What do you do on an Island where there is nothing to do? Nothing?
Nah, there is always somewhere to explore, physically or mentally.
This morning,
it is the Bua Bok Cave. I walk along the deserted beach, my feet sinking into
the talcum-powder sand. It is 7.30am, the sun is rising and so too is the
temperature. Passing a makeshift religious shrine, I reach the beginning of a
crude path fashioned from flat stones to start with but which soon gives way to
boulders of varying sizes. The track skirts the steep limestone cliff face. It
is a scramble and then more of a climb, although there is a rope handrail of
sorts, which is very useful given that I’m gingerly making my way in plastic
flip-flops purchased from the very small campsite shop/restaurant. They are
slippery with sweat and my feet are sliding around uncomfortably within them,
but at least I have something on my feet. It would be almost impossible
otherwise! One last pull on the ropes across some large rocks and I’m at the
entrance to the cave.
Powdery green and pink tinged stalactites and stalagmites
surround the entrance. The sound of cicadas recedes as I progress further into
the network of perhaps 5 or 6 caves which are each connected to a large,
central cavernous area which is breached by a large hole and illuminated by a
single shaft of sunlight. It is like the setting of an Indiana Jones movie.
Clambering over the central space and entering the coolness of one of the
caves, the silence is strangely audible in contrast to the noisy animal and
bird life of the external world. All I can hear is the occasional drip of
water, or the lazy meandering of a lost mosquito or fly. Apart from that, it is
quiet and still. In the darkness, with the light of my torch, I can see the
strange, eerie, mineral formations, like frozen vegetable life, suspended, or
large columns, perhaps 3 or 4 feet in circumference, with smoothly rounded, wet
heads. Or formations that swirl like table cloths being thrown over a table, hovering in mid-air, or low and wide deposits on the floor, like coral on the
seabed, speckled with glassy minerals which sparkle in the torchlight. There
are no helpful signs, describing the evolution of the place over thousands of
years in three different languages. There are no illuminating lights. There is
just the thing itself, in the here and now. The peace is deep and calming. I
sit and think and wonder in this most natural of temples. My T-Shirt, drenched
with sweat, is now very cold out of the sunlight and shivering once or twice, I
make my way back into the warmth, humidity and life confirming noise of the
forest.
There is a path to the island summit. This time (thankfully
for my feet) it is an easier, stepped walk, but enervating in the heat and
humidity. I’m wearing blue Pringle socks to avoid slipping in my plastic
footwear. For some reason, I feel like an Englishman abroad stereotype. I
should be wearing a union jack handkerchief on my head and be thinking about
how I can get an English cooked breakfast! On the way up, I stop and watch the Dusky
Langur monkeys eating the new green shoots on some foliage overhead, barely
noticing me they are so intent on what they are doing. The views at the top are
worth the trek, but my favourite location is a wooden platform about 150 metres
from the peak.
Here, with a view across the dense tropical vegetation of
the island, I watch butterflies wheel and dance in flight above the greenery
immediately below. White, orange and black, delicate powdery blues, dark purple
with white spots, yellows of various hues. The orchestra of cicadas around me
forms a dense wall of noise which rises to unified crescendos and then falls
away again in sweeps of sound, a thick, almost electrical hum, moving around me like a resonating
Mexican wave of noise. In the distance, the unmistakable outline of a hornbill,
heavy with its yellow and orange beak and browny grey feathers with a sweep of
white across the flight feathers. There is no seat, so I sit on the edge of the
platform and dangle my legs into the drop below. For some reason the hairs on
my arms and the back of my neck begin to rise. I must be one of the most
privileged people on the planet. To be born in a wealthy country, to be
reasonably intelligent, to have had the opportunity to see such fantastic places
in the world. My goodness me! As if in agreement, the cicada concerto moves again
to an affirming crescendo.
What else do I do with my time? I rise at 7, with the light.
I eat scrambled eggs and fruit and drink strong hot coffee, prepared by the
restaurant owner, Pit. I walk on the beach, checking what flotsam and driftwood
has been thrown up during the night. Or I walk through the forest to a smaller
beach the other side of the headland. I swim and snorkel. The water is clearer
now and I’m getting much better at working out how to use the new camera. Sometimes
I think about work and relationships and writing and stuff and life and then, almost imperceptibly,
I stop thinking and start just being. In the evenings I talk to Marvin and
Eida, a couple from Germany and Denis, also from Germany, here on his own for 6
nights. One night it gets very busy, with a French couple also arriving. 6 people! I go
to bed on the hard, camping mattress at 8 or 8.30pm, tired and happy, conjuring
images from my travels in my mind’s eye before I fall asleep. 'To sleep, perchance to dream'.
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| Sunrise |
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| Home Sweet Home |
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| Parcel Express Delivering Supplies ;-) |
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| Start of the trek to Bua Bok Caves |
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| Dusky Langur |
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| Beach Bum travelling light |
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| Here's one I made earlier |
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| Lush tropical interior |
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| With Pit |
