PART III: LAST DAYS IN PARADISE
MY DRIVER, MADE S, AND I DEPART THE SACRED TEMPLES ON LAKE BRATAN and head north towards Singaraja and the secret waterfalls. It’s lunchtime, so before leaving the lake, we pull into a restaurant, obviously serving day tripping tourists—clean, well appointed, sterile, no locals. I’m not a big eater. In my mind, the healthiest diet is the diet of countries who have only one Starbucks and no KFC’s in their cities, what I call The Eat Like A Bird Diet—to simply under eat, eat anything you want to eat, just stop eating before you’re full. And top with a healthy dollop of exercise. And a dash of yoga. I never eat at all-you-can-eat buffets because first, I don’t like that kind of batch-cooked, over-cooked, cooked-without-love food. Second, I dislike feeling bloated after eating, which always happens when you eat all you can eat—that’s the whole idea. Third, since I don’t gorge myself, a buffet is overkill; I never get my money’s worth at a buffet, except maybe desserts.
Made S has brought along a couple pieces of homemade bread for his lunch, which he usually eats alone in his van while his clients begin to billow on nasi goreng and gado gado and mango pie in places just like this one. I invite Made S to eat with me. The restaurant is one that Made S usually takes his clients to when he drives them this way. It is obviously a place only for tourists; however, it does not have a view of the lake, which is my first disappointment—if I’m going to act like a tourist, give me a view of the sight while I under eat is all I’m saying.
This, actually, is one of the few faults I harbor regarding Bali: lack of views. Very few of the rooms in hotels along Kuta and Legian Beach have views of the ocean. What were they thinking? Hey, let’s build a hotel right here on the beach, but get this…we’ll put the garden, the bar, and the pool out front near the ocean. Really? A room on the ocean with no view? And most of the new villas in Ubud—sitting in former rice fields…and former, because now there are so many villas in some places, there’s nowhere to grow rice…and the villas—lie behind high walls, so you may feel safe while skinny dipping in your private pool, but your view is your wall, not a rice paddy.
My second disappointment comes when the young waitress who speaks excellent English and whose nametag informs us her name is Made (!) tells us they only serve buffet at lunch, no ala carte ordering. I don’t even ask the price. I don’t even go over for a gander to see what they offer. It may have been a mistake, but we get up and leave figuring we’ll find another place somewhere down the road.
As a heads up: we are heading into the middle of nowhere, where under eating occurs more often than you might imagine, for animals as well as humans. Made S will be eating his two pieces of bread for lunch, and I will be eating only the dried dates and cashews I brought along as a snack for our trip into Legian Beach. But we just might find some bananas growing wild.
This is what the Lonely Planet guide for Bali has to say about the middle of nowhere here:
“A series of narrow roads links the Danau Bratan area and Gunung Batur region. Few locals outside this area even know the roads exist, and if you have a driver, you might need to do some convincing. Over a 30km route you not only step back to a simpler time, but also leave Bali altogether for something resembling less-developed islands such as Timor. The scenery is beautiful and may make you forget you had a destination.”
But just so you know, you can also find right there in the middle of nowhere something called Bali Adventure Tours, and you can also find the (now) ever popular, especially with Aussie families and the forty-something-Eat Pray Love emulators, Elephant Safari Park. You can even stay at the Elephant Safari Park Lodge, a nice enough place if you like 5-star hotels impersonating 4-star hotels, but it’s a far cry from the atavistic scene of cock fights in the dirt on the main plaza in Tenganan or just about anything I’ve seen on the island of Timor. Like Joni Mitchell says: they paved paradise and put up an elephant safari park. Or, something like that.
We leave the main north/south road, and begin heading north-east. We almost immediately begin an ascent. We are inside and on the floor of an ancient volcanic caldera complex, comprising numerous volcanoes; Gunung Bratan lies here and has not been active for hundreds of years. We travel on tiny back roads, some barely wide enough for two small cars. I brought no map as I thought I was heading to Legian and know the way. I have no idea where we are or where we are headed, except that we are going to the other side of the island, about as far away from Legian Beach as you could go, physically and metaphorically. There are few houses, fewer villages, no 7-11 stores. Certainly no Hard Rock Cafés. And no barstools with views of a lake.
Lesson learned: pack larger bags of snack food when traveling in Bali. You never know where you might end up.
