Unlike other Australians, Bali has not been on the top of my travel list. Rather I’ve been avoiding it like the plague. Its the long history of debauchery, sex, alcohol and drug tourism for which Australians have been famous for in Bali.

The common question “Where are you from?” is always answered with “Australia. And I am sorry for what Australians have done to Bali.”

But outside of the common tourist spots, the real Bali exists and thrives.

The real Bali is adorned with landscapes of volcanic peaks, dense tropical forests, agricultural fields and coasts of harbours and fishermen. Littered with hindu temples and with offerings to the gods, spirits and ancestors. It is colourful and culturally rich in arts and music.

The Balinese people are kind, friendly, open-minded and extremely hospitable. The Balinese greet you with a warm smile that extends from ear to ear. A walk in the village opens invitations to join planting rice in the fields and rewarded with a fresh young coconut. And if you open your heart to the Balinese, they will invite you to their homes and their family.

We were lucky to meet Papa Jero from Wanagiri (wana translates to forest; giri meaning mountains) just a few kilometres north from Bedugul. He invited us to stay in his family’s home for 5 days and participate in the preparations and celebrations of Galungan & Kuningan.

Papa Jero and his family in three generations

Galungan & Kuningan are important Balinese holidays. They occur approximately every 210 days and mark the victory of dharma over adharma, good over evil. It is also the time when the ancestral spirits visit the Earth. Processions occur in every village. We ran into a procession in the village of Duyuk, a few kilometres south of Tegallalang.

We spent the days preparing meals, offerings and feasts for the gods, ancestral spirits and family.

We also passed time playing with the kids, and as always, my hula-hoops are a success

We spent the evenings learning the basics of gamelan and balinese dance.

The day of Kuningan (20 February 2016) is marked with joy and sorrow as families pay their final respects to their ancestors and bid them farewell. Temples which house the spirits are covered in a mountain of offerings such as fruit, sacrificial pigs, decorations, flowers, incense and money. Traditional Balinese gamelan is played as prayers and processions follow. Breaks are made to eat, drink coffee, tea and local rice wine, and who could forget the special mention for cigarettes. After all is said and done, the family shared the fruit and food offerings.

On a side note, coffee culture is big in Bali. Especially for one of the most expensive coffee in the world, civet coffee (Bahasa Indonesian = Kopi Luwak). It is brewed from the partially digested coffee beans eaten by the Asian Palm Civet (Paradoxurus hermaphroditus). Papa Jero also housed a luwak, and offered us an endless supply of it during our stay.

After only a week, I can say that I simply adore Bali. I can’t wait to come back.

Flores is more than double the size of Bali with only half the inhabitants. Its population density sits at 135 per square kilometre – compared to almost 10 times the amount in Java (1,121 per square kilometre). On Flores, Indonesia seems rural and wild.

We land at the airport of Maumere, the largest town in the eastern part of Flores – with a population of approximately 70,000. Our propeller plane lands roughly with the added challenge of the monsoon season.

We don’t rest long. We are headed 30 kilometres east to the villages of Wodong and Waiterang. Here, we rested in bamboo cottages overlooking the black volcanic sand along north-eastern coast of Flores.

Egon volcano (Bahasa Indonesian = Gunung Egon) is a popular day hike from here, however its most recent eruption only a week ago means its off-bounds. We decide to hire out a fishing canoe for the afternoon to explore the ocean instead. We spent approximately 40% of our time enjoying the scenery and 60% nervously balancing the canoe to avoid certain capsize. Obviously, 0% was spent taking photographs.

We had to meet friends in Labuan Bajo (on the west coast of Flores), so we headed west the next day. We had initially planned to visit the town of Sikka – famous for its ikan weaving, however we couldn’t fit this into our schedule. The local bus headed to Moni from Wodong (along the Larantuka-Ende line) took approximately 5 hours. The winding roads provide breathtaking scenery as it meanders from coastal town to villages littered along the valleys between the volcanoes which sit along the “Ring of Fire”. Moni is base camp for those looking to view the three lakes of Kelimutu (Bahasa Indonesian = Gunung Kelimutu). Despite the monsoon rains and the fog, we still manage to catch a glimpse of all three lakes.

