Jake had left for home in the States, Nina and Esmee continued on their voyage, and Morgan and I went off searching for adventures. We chose Senggigi. A sleepy town, one that could be missed if you sat in the car for too long and had a spell of daydreaming of icecream on a hot summer day. The sand was dark, black even. It sloped steeply away from the poolside hotel terrace. The gardens in the hotel courtyard flashed colorful flowers, tropical fruit trees, and tiny toads that hopped around in the rain. It was raining the entire time we were there. Hard to believe that Gili Trawangan was only a mere 45 minute boat trip away and never rained. The locals on Gili were surely offering handmade goods but nothing like the vulchers here in Senggigi.
Morgan stopped off into a cafe for some internet while I went around hunting for a scooter and a place to stay. I was back in 20 minutes, only to find her surrounded by a canvas painter, a blowdart gun maker, and a wood-carving local. I showed up in time to halt the mayham, give her a chance to finish her pinapple curry, and make a promise that we would return for their crafts. I was especially interested in the blowdart guns, but we had business to take care of, and I never like purchasing outright. Some reconnaissance is necessary for me to pull the trigger. Morgan had percieved value, and two paintings caught her eye which eventually caught her wallet. They're stunning and she loves the memories they illicit. Well played my dear!
We hoped for the sun, waves as promised, and culturally memorable experiences....the only thing we got was the ladder. I filled the bike with a fresh two liters of petrol, $1.20. With Morgan wielding the camera and our empty backpack, I set off in the rain for Mataram. Her arms rapped around my waist, laughing at the local children, and smiling at the homeless puppies, Morgan was ready for an adventure. We weren't sure what we were looking for or where we were going for that matter. After 45 minutes or so, we looped around the large town of one-way streets to end up at a local market.
Cultural experience found! Not dissimilar to the markets I've been exposed to in South America recently, this market teemed with oddities. The dark alleys of clothes, musty rows of unimaginable food, and endless indigenous comments indiscernable by us. I was curious how Morgan would react. I lead the way at times but let her take the raines and stear us through the clutter. I watched her face, listened to her breath, and tried to feel her emotions. She was calm yet attentive, unimpressed yet curious, and sad yet smiling. The smells were pungent. They could eat the enamel off your teeth. Picture something similar to a now non-smoking hotel room that some years back was converted from a smoking one, but with fish. It was wasn't fresh fish smell or rotten, just earily reminiscent. Baskets of fly ridden produce, rice, and meats. There were dried and salted fish carcases, small ones, big ones, fileted ones, green ones, yellow ones, and white ones. I followed Morgan around, scratching my head, watching her smile at the local non-english speaking women. She spots a bowl of green wet balls. They looked like a group of tourquoise tadpoles without their tales, slimey, motionless, odorless. These little rice-dough palm-suger filled snacks were sprinkled in coconut shavings and served up by the barehand-full. The lady hands one to Morgan. Not sure what to do or how to do it, she takes a nibbel...brown room temperature juices fills her mouth and slips down her lip, making a perfect glue for the cocunut to rest on her face. She cringed then laughed, and smiled unexpectedly. Morgan asked "how much" the lady holds up 10 fingers, which is 10,000 rupiah or one dollar for the "Klepon"...Morgan hands the money in exchange for a paper rapped heap of greenish-blue tadpole looking dessert snacks that glistened from sticky wetness. Then I got the gumption to try the similarly displeasing looking yellow snack made from "Cassava." The mild yet sweet, bland yet fermented tasting treat was worth a buck. Plopped into a plastic bag it looked like one globbular cluster of half melted yellow cheese lump. Not sure which was more powerful...the actual flavors, textures, and sight of the treats or the fact that you were trying them in a moldy, musty, presumeably dirty market-converted warehouse. Next thing I know Morgan is pushing me infront of the local women cooking and offering me some satay's of meat...one is red, the chicken, and the other yellow, which happened to be horse. Seeing my curiosity, the lady graciously hands me the yellow as a gesture of kindness. Morgan laughed as I consumed horse flesh wide-eyed and chewing with half bites like you would with hot food or something icky tasting like caviar or HORSE! Enough said, I ate horse, Morgan laughed with the locals, and I oddly found it edible yet still displeasing. Cultural experience...check!
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