One good thing to know: somebody will be selling bananas somewhere. And if not, they grow wild everywhere. In one tiny roadside stand you might find seven different varieties of bananas being sold, all different sizes, from finger length to forearm-of-a-dwarf size. And since they come inside a skin, they are safe to eat anywhere you find them. Same with cucumbers–if you bring a knife to remove the skin (I learned from my days of living in the mountains of Colorado to always carry a knife, I still do).
We pass interesting people doing interesting (and unknown) chores. We pass through villages where women are burning…er…a lot of “something.”
Most villages are still decorated with their penjors for the two related holidays of Galungan, when the Balinese ancestors come to visit for a period, and Kuningan, when the ancestors depart. The time in between is festive, with many parades of villagers and musicians walking through town on their way to ceremonies in temples.
Some homes actually do still sit in the middle of rice fields. And I suppose, if I lower my level of disdain for suburbanizing the rice fields of Ubud, I’d have to say there actually are still many places with great views.
I never tire of photographing the ornamented tiles of a traditional Bali roof. We travel slowly, on narrow but surprisingly well-maintained roads, through towns with names like Nangka and Lemukih. This road may have a name or a number, but I see no name or number on any road sign. I see no road signs. I do see a rock carved into a cube with a number on it. Made S says that is the number of kilometers to Singaraja. He tells me that he has never come this way before, we’re trying a new route. He does not carry a map.
Made S tells me the story of one of his customers who had a GPS app on his mobile phone. Made S knew the roads to where they were going, but the man was rather arrogant and proud of his new device and wanted to be in control of his family’s adventure. He insisted they follow the directions on his GPS. His children were in awe and ecstatic. Long story short: they got lost, ended up in a dead-end cul-de-sac in the jungle on a road so narrow there was no way to turn around. Made S had to drive in reverse a few kilometers, and they finally got out. The man put his phone away and allowed Made S to show the family his island.
After growing and harvesting the rice, it needs to air and dry in the sun. In many small villages, this happens beside the road on plastic tarps. I’m beginning to wonder how I feel about rice lying like this beside the road and mixing with exhaust fumes, or the hooves of goats (of which, for your sake, I will not even mention alimentary canals).
Climbing vines rise on walls from the rich, volcanic soil. Made S and I now climb the mountain in the van, maneuvering around switchbacks and motorbikes.
Flying kites is one of the favorite past times of Balinese boys. You might see one, or a hundred, flying anywhere or any time the wind kicks up, usually in rice fields where there is plenty of maneuvering room to fly, and lower safely.
We drive further and further into the middle of nowhere. The sky appears one moment as though we will be washed away in a downpour, and the next moment, it feels like a scorched day in the desert. Humidity weighs heavily on us. When raindrops begin to sprinkle, I am relieved I am not riding a motorbike. Then rain falls so hard, our vision is impaired, and we must slow down, and creep uphill. When riding a motorbike in Bali, I do carry a rain poncho to wear if it rains, but I prefer not to ride a motorbike in the rain. I feel so grateful sometimes that “something” takes care of me in life. I could so easily be a hopeless basket case flailing through life if I had no miracles appearing in my day. Often. Like right now, I could be huddling under the branches of a banyan tree with my motorbike, waiting for clear skies.
After two hours of driving uphill into wild forest, on narrower and narrower roads and not finding another restaurant to stop and eat, we see a sign that says: Sekumpul Falls – Parking. We pull in. There is a little place to eat, a shop selling I Heart Bali T-shirts, and a group of young men with motorbikes. I eye the make-shift food stall. In my years of travel, I have eaten street food in many countries and have had surprisingly few alimentary canal problems (*he cautiously looks around to knock wood*). These days, now that I’m older and wiser, I’m a little more hesitant to eat just anywhere. My mind is thinking one word: sanitation. Then my mind overpowers its body’s hunger with this kind of rational logic: we’re here to see the secret falls, dammit, not eat. But it has me wondering—am I now actually wiser, or simply less adventurous? Or is the “Mysterious Something in the cosmos” assisting me in my desire to under eat?