From Moni, we took the local bus 2.5 hours to Ende. In a predominantly Roman Catholic Flores, Ende (and Labuan Bajo) host the largest concentration of Muslims on the island. Like any coastal town, life bustles at the marketplace along the harbour.

The volcanic black sand coastline is a special sight for those who grew up along the white sand coastline of Australia.

Next stop, Bajawa. One of my favourite places on Flores. The town itself is nothing special, but its base camp for exploring many traditional villages, natural geysers, waterfalls and hot springs. The people here are (almost) untouched by globalisation and capitalisation – except for the widespread use of satellite dishes. The jungle remains wildly overgrown with native plants, and untouched by palm plantations which have largely plagued many larger islands of the Malay Peninsula. We were hosted by Marselino, a native to the Bajawa district, at his homestay. We hired mopeds to explore the surrounding area, guided by Marselino’s own hand-drawn map.

Westbound again. Ruteng is home to hills upon hills of rice terraces. For the archeology enthusiastics, Liang Bua (meaning cave in the local Mangarrai language) is located just north of Ruteng. Here, in 2003, a new species Homo floresiensis was discovered.

The last leg, bound for Labuan Bajo. Labuan Bajo is a harbourtown, and draws tourists from around the world as its base camp to visit the Komodo dragons. We rented a fishing boat for the day to visit the island of Rinca. Rinca is home to over 2,800 Komodo dragons, as well as crocodiles, macaques, birdlife, wild water buffaloes and mangrove crabs.

Komodo dragons live on three islands: Komodo, Rinca and Flores. In Flores, around 15-20 can be found in the central north coast. Komodo dragons are largely solitary, however they have learned some social skills from “hanging out” under the park ranger’s kitchen. Komodo dragons mate in June-July, besides that feisty period, they prefer to live a rather chilled life. The gestation period is like ours – 9 months. Mothers dig several nests to camouflage the true nest. This provides better odds for survival for the eggs, not only from other predators but also from the cannibal mother – if she chooses to come back hunting to eat some eggs. The baby Komodo, once hatched, spend most of its first three years living in the trees. After this period, it loses its ability to climb.

Flores overland possible in a week. Next time, we’ll definitely be back for a month.

NOISE ON EARTH Vol​.​4 龠 SINGAPORE

by Les Cartes Postales Sonores

Noise on Earth is a collection of field recordings classified by countries.

Recorded by Julien Hairon
September 2015.

Listen here.

NOISE ON EARTH Vol​.​3 ๘ THAILAND

by Les Cartes Postales Sonores

Noise on Earth is a collection of field recordings classified by countries.

Recorded by Julien Hairon
September – November 2015.

Listen here.

NOISE ON EARTH Vol​.​2 ট BANGLADESH

by Les Cartes Postales Sonores

Noise on Earth is a collection of field recordings classified by countries.

Recorded by Julien Hairon
March – October 2015.

Listen here.

NOISE ON EARTH Vol​.​1 ៚ CAMBODIA
by Les Cartes Postales Sonores

Noise on Earth is a collection of field recordings classified by countries.

Recorded by Julien Hairon
August 2013, June & November 2015.

Listen here.

Her Yerde Sanat is a non-profit association which uses art and circus as a tool for social justice and good. For Afghan, Iraqi, Syrian and Kurdish children who have witnessed atrocities which would give them no reason to smile or laugh ever again, Her Yerde Sanat brings joy and healing from trauma. Children are taught circus arts and in return they become teachers and mentors for other children.

Volunteer teachers and trainers come from all corners of the world for classes, workshops and festivals – all living and playing together in a 40-bed dormitory sharing just one bathroom and kitchen. September is one of the busiest time, hosting the International Circus Festival. Julien spent his days improving his juggling skills, whilst I played with the hula hoop. It will be a little while yet before we are ready for Cirque du Soleil.

