I close my eyes and I can still see its tortured rocky spine twisting impossibly high before my bloodshot eyes. I slump exhausted on the near vertical stone path made smooth by thousands of flip-flopped feet, clutching the bamboo handrail while the sun boils down, punishing my winter skin. Green carpeted cliffs flank either side of our climb before dropping down hundreds of feet to meet the blinding sand dotted with taunting human specks in the seafoam waves below. Somewhere below me, Jakub is cocooned in his own intense battle for survival. He is hating me at the moment. I don’t blame him.
Locals call this ridge Klingking, or Pinky Finger, Instagramers prefer their selfies on ‘T-Rex Bay.’ It is one of a number of postcard-perfect beach vistas that dot the coastline of Nusa Penida’s wild, rugged landscape. Like many experiences here, this hike was presented oh so casually to us by our young tour guide, Adit, whose tender age, tattoos and guitar-playing late into the night with fellow hotel staff clashed against our knowledge of his wife and two young kids at home. A mild shrug and the most fleeting of reluctance in his eyes was the only indication that this “casual walk to the beach” would end in gasping, scorched despair.
Nusa Penida is a craggy, rainless island one bumpy boat ride southeast of Bali. Just west of here are Lombok and Gilli Island, recently leveled by a devastating earthquake just months ago. Unlike its less fortunate, flatter neighbors, Nusa Penida’s high limestone cliffs - formed by endless azure waves - command the coastline and form dripping white and black caves that host bats, cockroaches and at least one Hindu shrine.
Across the narrow stretch of sea, Mt. Agung, Bali's temperamental volcano rises moodily in the distance, cloaked in a mantle of pregnant clouds.
To Balinese Hindus, Mt. Agung is a representation of Mt. Meru, the home of Lord Shiva (or Siwa in Balinese). To the rest of us, Mt. Agung is a 10,000 foot slumbering dragon - just one year ago, it woke, spilling hot sulfuric clouds of ash high into the atmosphere, prompting the evacuation of nearly 123,000 residents and stranding thousands more tourists. Agung’s last major eruption in 1963 claimed almost 2,000 lives, thus designating it as the 8th deadliest volcanic eruption of the 20th century. For the time being, it is quiet, every now and then belching a plume of smoke to shake us from complacency.
Our red-tiled villa sports deck chairs that provide a wide-lens view of Mt. Agung in the morning and rapturous sunsets in the evening. Legions of mottled crabs scuttle on the concrete riser below.
From my balcony perch, I can hear children laughing and shrieking in the school across the street. Hotel staff trade directives in low clear murmurs. Traffic rumbles and coughs, a constant growl in the background. A vacant tower next to us houses an entire colony of swallows; in the daytime they roost, collectively, their chattering is amplified with a bizarre mechanical resonance, like a malfunctioning robot. It duels with the eerily similar sound of the metal grinder at the construction site next door. In the evening, the swallows spill out, whirling and pivoting against the fuschia sky in search for dinner.
Morning streams diaphanous light through our filmy curtains to the sound of barking dogs and crowing roosters. My walks take me past plastic bowls of silver and orange fish freshly hauled, past cinder block cemeteries covered in trash and earthenware offerings, past naked children breastfeeding, their mothers cheerily waving hello. And through it all, the ocean reaches in, its scent mingling with the smell of cooking food and burning garbage.
Unlike bustling, verdant Bali, Nusa Penida has - by and large - lagged behind in the overall tourist boom, much to our joy and to locals’ chagrin who would gladly welcome the additional income. Roads are rough, sidewalks are few and far between. Bamboo latticed construction projects spring up around the harbor as locals erect villas and cafes in hopes of catching the tourism tide.
With tourism comes more jobs and opportunity. With it also comes a new set of challenges, as the culture strains to adapt to the ever increasing number of foreigners eager to swim in the jewel waters and catch a glimpse of the elusive wonderous giant manta ray. Tour vans and scooters bounce and jostle over pockmarked roads, only to jam against each other as they deposit their fares at a number of select destinations. Traditional sea grass farmers contend with poisonous swirls of motorboat petrol that shimmers on the water’s surface, contaminating their crops.
But it takes little time to observe what Jakub called the million pound gorilla in the room. Tourists bring garbage and lots of it. Cigarette butts, plastic bottles, ticket stubs, abandoned flip flops, straws etc fill every nook and cranny of Nusa Penida’s breathtaking destination spots. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to picture what happens when a strong wind blows (think plastic choked beached whales). Even more discouragingly, there doesn’t seem to be any method of proper disposal here, never mind recycling, so the only tactic left is to rake all the plastic waste into a big pile and burn it.
Jakub and I decided to invent a new internet meme called Instagram vs. Reality. While hoards of selfie stick tourists captured their beaming sun-burned faces in front of seemingly flawless backdrops, we included more honest shots of the garbage choked rocks, muttering under our breath as we transitioned into full-on trash collection mode.
Indonesia is the second biggest producer of plastic ocean waste, just after China. The question of what to do about it is so vexing and vast that paralysis appears to be a reasonable response. It also underscores the urgency of why we came here in the first place, not that beach selfies and bing tangs aren’t a wonderful way to pass the time.
But amidst the despair, there are - as there always are - glimmers of hope. During our second day in Bali we were told by a store clerk that single use plastic bags were no longer legal, evidenced by the brand spanking new racks of re-useable shopping bags in her shop. And on August 19 of this year, 20,000 Indonesians in 76 locations across the country turned out in simultaneous “Face the Sea” events with a sole purpose - clean up the mess.
So coming back to our own harrowing day, Jakub and I huffed and puffed and made it up that stinking trail. We cooled down, had some popsicles and continued on our way. But we were discouraged; what the $#*($ was wrong with tourists who could marvel at the grandeur of Nusa Penida’s natural wonders while simultaneously chucking their plastic water bottle on the cliff side? A bit dejected, Adit took us to our last stop, a gorgeous palm-tree lined beach called Crystal bay. We sat in the shade and thought about the challenges before us. Returning from a swim in the crystalline water, I saw something beautiful. Spilling out onto the beach were large groups of laughing children wearing a multitude of colorful sarongs. Among them were men and women dressed in traditional clothing as well as work uniforms. Each cluster held a large trash bag in their hand. Laughing or serious, they bent to scoop up bottles and cigarette butts, plastic wrappers and discarded fishing line. Again and again they patrolled the stretch of beach until every last visible piece of garbage was gone.
We walked, we helped, we got a little teary. Eventually we made our way to the van, hearts a little lighter, buoyed by the glimpse of what is possible, against the setting sun and the scent of burning plastic.