,
and passion will make our bodies taut with power,
we shall stamp our feet with new power
and old things will fall down,
we shall laugh, and institutions will curl up like
burnt paper.

D.H. Lawrence

up the back

This post has been steeping in the mystifying pot of the internet for a week, where I have been unable to access it. After many long frustrating hours it has finally loaded and I am pleased to send it on its way with images from an early morning walk; the old architecture and the new, locals doing their thing, and a couple of four legged friends. 

The season is changing - as southern Australia heads into spring our winds shift onshore and the humidity heralds the beginning of the build up. After 45 days straight with waves Aquaman has been spending a bit more time at the desk this week, where he is dedicated to learning Revit  (computer aided design) and moving out of the dark ages of a pencil and drawing board. No more crinkled drafting paper on humid days or scratching off pen lines with a scalpel.