Camping in Tambakrejo

Story and Photos by Michelle Ong

By the time I arrived in the Indonesian village of Tambakrejo, night had fallen and we quickly set up camp on one side of the beach, away from the small fishing village and on a slight slope. The waves crashed rhythmically and darkness enveloped us. Only a few lights twinkled from across at Pulau Sempu and other surrounding islands.

I had previously visited this area six months ago, unaware of its name and accompanied by different people only for a day of drizzling beach relaxation. During that trip, Sandra and Ben, two lovely people I worked with, climbed over dark jagged rocks surrounded by pools of warm water filled with tiny fish and coral. When I reached the place they appeared to be resting at, I was greeted by a horrific sight. Ben sat atop a large rock, his foot thrust out dripping blood into a pink pool of water. He had cut a deep gash underneath his right toe on one of the barnacles covering the rocks. Luckily, no infection occurred and the bleeding eventually stopped after we scrambled our way back to the beach.

On this trip, Edward, Alice and Cassy accompanied me. Edward was a rough-mannered Australian entrepreneur in the city I worked at, slightly older than the rest of us. Alice, his long-term charming Indonesian girlfriend, was my colleague. Cassy was a very close friend of mine who had previously accompanied me on a whirlwind tour of Java during Christmas holidays. She and I had shared beds, slept on floors, tents and on many long bus rides, rarely at a loss for words.

Edward and Alice had picked Cassy and me up with his pick-up truck. We departed late and a few minutes after, a heavy rainstorm erupted, so Cassy and I were forced to sit in the front, Cassy sitting on my lap, for an hour before the rain lessened enough for us to shift to the truck bed. Even then, we were cramped. All our camping gear had been dumped on the truck bed without much space left for us, although we could have shifted the objects further to the back if Edward had waited a few more minutes before charging off.

After laying everything out, Edward embarked on a hunt for firewood, complaining of only finding junk and occasionally forced to find more brush whenever the bonfire died down. The fire quickly engulfed the small twigs and strips of old bark but we were also equipped with flashlights and candles.

I relished a dinner of instant noodles cooked over a portable gas stove and gazed up at the infinitely dark vacuum of space with a few familiar constellations and Orion’s Belt slightly above the left side of my head.

After a few hours, the sky slowly lightened as the moon emerged, a large milky sphere from behind a cloud, and all the stars disappeared behind streaks of cotton clouds.

Edward pointed out a light ring enclosing the moon and a large portion of the sky surrounding it. He then warned that the closer the ring was to the moon, the sooner it would rain. That portent caused me to wake up in fright every time a wave would violently crash, although we had a rain cover over our tent.

The only clearly visible parts of the island at times were two dark shadows of trees on my left, rising up in solitude.

Bedtime at 10 P.M. followed by a fitful sleep plagued by mosquitoes, heat and violent crashings, then wake up at 6 A.M. The sun had already risen and the weather was balmy. Fishermen were already searching for food in the sea and some men in the village still wore the traditional clothes for prayer – the call for prayer usually sounded off at 4 a.m.

Alice and Cassy arranged a boat ride to transport us across to Pasar Putih in Pulau Sempu, so Edward could do some spear fishing. Pasar Putih, meaning white beach, was surrounded by craggy cliffs with an opening into the rainforest. On the right part of the beach facing Java, little pockets cut into the rock and green thin disks of what looked like large fish scales abounded. On the other side, water flowed into a narrow channel between the large mounds of rock but seemed too dangerous and swiftly flowing to allow exploration.

Bits of coral, shells and large smooth stones decorated the beach. The surf tugged and pushed these small objects to and fro with such strength to cause them to roll over my feet if I stood in the small area where the water surges onto the beach. Flowers that looked like ragged pompoms fell from an unknown tree.

The sailors transported us to the island in a traditional boat with two long beams on each side parallel to the length of the boat and attached by two thick bamboo poles. The boat, aptly named “Marcopolo”, was brightly colored, with a deep blue interior and one wooden slab for a seat. The interior was narrow but the seat roomy enough to fit four people back to back and side to side. The sailors sat atop one end of the boat.

Their young sons accompanied us, cheerfully enjoying the boat ride and then gleefully jumping into the water, swimming and throwing sticks and rocks around the island. I wondered whether they’d grow to enjoy a fisherman or sailor’s life, or decide to move to the city in search of comfort and wealth.

Ben was also traveling near the border between Central and East Java to an even more rural area. He later recounted his travels through small villages composed of small and bare houses that lacked electricity. People would go to bed shortly after sunset at 5 and awake before sunrise at 3-4 a.m. Their only source of water came from wells and they survived on meager plots of land, growing rice and raising a few chickens. But unemployment plagues the countryside, pushing people to torpor, and yet only a few courageously migrate to the city.

The water was a deep emerald color, clear but very deep and difficult to see the fish and coral so far underneath. A refreshing swim in the sea, tiring without a life vest, but enriching, swept all the misunderstandings and resentments of the weekend. No longer need I scorn Edward’s rude orders, or frustratingly remember how the three would chatter in a language I wasn’t fluent in, which inadvertently excluded me, nor did I need to remember how much I loathed Alice’s company. The water was cool and calm away from the beach and a convenient escape.

The sailors returned from taking their sons back and we left shortly after. Cassy and I endured another uncomfortable ride on the truck bed, lying down and napping for half an hour until it started raining hard an hour from our home. Her orange umbrella lined with suns and palm trees rose above us but gave little protection against the furious rain. The deluge continued until we realized rain was dripping from inside her umbrella onto my face. But the situation only repeated the numerous occasions where we would be completely soaked during our travels, and we laughed hard.

Unfortunately in the wrong company, we had to take a taxi home from Alice and Edward’s house. They only concerned themselves with their possessions and health, not minding our pneumonia-susceptible states and persisting need to go home. Streams of water had slipped into our clothes while we lay on the truck bed but a soak in a rain-filled truck bed turned bath tub would not rub out piercing inconsideration and hideous behavior this time.

A cup of coffee, however, righted all wrongs back at my house.