The young men tell us it is 400 hundred meters to walk. 15,000 rupiah for a ride on the back of their motorbikes. What they don’t tell us is that after the bike ride, it’s something like 270 steps down a very steep ravine to get to the river and falls below. I momentarily consider walking the few hundred meters, like four football fields, through some thick and wonderful-looking wooded terrain. Years ago when traveling on a shoe string, there would have been no choice to make: I would have walked, and loved the walk. At today’s exchange rate, 15,000 rupiah is like one US dollar and eleven cents. Fine, I opt for the bike ride, and pay for Made S’s ride also. The town is making money by allowing tourists to park on their land, to walk through their land, to ride through their land, and to view the falls on their land, which lie in a canyon fairly difficult to reach. And this is why few people know of the falls. This is what you call off the beaten path. And you see some folks here living completely off the grid, without electricity or running water. Apparently, we seem to be closing in on the precise middle of nowhere.
My bike driver is the second child born to his parents; his name is Made—see how easy it is to remember names in this country. The path to the stairs is narrow, only wide enough for one bike. Lush greenery abounds. I’m not totally comfortable riding a motorbike, even less comfortable on the back of one. I snap a one-handed photo of our path as we whisk through the jungle on Made’s bike. While riding, I feel exactly the way the photo looks—jangled, obscure, wooly. I’m pretty certain I have trust issues.
Just about everywhere where there’s a middle of nowhere, the landscape seems to be lush and beautiful (except for some places like, say, Jordan). And sometimes, the middle of nowhere can get scary (like in Jordan, which is 180 degrees away from lush, but is beautiful in a monolithic-igneous sort of way). In the middle of nowhere here on Bali, it is not scary at all, just extremely peaceful, beautiful, and two worlds away from Kuta Beach’s style of viewless scary.
Ancient rice terraces progress down the mountainside, one artistically carved tier after another. Water for irrigation chimes the air. Trees crowd together like happy families. Bali starlings dash through the valley in darting clusters of gray. Long-tailed macaques sit on branches and chatter like old friends at a picnic. When you look at the pictures above and below, look across the valley floor to the jungle running up the mountain, and imagine standing on this side of the valley in that same kind of jungle on the path leading to Sekumpul Falls. This is big land.
Homes lie very far away from one another in a place like the middle of nowhere, even in Jordan (where a home there may be a Bedouin tent, and the beauty is a different kind of beauty, a hard-and-harsh-rock beauty). The beauty on Bali is distinctly lush, soft, fragrant, luscious. So just why am I thinking of the harshness of Jordan here? Maybe it has something to do with Lawrence of Arabia who fought his war in Jordan and died riding a motorcycle. Odd, how a brain works some times, how one vision can spark a memory of something else, or one aspect links to another seemingly incongruent aspect. We ride to the end of the narrow path, where the motorbikes can go no further. Then, we begin to hike on a footpath closer to the precise middle of nowhere.
This is wild country. Many things, flora and fauna, grow wild—flowers, fruit, chocolate, pigs, luwaks. Coffee grows wild here, too. The flowers of a coffee plant emit an aroma similar to jasmine. Both Robusta and Arabica beans grow in the shade of larger trees on this land, their ideal growing condition—as opposed to growing in open sun as they are now forced to grow on large plantations in places like Brazil and Colombia.
Coffee beans grow on the stems of trees in clusters. Green coffee beans are not ripe. They will first turn yellow, then red. The red ones in the background are almost ready to harvest…or be eaten by a local luwak, the Asian palm civet (not really a cat as some people call it).
Bamboo ladders can be found lying about, ready when fruit ripens in tall trees. The ground is the perfect (only) place here to store a ladder this size. If a ladder gets ruined or chewed on by a pot-bellied pig, the people simply use the ladder as kindling to cook dinner or heat the bath, then make another ladder on the spot. Bamboo grows fairly large in Bali, maybe 8 inches wide if not cut down to make a ladder or living room chair covered in gaudy, hibiscus-print cushions. The various plants grow side by side naturally, a banana tree next to a coffee tree next to a mangosteen or mango. You see no orchards. This is wild country, natural country, a jungle, a living textbook of natural histories.
One might wonder just what gnaws away at the bark of a tree like this—a tiger, a rutting deer, a man, disease.
Made, the guide, does not know the name of this “berry.” He says local people don’t eat them, so they don’t name them. To me, the berry looks more like a carbuncular parasite than a fruit growing, rather oddly in clusters on stiff twigs, along the trunk of a tree. Made says his people wait to see if the birds eat a berry, and if the birds eat the berries, then the local people will try them. The birds don’t eat this berry.
Mangosteens grow wild next to thick stands of bamboo and cacao trees.
Syllogism of the day: Birds eat mangosteens. Mangosteens have a name. Therefore, locals eat mangosteens.
