Our visa run went smoothly enough although the short trip to Singapore still managed to inject enough jet-lag into our bodies to cause several days of exhaustion. Lain only just managed to convince the scowling customs officer in Jakarta to smear blue ink across another page in her passport.
Two trusty kayaks, dusted in casuarina needles, were waiting for us on our return to Gili Trawangan. We had depleted several small supermarkets in Kuta of their stocks of nuts, dried fruit, chocolate bars and oatmeal and dragged these supplies on the fast boat back to 'GT' (as the locals call this little island).
With over 7 weeks until our next visa run we were quite happy to take a short break from the Archipaddlo expedition and its associated red tape wranglings to actually have a short holiday. Although we are now somewhat accustomed to white sandy beaches, coconut palms and tropical sunsets, Gili Trawangan is one of those blips on the map that wraps these essential elements all up like a present for a child on Christmas morning.
The water glistens with the electric blue of a butterfly's wing caught in a flash of sunlight. Schools of fish dance across the surface, shimmering with a silver that cannot be polished. Turtles gulp lungfuls of air before casually joining the many snorkellers for a relaxed cruise over the endless reef. Grass roofed bungalows nestle into the palm trees while the fish of the day simmers on the many beachside barbecues.
Bali, especially Kuta, has unfortunately been overrun by sweaty, loud, overweight, tattooed, drunken Australians - all wearing their Bintang singlets like it is the uniform for a yobbo army. Gili Trawangan, on the other hand, attracts a different crowd and could easily be mistaken for somewhere nestled in the south of the Meditteranean. Suntanned, muscled, European hunks, mostly French and Italian, flick frisbees and volleyballs across the beach to attract the glances of the slim, sun-bronzed, bikinied beauties slung over every banana lounge. Swim up bars, glass bottom boats, horses being ridden bareback through the shallows, and ice-cold drinks served to cane lounges overlooking the beach at sunset. Yep, for a few days of holiday, we had found our spot.
The names of days have no meaning here - everybody is on holiday, and every night is Saturday night. Bonfires on the beach give a focus for the boozers while fire-twirlers dance to the strum of some traveller's guitar. Fireworks crack occasionally overhead, briefly adding a spectrum to the thousands of stars burning above. Bars overflow onto the beach and psychedelic skinny-dippers giggle in the shadows and marvel at the rising moon.
Lain and I have never been the sort to lounge in the sun for long though. The idea of island resorts always looks good on the brochure but there is only so much to do once you get there. We have packed up our scratched boats and have left this friendly utopia behind us, in search of greater adventure. In our trusty tent on a sandy beach on Lombok's western shore I can still hear the fireworks cracking off in the distance.
Well rested, with the memory of fun times with new friends, with bellies full of good food, we are ready again to take on the world, or Lombok at least to start with.
Picture: Juz, Lain, Kate and Clint (and his French chick) quietly relaxing after a tough day.
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