Most mornings here on Lombok, I begin the day in darkness with the Muslim Call to Prayer and a chorus of contesting roosters. Poolside with a candle, I get to be quiet and alone.
I’m stuck in a funk, which is fine. We all end up here from time to time. We get down even in paradise. We complain when we only have first-world problems on our plate. Even when we are surrounded by answered wishes, sometimes we find ourselves rocking out at a raging pity-party in honour of nothing much at all. I’m simply in that place. We have all been there before. I should be enjoying myself more, but I’m not. The big picture is all blurry, and the cracks and the gritty bits are on macro lens. Sitting poolside, I pout, and my Higher Self is shaking her head saying, “Come on, Dede. You’ve got this.”
It’s hard though. Being in a funk is one of those unavoidable things. Maybe it’s even therapeutic. “Part of the process.” It is commonplace, but it’s still really annoying. I mean, it’s all in my head, right? I should be able to fix this. Everything could be different. Everything could be better. The present, the future, even the past could be rosier. If I could just get those neurons up there to fire in a different sequence or at a different speed or in conjunction with different neuro-comrades, all could be well, amazing even. It’s all right there in front of me. All the blessings and fleeting moments are taunting me, dancing around thumb-to-nose wiggling fingers with raspberries of provocation. I should be able to claim this experience, to select my mindset, to slough off this useless rigidity and live these precious days to their full value. Right? I have that power. I mean, it’s all in my head. Haven’t I got control over that? If anything?
Apparently not. Cause I’m trying. Really hard. (Maybe too hard.) Some contributing factors to the funk are as follows. One, I have a bum knee for no apparent reason. I must have upset it during the move. I’m a runner, and I haven’t been able to run in over six weeks, and that alone is enough to activate crazy-lady mode. Two, we don’t have transportation anymore, which is the loss of a very key parenting tool. Now we depend on drivers and need cash to make any movement happen. It’s isolating and frustrating. Three, 24/7 parenting is tough. During school holidays, I used to joke that work was my safe place. Now, nowhere is safe. And six weeks into this trip, the honeymoon is over. I’m mothering three kids in their own little funks. Some days are very long. Four, I have a rash, and those always hijack one’s access to fulfilment. Five, being a “Westerner” comes with a lot of life-long, existence-elevating perks, but while traveling, it can be a drag. A complicated drag. Reflections on this to come. I’m processing a lot on this front.
So, that’s the bad and the ugly. I’ll let photos tell the good. Behold all this great goodness, and you will see why I’m so annoyed with this first-world funk.
Sydney Airport, 4am. From The Sandvan and all her freedoms to seven backpacks carefully weighed. (Little did we know, our flight was delayed by three hours, and we would miss our connecting flight from Bali to Lombok. New Rule: Always check the flight status before waking the kids. Old Rule: Always buy travel insurance.)Due to our delay, we got a night in Bali at the Crystalkuta Hotel, insurance-funded (hopefully). The boys dug into some dragonfruit juices and local dishes, encircled by a fleet of smiling young staff who wanted photos with them. There were lots of giggles and gestures of common human language. A Tom Cruisy bartender with cocktail shakers even started up a juggling class… until all the clanging disturbed other guests. Little Western kids are treated with such adoration. It’s going to help us at every turn, I think. It’s nice to see the boys so gracious.The pool was empty and surrounded by beautiful Balinese decor. A couple of young men busted out the rindiks (on the platform behind the boys), and we were serenaded by the mystical (and then maddening) sounds of mallets on bamboo. It was a magical welcome to this nation unknown to us all.The little one is on a world tour of cheese pizza, fries, and salty snacks.It seems the budget airlines rarely get gates.We finally made it to our island. Lombok is The Island of a Thousand Mosques, and we are here for the whole month of Ramadan. (Good world-schooling lessons are cooking.)Villa Batu Sisi is our home for the month of March. You can see the boys have already found local sticks.We splurged and got a pool at our first AirB&B because the little one has never learned to swim properly (and Fear’s favourite scenario is kids in water and a mother distracted.) It was my unspoken objective that all three would be doing laps by the end. It is already done, and I didn’t even suggest it.From crab hunting to coconut hunting. (We never did this to a crab, for the record.)Australians are spoiled for beaches, but anyone would be put off by the plastic here. There is a Tsunami Evacuation sign above the boys’ heads. It points down our lane. There are no sidewalks, but it’s mostly motorbike traffic, so not too oppressive for the pedestrian. There is poverty, but not abject poverty. Most people seem well enough to share a smile with a group of boys.The stick obsession evolves. He’s wearing the right shirt, at least. And it’s nice to have a goddess watching over.The middle one is in heaven, living the dragonfruit dream. Dad takes a break from work to make a pancake lunch. One of the first meals we made happen with any success using local ingredients. I think poor Dad has made pancakes about 15 times since.We’ve had some cooking lessons from a chef who will visit the house for the cost of an average Aussie meal. She loves having the boys pitch in and is helping me take notes on all her recipes. Wayan is a total legend: an excellent chef, a natural teacher, and she has a love for other people’s enjoyment. Her assistant Te is also a joy, just quieter and with a more sly sense of humour. Wayan and Te took us to the “very, very local” market to get our ingredients for dinner this past Sunday. The boys were dragged out of bed at 7am to have their cheeks pinched and backs rubbed by dozens of ladies. Calls of “Gagah! Gagah!” rose up around us as we moved through the rabbit-warren market. “Handsome! Handsome!” It was all a bit much for our bleary-eyed boys.We also took a coconut oil and coffee roasting class. Best experience yet. First you cut open the coconut… with a giant knife.Then you grate the coconut… with razor sharp graters… and then a machine once the tourists have had a little go.Then you add water and squeeze “very strong” and strain.Then we all got to work stirring over a fire for about 45 minutes. The boys did amazingly well… for about 30.The boys preferred playing with the local kids. Chickens bond.We also roasted coffee. My partner had been trying to figure out what was going on with the coffee grown here. He even sent the boys with questions to ask at our class. Turns out, it’s simple: They cut the coffee with rice. It’s in those roasting pans too. Presumably, this is to make the coffee supply go further. It’s not as horrible as it sounds.Leave it to this guy to try it all. He had three cups. Never again.In the end, we took home four boxes of rice coffee, four bottles of coconut oil (good for the skin and hair), and a box of the tasty bits that separate from the coconut oil. (And some plastic. Ugh.)But the best take-away was sharing smiles with these life-loving people of Lombok Pottery Village. All three boys want to go back “just to play.”
So, you see. Lots of good. And, don’t worry. It’s not all slipping through my fingers. Reflecting on these photos, my funk might not be as bad as it sometimes seems. I’ve just got a lot to process. A lot in my head at the moment.
Mapping the Gap 
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