Yeah, I know, let’s just blame this kind of inane wandering-off-on-tangents nonsense to possible ADHD. Or…the ‘60’s.
We come across a ladder set up to reach fruit in high trees. The locals try to harvest fruit before the birds arrive for their au naturel buffet. Birds do not simply sit on a branch and eat one mangosteen. They take a bite or two out of one. Then move on, and later take a bite or two out of another. They invented the Eat Like A Bird diet. Mangosteen, banyan, and other trees trees grow fairly tall here in this jungle, as you can see in the photo. Most coffee trees grow only about 10 to 12 feet high, perfect for their hiding in the shade of taller trees. Some bamboo plants can reach a height of 90-100 feet. Bamboo is the fastest growing plant in the world, and can grow something like two feet in a day. That’s one reason it was such a good weapon of torture in nearby parts of the world at one time—position a victim’s stomach or eye directly above a bamboo shoot with its tip carved to a razor-sharp point, add water, watch it grow into your victim. If you’re looking for answers as opposed to simply the joy of torturing someone, you’ll probably get an answer in the first few hours.
I am surprised when we finally arrive at the top of a ravine, where fairly new, but poorly-crafted and already crumbling stairs of molded concrete begin to descend. We turn left at this sign. But the arrow pointing “down” is way more accurate than one would imagine. Very quickly, we are glad we opted for the bike ride, rather than walk all that way through the forest, because now we must walk another 400 meters straight down.
The stairs at the top of the ravine—400 meters and something like 270 steps. I believe I may have misunderstood the first guy in the parking lot. Perhaps, he meant this was the 400 meter walk and simply expected us to take the bike ride. Because now, I’m believing the ride was further than 400 meters: it took us a while to drive. I wouldn’t have minded that walk in my earlier years of traveling, no matter how far; in those earlier days, I walked all day, every day—my MO as a budget traveler. Today, I’m thanking the gods that 15,000 rupiah is no hardship, no deal breaker, and also that someone invented handrails. The handrail on these particular stairs is there for a good reason. When you build a house where you live, there is a code you must meet for building stairs. On the side of a ravine in the middle of nowhere, there is no code for the building of stairs, nor the steepness of stairs going down a vertical cliff face, nor apparently, the proper mixing of cement into concrete, nor the sturdiness of a handrail. Nor the obnoxiousness of the color of paint.
When we reach the floor of the canyon, we are treated to a little local jam session on a bamboo xylophone. I’m not going to tell you this music sounded like Yo-Yo Ma on a cello, but it was rather idyllic to be this far from everything and hear an exotic local rhythm accompanying the sounds of silence in nature. This is the entrance to the valley. You must buy a ticket, another 15,000 rupiah. It’s beginning to become a rupiah-intensive trip. But they let Made S enter for free as a reward for bringing me here. They are unaware it was my idea. They should let me in free, make Made S pay. Perhaps, this is the kind of logic you start utilizing after descending 270 steps into the middle of nowhere after passing up a buffet and under-eating your heart out for the rest of the day.
One thing they neglected to tell us when paying the exorbitant entrance fee was that you must wade across the river six times to reach the falls. I’m guessing this is another deterrent against hordes of tourists visiting. However, if you wait long enough, some day you may be able to ride in here on camels or elephants, and view it from hot air balloons or helicopters.
After the first crossing, we are immediately treated to a slice of natural beauty, a small waterfall surrounded by lush plants above the river. For me sometimes, the small elements of paradise outshine the larger sights. This might be one of those times. I sat down and stared at this scene for a long while before photographing it. The two Mades hiked on without me. I don’t think the photo does it justice. You can’t hear it, you can’t smell it, you can’t feel that boulder or the spray in the wind.
If you think the fruit of the banana looks phallic, wait till you see the whole plant growing in the middle of nowhere above the river. Now, that is one well-hung banana plant right there. It might make a more insecure man feel inadequate, or like going out and buying a Ferrari.
Again and again, we cross the river, which is fairly swift running, and knee deep in some places.
