In the small little hut I rested my back on the properly made bed and stared at the fan on the ceiling. The rackety sound reminded me of an old war movie, minutes before something totally catastrophic and equally heartbreaking was about to happen.
But it won’t happen to me. That is not how the story goes.
The story goes that I spent four short nights in the island where I would once again feel like the minority in my own soil, if I may even call it that. Though this time I knew how to tie my bikini and handle my liquid as they do.
The dive center was quiet and the shadow was short. “Hi. You must be Felicia” A brown haired guy with a broad smile said. “You’re supposed to arrive tomorrow.” “Yes…… Things happen.” “Cool. You can start with the night dive tonight.” Excellent. First dive in three weeks and straight into the darkness. He set me up with a well-used advanced diving manual and off I went. To the bean bag.
The art of lounging in a bean bag under the scorching sun goes that every ten minutes or so, one would need to pick up their behind and move the bean bag according to the shadow. As long as the earth still rotates, so move will the humankind dragging their collective asses. The other art is not to fall asleep in between those crucial ten minutes or you’ll end up with well-broiled lobster skin. Not quite the look to sport at the beginning of one’s holiday.
Well, the first night dive turned to be quite mellow. Didn’t see much apart from some flat fish hiding under the seafloor. Oh but the highlight lies above the sea for that one particular night. The stars. Stella, so the Italians would say. I’d go back to float underneath the stars a million times over. That moment floating and waiting for the boat. Stillness. Blanket of endless stars. Stillness and more stars. And in that one fraction of a moment, your soul merged with the universe and you realize how freaking awesome this whole living shit ordeal is.
Scrubbed clean of sea planktons and all, I put on my shorts and top and off I went to the Friday party. Apparently the dive center doubles as the Friday hangout place for the locals. By locals I mean anyone who’s stayed in the island more than ten days. And so with a bit of commentary from a trusted source I got the quick layout of the land. The guys in the bean chair owns the other prominent diving establishment. The youngish looking chap over there is taking over his daddy’s resort in a short while. A swarming bunch of long term travelers living the island live. That is the girlfriend of somebody. And on and on….
Wait a second. Horizontal panning. Deep focus. Check profiles.
Save for the one instructor and a dive master and a handful of staff….
There. Is. No. Other. Indonesian.
Where am I again?
.to be continued.