the barefoot season

Never fear, I haven't been held hostage in the City of Dreams. The flight left as per schedule and there were hand shakes all round as I was reunited with my waiting room friends from the previous morning.  It is a no-service flight, not even time for a sip of water or an unidentified food object, before we spanned the Straits of Death and landed at the recently extended runway; I'm very grateful for that, or we would have cleaned up a few fences, goats and lontar on our way in.  In place of the usual baggage carousel is a ute, which is loaded up on the tarmac and driven around to the front of the terminal shed, where you help yourself.

I was flooded with anticipation as we approached home, noting landmarks, checking off changes in the familiar landscape - a new fence, a fallen tree, an abandoned house. Sending Tom ahead to unveil the beach shack and begin damage control from the wet season's fury was well managed, and I arrived to a frangipani on the pillow and organic fruit for dinner. 

Leading up to our departure from Australia with the crescendo of activity, lists and packing that marks the change over, I imagined myself laid out on the daybed with a cuppa, the crosshatch of our coconut roof holding my gaze between waves and paragraphs. It didn't take long. I'm home. 

Welcome to the barefoot season. 

the city of dreams

I'll be honest, Kupang is one of my least favourite destinations, and certainly one I aim to pass through with haste. It is the sandpaper for patience and tolerance that bookends my simple island existence. As if knowing how eager I am to get home to our beach shack and the arms of Aquaman, the universe has conspired to grant me 48 hours in the City of Dreams. 

Awoken at 4am by the ululating call to prayer (a rather inconsiderate notion in this predominantly Christian city), I snatched a few minutes sleep before the alarm at 5am.  I had news that the ferry was cancelled due to rough seas, so I took the chance of standby on the 7am flight. I wasn't alone in this mission, and by 8am, 31 names were on the list, and we had amassed quite the party in the small airline office. Ideas of chartering an oversized canoe, twin prop plane or helicopter were bandied around as we waited for news of a possible second flight (after it was established by all how unfortunate I am to not have children).  Four hours later my heart sank with the news there would be no flight, canoe or magic carpet and I returned to room 303.  The Sasando International Hotel was once a luxurious abode in this city of overpriced, worn and totally shit accommodation (and is still one of the better options). The citizens do not embrace maintenance, and the scene evokes a war weary city, with the only redeeming quality being the nightly food market.

I took the risk of death by chlorination and snot in the hotel pool, and was relieved my bather clad self did not elicit whistles, screams and photos, as happens when I walk alone through town. It was quite pleasant sunning on the broken pavers with a magazine, however I baulked from a second swim after witnessing the amount of deep throat mucus exhumed into the water.

To end on a more positive vibe, the hotel has free wi-fi, expansive ocean views and the staff kindly allow me to sit in the deserted dining room with my papaya and laptop. Should I be overcome with a need to fold in prayer (or despair?) toward Mecca, they have thoughtfully spray painted the directional arrow on the ceiling of my room. 

One more sleep and season 2012 begins. 

Are you ready?

If you are hankering for more photos of this captivating capital, have a look at this post from last year. 

shifting gears

Twice weekly, a 12 seater prop-jet offers the option of a 25 minute scenic flight to the mainland. The two room terminal sits lonely beside the tarmac, with an unused xray machine filling most of the check in area. You walk around it to get to the bathroom scales, where you and your luggage are weighed in, and someone collects the hand written ticket stub. A glass door leads to the stuffy VIP area, where three plastic floral lounges wait for important uniformed bums.

The flying tin can dissapeared into a puff of white cloud and the Indonesian lady beside me dug her fingernails into my thigh like it was a great white life raft.  I patted the gold rings on her hand reassuringly, confident the Australian and English pilots had things under control.  While I have no qualms about flying, there is something unnerving about seeing the runway from the pilots point-of-view, their hands flicking between switches and levers as the white line guides them to the ground.  

I've left the peace of our village to join other wordsmiths and bookish types at the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival.  After the festival, Aquaman and I are skipping over to Singapore and Penang for a visa run, preparing for our final two months undisturbed as the wet season builds and the pace slows further under a blanket of humidity.  I'm very excited to be an official photographer for the Writers Festival, as well as volunteering at a number of key events, including the Paul Kelly & Lucky Oceans concert.  Keep up with who I meet, what I learn and how many coffees I drink over at Treacle for Stickybeaks.  

paris of the east

The capital of East Nusa Tengarra is not even remotely like Paris, unless perhaps you are on acid and imagining Europe during the bombing raids.  It is a noisy, grotty, weathered city, and unavoidable on our journey home.  The irony of the enforced overnight stay is that it goes a way toward keeping our island home that little bit further from the world of Bintang singlets.

The taxi driver is not impressed with the extra stop at cargo to pick up our blinds, but another folded blue note lifts his spirits.  Waiting for the Garuda flight to arrive, we have a lunch of rice, green beans and iced tea.  In four hours I've gone from a soy latte and sourdough toast at Sea Circus, to a warung in a tin shed surrounded by a barbed wire fence. Mine is nothing less than a life of contrasts.

There is the odd expat male that likes the city, and I'll be frank here, it does have cheap women, cold beer and fresh seafood.  I dread arriving and anticipate leaving, spending most of the time in a slightly detached state of being, trying not to analyze too much, look too closely, or dream of Paris.  Cracked tiled walls, sheetless beds with rugs that have a questionable washing history, and mustard polyester curtains do little for a fragile female libido, and in ten years, the hit rate of success in a Kupang hotel is zero.  

The city's main redeeming feature and a must-do on every visit, is dinner at the night markets.  They are the heart any south-east Asian experience, where you pull up a plastic stool under a cold fluorescent light and devour a plate of gado-gado, or grilled tempeh with rice and firey chilli for less than $1.

The shopping strip hits fever pitch on sundown, and music thumps from the bemos as they lap the streets competing for coolest wagon on the beat. This is a mostly Christian city, and it is ironic that it is the Muslim women peddling underwear on the footpath. While Tom fancied the Superman jocks, we passed by in search of a battery charger and part for the blender.