I take a selfie of me and my Keens mid-crossing in shallow water, just so you would know I actually went to the falls, actually crossed that dang river. Another reason to be thanking the gods—had I planned on coming here instead of Legian, I would have been wearing thongs on my feet for comfort while riding in the van, and now I would be walking barefoot on the rocky river bottom. I chose sandals for more safety on the motorbike ride back to Ubud. River sandals are a much better accouterment for crossing rivers with slippery-and-sharp-rock floors. I’m a little hesitant to report that Made S took off his thongs to wade the river, and while walking barefoot, stepped on a wicked stone, and somehow fell into the river, soaking one side of his pants and shirt. But he was unhurt, did not drown, and his clothes dried by the time we got back to the van. So no real story to tell. I admit, however, I did think about adding a bit of fiction here—writing the story of how I fell into the river, was washed down stream in the current, was swallowed whole by a monster Bali crocodile, but managed to escape through his massive cloaca.
Everybody makes it to the falls with a little help from their friends. There are actually two sets of falls on the floor of this canyon. The first one is a beautiful twin falls and a little shorter, with more water flowing.
The second set of falls is beautiful and higher. It has three falls. Above, you see a wet Made S walking near one of the three falls.
Panoramic view with iPhone. My first attempt at panoramic mode. I did not know how to do this, and tried to lower the camera as the land went downhill. But no. You have to pretty much keep your camera level, or you get black edges. I think that’s what happens.
There are a total of 11 of us at the falls. Not your average tourist trap. No place to park a tour bus, no escalator to move you along toward the steps, no elevator down the mountainside, no bridge(s) across the river, no hoards of vendors selling sarongs, Buddha heads, or Bintang Beer. Pure sensory overload. Lush and natural history all to ourselves.
You can take a couple out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of a couple.
Beginning the ascent back to the top of the canyon feels somehow better, or safer, than the descent. There are two sets of steps, leading to two different villages and parking areas. These folks are using the less-steep stairs. My two Mades and I came from the other village and utilized the steeper steps. Like the Navy Seals say: Hooo-yahh!
Xylophone man. Pupils like saucers. I do not know how to say in the Indonesian language: “what are you on, man.” But I would like to try some of whatever it is—I think. Maybe it is just too many cups of that Robusta coffee they offer at the entrance stand, which they sell for the inflated price of 25,000 rupiah ($1.85) for a bag of beans. Of course, in the Ubud Starbucks, their Bali coffee is way more expensive. But in the Bintang Market, local coffee is half the price here in nowhere. However, Made S informs me that this would be some of Bali’s finest local-style coffee. We both pop for a bag of the stuff.
Whenever I try to shoot a photo of Made the guide, he lowers his head as though that were his best, or most unique, feature or as though he believed that was the shot I wanted.
We begin to retrace our steps back to the top of the ravine, using the steeper set of stairs. We climb those 270 stairs—going up is easier on the joints than going down, but more strenuous on the muscles. We climb fairly slowly; we all have our own reasons—Made the guide is a young Balinese (the happiest, friendliest, most beautiful people I know but not generally known for expending excessive energy, although I know some who do); Made S has a knee issue and wet pants; I’m a geezer. It surprises me, though, when I notice my heart pounding in my chest. Just how old have I gotten, how out of shape? I have been doing yoga five times a week for the past year, but not once this summer here in Bali; however, I am still fairly limber and in fairly good shape for a grizzled geezer my age. But I begin to feel a weird emotion, because I am remembering a time in my life when I would have run up these steps two at a time, like I did decades ago inside the Washington Monument in Washington, D.C. just for the fun of it (or maybe it really was ADHD). And for the first time in my life, I am imagining a time when doing these kinds of things will no longer be possible, and I’ll be like most people acting their age and traveling on a tour bus to Gitgit Falls along with 300 others. And then maybe a few years later, simply watching the Discovery Channel on a 50-inch TV. I thank god—or whomever or whatever—daily for my being me: healthy, happy, lucky, ornery. And, of course, bad. But what’s up with this pounding-heart crap?
Rationalization of the day: it was freaking straight up hill.
Betty Davis may have it right when she says: “Growing old ain’t for sissies.”
We ride the bikes back through the forest and past the berries the birds won’t eat. Once in the van again, we drive on more roads that Made S is not familiar with. We stop a few times to ask directions. We’re not lost, exactly. Made S knows the area, he knows where we’re going, he just doesn’t know quite where we are or how to get there from here because we’re going a different way than he usually drives, a shorter way, a less traveled way, a very beautiful way back down the mountain. He is finding his way back to the roads he knows. And he will not forget this new route for use with future clients.
