Thoughts in Leaving the Jungle

This, I call mental decompression.

Seven days in the jungle, isolated from the outside world, whatever that may be. Finding myself lost among the monkeys in the trees, the bamboo trees stretching seven stories in the air, the mud and sand and grit between my toes, I searched for solitude and found it quite easy. At the sun’s setting, just after six, the lights to the world went out and only pale lights scattered across dirt roads and footpaths provided insight as to where to go, and how carefully one should proceed. And how many stars were scattered across the black evening sky? Enough that counting them would quickly become to boring and cumbersome. Two hours later, what commotion stirred in the common area was quieted as we stumbled off to an early night, weary from a day of paddling, of walking, and of telling the stories of the waves we caught.

Morning always came early. By six the sunlight was already breaking through the canopy, waking the monkeys, whose stirring made eerie noises overhead. What sunlight made it past the monkeys found its way to windowsills, through the sarong acting as a window curtain, and between the tiny holes in the mosquito netting engulfing the bed. I always woke with the sun, and the monkeys, and the light filtering into by tiny bungalow. And in waking, the world was new again, and primitive.

A walk to the left two hundred yards revealed a break called “Kongs,” at the southeastern most point of East Java. It was supposedly mellower than the other breaks out front, “Money Trees” and “Speedies.” But it never looked that way. At least, not for the time that I was there. I crossed my fingers each morning that the swell had dropped and that the ways would look in some ways “manageable.” Manageable became a term one heard quite frequently in the jungle, though it always meant something different to someone else. To me, manageable would mean head high at best, and clean. Kongs wasn’t working well the first day. Nor the next. Or any day until the morning that I left. But at 6 Am the tide was low- too low for me- and I had already said my farewell to the Indian Ocean the afternoon before. Still, the fact that the swell was well too big for me did not bring down my hopes that, in walking to Kongs each morning, I might see my chance to ride the famous wave.

Three mornings I paddled out front in hopes that either Kongs, Money Tree, or Speedies would drop in size and give me my opportunity. But three mornings I found myself disappointed that I was unable to find that wave that fit my expectations and my skill level perfectly. That was the thing I struggled with most in the jungle, reconciling my expectations of riding big waves with the fact that I had never even come close to riding waves as perfectly formed as the waves in the jungle. But I have always had trouble reconciling my expectations with reality. One might thing I would have learned to stop having expectations by now. But the jungle did not care. In fact, it called me to wander north along the coast, away from the breaks out front and into the parts that people rarely went alone, or by foot.

But I wandered, several miles through dense jungle with the occasional crossing of deer or Komodo dragon so large they could eat a German shepherd with little indigestion. The walk was quiet, except for the sound of footsteps crunching in the sand, or sliding in the mud, and the occasional conversation with new friends made while there. It was long, but time meant nothing in the jungle. In fact, the only reason to care the time of day was in making sure to surf the proper tide. Some surfers had little care as to high, low, or mid-tides. They surfed as they felt – freely. I was more picky, and chose to start walking two hours before high tide, knowing that by the time I paddled out into the surf, the tide would be nearing its height, would remain for a brief moment, and then begin to back away. So time for me was just as useless as the idea of it once I started walking.

In the water, miles from anything that in any way resembled civilization in a third world country, I was free to sit and think and let the salty air and ocean water absorb any negativity that might have somehow surfaced in my trek out. Negativity was like knots during a deep massage. It was hidden beneath the surface, sometimes too far to even know that it was present at all. But as the walk began to loosen the muscles, it also loosened the mind, and sometimes negativity surfaced by the time I reached the water’s edge. But the ocean was quick to absorb these thoughts, to carry them like decomposing organisms into her depth, and consume them without much attention.

She would also consume me, if she could, and often tried. But after surviving my episodes out front, I found her almost tickling as she grabbed me, threw me underwater, and then rolled me over a few times. Though the sensation was nauseating at first, in recollection of the nightmare experiences of days before, I soon found it to be laughable that she would grab me and so playfully toss me around. Equally, she gave in to me as I rode her waves to shore time and time again. And in waiting for my turn, my wave, the beauty of the forested hills outlining the beach was almost entirely too much. A jungle so thick one could not see a person as they took two steps into or out of it, and filled with so many colors and shades of green.

This was my life, for one week, and I wonder where I would be right now had I spent more time lost in the jungle. I left on a Saturday morning, around eight, just after breakfast and just before high tide, making the departure bittersweet. The swell had dropped and everyone I had talked to was confident that today would be my day to catch my wave at Kongs. I imagine life would not be as laughable without a little bit of irony. I boarded the van, an eleven-seater carrying seven surfers, a driver, and as I found out later, someone to help push the van through the mud.

The ocean remained to our left at first as we drove cautiously through the mud path on our way out of the jungle. I remembered each step of the way, as I had walked these paths several times throughout the week, and found great sadness when passing the place where I had caught my best waves. It had rained for about an hour that morning, which was serious enough only to make the first few miles annoying, but not dangerous or devastating. We were caught several times in the mud, and a crew of a half dozen tiny Indonesians jumped from the van and the truck carrying our boards and began the process of pushing the truck and/or van through the mud.

After a while the stops became less frequent. And, as the road remained bumpy, my thoughts were clear, concise and reflected a sense of peace I have only felt in passing moments in the most beautiful of places. I did my best to catch these thoughts, my mental decompression, and I became convinced when the day had ended and I shared them in conversation with a beautiful stranger that they were perhaps the most beautiful thoughts that I have ever had. Judge them not on how they hold up to your thoughts, but rather on how they hold up to the vision you have of me the last time you saw me sometime over a month ago, or longer. I want desperately to cling to each one and, even as I have arrived back into a different jungle, the crowded streets of Kuta, I long to feel them again on my arrival home in several weeks when I really begin to challenge myself in acting upon all of the beautiful visions I have had while I was in the jungle. Judge me then by my sincerity in my commitment to change, not by the words I share with you right now.

My mental decompression, in leaving the jungle, goes as this:

I have had the grandest thoughts, of love, beauty, friendship and family;
Dreams, plans, places I have been or always wanted to go;
Of god and music, and visions of grandeur;
Defying expectations.
Following through with promises.
Forgetting sins against.
Believing in redemption, humanity, purpose, and storybook endings.
Forgetting childhood regrets,
Holding on to changes made and changes yet to be.
Casting out demons. Abandoning alcohol.
Pursuing peace across the world;
Living better, healthier, longer.
Wisdom.
Appreciating the value of conversations, farewells, and welcome-homes.
Passion. Perfection. Creativity. Expression.
Longing and re-connections.
Stillness. Whispers. Simple mistakes.
Laughter. Wind in trees. The colors of the clouds at sunset.
Confidence- in self and others.
Simplicity in thought, and action.
Strength. Endurance.
Tears. Holding Hands. Smiles.
Toes in sand.
Clarity. Focus.
Black and white photographs.

If you know of these things, my mind is empty again. Be kind and take me under your care…