We reach the main road back to Lake Bratan and ride through villages with names like Wana Giri and Panca Sari. By sheer chance I glance off to the side and notice a few hundred yards in from the road a pair of those temple pillars, one on either side of the road. I have found them! The very pillars that I had seen years before but didn’t know where they were, and had believed they were the entrance to Bedugul or Lake Bratan. I am thrilled to have found these pillars, thrilled more than you could know. They have been one of my most-vivid memories of my first time traveling Bali.
But then, disappointment saunters on stage. I’m a little alarmed, really, to discover that these temple gates are the entrance to the Bali Handara Kosaido Country Club! I had completely forgotten where the gates had led when I first visited all those years ago. I had remembered being entirely impressed by them when I first discovered them—their size, their beauty, the landscape around them. But I had not remembered being disappointed at the time to discover what they actually were. Now I feel a little let down because for all these years, the memory of those pillars has been a lucid vision of beauty and culture in my mind’s eye. Now, it’s unveiled as the entrance to a freakin golf course. I have nothing against golf nor people who play golf in country clubs. It’s just not the cultural beauty I had encased in memory. Sometimes, apparently, it is simply better not to return to a place you visited decades before.
Note to self: never return to Komodo Island. Or Sumatra. Or Yelapa. Or the Washington Monument.
We take more back roads finding a different way home with different scenery than the way we came. We end up at Kintamani, a fairly good-sized town high on the slopes of another volcanic caldera, and overlooking Lake Batur and Gunung Batur, an active volcano and sacred to the Balinese. Hardened lava flow is visible down its slopes. But more amazing is that you see houses built on the slopes, next to old cars half-buried in solidified lava. Hey, I’m making no value judgments here—I can understand why someone might desire to live near a sacred site at the tree line of the forest where the lava stopped flowing downhill and burning everything above. OK, you’re right, I have made a value judgment, but I’m trying to keep it to myself.
Standing on the rim of a volcano and peering into its caldera makes you feel small, insignificant—way more devastating to an ego than a well-hung banana tree. You’ll need to buy yourself a Porsche, a Bentley, and a Ferrari to compensate here. Gunung Batur sits inside a large caldera of a volcano that erupted thousands of years ago. From its rim, you peer into its depths and see Gunung Batur climb from the caldera floor and rise higher than the surrounding caldera rim on which you stand. It makes you wonder just how big the older volcanoes were.
The first time I visited Bali years ago, I stayed in a hotel located right on the rim of this caldera near the town of Kintamani, in a place called Lakeview Lodge. The hotel was expensive for me at the time, $10 a night, but I wanted to experience waking up to that view and just gazing at it all day from my private veranda while sipping kopi hitam (black coffee) and hot ginger tea. If you’ve never stood on the rim of a volcano and peered into its heart, you might want to try it. Even when dormant, a volcano is a powerful vortex of energy you can feel if you silence your mind and allow yourself to leave your personal space and situations. It is similar to the feeling you get when walking into the Cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris, or jumping out of an airplane, perhaps.
The first thing I saw in the morning from my $10 hotel room years ago was the sunlight shimmering on the lake like a million tiny diamonds. A man paddling alone in a dugout canoe, a thin line of a wake trailing behind him. Bright white clouds hugging the mountain top. The air was still, until the sun warmed the land, and then a brisk breeze blew in with majestic power. A huge bird that may have been an eagle, or large hawk, soared on thermals without using its wings, gliding along the high rim of the crater. This was no golf course.
Since that time, they have built a new hotel on that spot, a five-star hotel. I don’t even want to hazard a guess at the price of a room. But I’d guess your breakfast, or one beer at lunch, would cost you as much as I paid in 1987 for my over-priced-for-my-budget room.
This little lady sells old postcards on the rim of the caldera in Kintamani. I am concentrating on getting down to her eye level and do not notice the logo on her hat, and notice it only when viewing the photo, days later. Now, I wish I knew the story of how she got that hat. Did someone give it to her? Did she find it? Was it payment for a pack of old postcards? Did it blow off someone’s head and end up half a mile down valley or somewhere inside the caldera? Or is it a knockoff made in Bali?
Next post, we finally drink some of the most expensive coffee in the world: kopi luwak. We meet a luwak. And we meet—you guessed it—yet another Made. If this were a song, we might title it: “Life Is Just A Bowl Of Mades.”
You can find other entries to DP Photo Challenge here: Connected
You can find other entries to Lucile’s Photo Rehab here: Photo Rehab
You can find other entries to WP Daily Prompt here: The Young and the Rested
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