We headed towards the gateway of ancient Mesopotamia, along part of the historic trade route of the Silk Road. The world slowly began to metamorphose. The architecture once grey now sand, with only mosques towering over the horizon. The road there was littered with agricultural fields: wheat, corn, cotton. A modern-day testament to the historical fertile crescent, a fertile plateau in an otherwise arid environment. The sun burns hotter. The air arid. The multiple calls to prayer of the minarets sing louder here. This region of Turkey is less influenced by European culture. You are stepping into the Middle East.

Women are more conservatively dressed. They no longer walk side-by-side with their husbands, rather a  few feet behind. Physical contact between genders is non existent with a forcefield seemingly keeping the two genders apart. We sat at a local cafe for a traditional turkish breakfast of menemen and bread. After our meal, Julien leans in closely and puts his arm around my shoulders. We are abrasively asked to leave. Our behaviour had offended the shopkeeper. His expression is full of distain, as if he had just watched pornography. It is definitely a culture we are not yet accustomed to.

If it wasn’t for the sound of fighter jets, and the widespread availability of modern technology, the culture and architecture may have tricked you into a degree of time travel. The fighter jets? We had been cut off from the news for a few weeks, but we could sense the tension in the air.

Since the border was drawn after the fall of the Ottoman Empire in WWI, there has been much conflict between the Kurds and Turks in this region. The Kurds are an ethnic group who have resided on lands which cover modern day Iraq, Syria & Turkey. Unfortunately, the English and French failed to recognised them and they were never offered their own land. So for decades, they have been squatting over 3 countries, sometimes separated from their own family by an imaginary line. Despite their disagreements, there had been some recent peace between the Kurds and the Turks with the signature of a peace treaty. But when their fellow Kurds began to fall in Syria, with the impending threat of the Islamic State, this inevitably placed tension on the fragile relationship between the two ethnicities.

We no longer met tourists, only journalists. They had travelled far and wide to catch what was unfolding in Kobane. We rested in Sanliurfa. There had been great tension further East in Turkey. Turks, Kurds and Islamic State sympathisers have had  extremely violent clashes. Several roads had been closed. Turkish Armed Forces mobilised to impose a curfew.

The National: Army imposes curfew after 18 killed in Turkey

Meanwhile, air strikes were going on 70 kilometres from where we were.

Despite the tension, we rested in Sanliurfa. Life was normal there as ever.

Sanliurfa is the proclaimed birthplace of Abraham (or Ibrahim in Islam). Abraham is an important figure for Muslims, due to his example of unrelenting faith. The second most important celebration (Eid) is dedicated to the story of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his only son. In Sanliurfa, the legendary Pool of Sacred Fish (Turkish = Balikli Gol) tells the story of Abraham thrown into the fire by Nimrod. In this story (according to Islam), God (or Allah in Islam) turns the flames into water and the burning logs into fish. These fish are sacred, so no fishing or swimming with them. However, you can pay a small price for fish food and watch in excitement a feeding frenzy. Locals believe that if you see a white carp (in amongst the sea of black), you will be blessed in life. We didn’t.

Just next door to Balikli Gol is the Ayn-i Zeliha Lake. She is the daughter of Nimrod, and the story goes (well there are two versions to this story): 1. the lake are her tears for Abraham after he was thrown into the fire, or 2. she jumped into the flames with Abraham and God turned her into water. Like with many attractions in this region, the stories that follow are more impressive than the physical attraction itself.

Sanliurfa is also the closest port of call to Gobekli Tepe, thought to be one of the oldest temples in the world. If you have never heard of Gobekli Tepe. I suggest you do your own research. This theory throws into disarray the current view on the evolution of human civilisation. I will leave this at that before we enter all sorts of conspiracy theory debates.

Sanliurfa is also a port of call to the beehive houses of Harran. Various religious prophets have been noted to past through Harran. The design of these mud houses are inspired by old nomadic tents. However the uncanny resemblance to breasts and the phallic nature of the minarets makes me think, perhaps Turkey has a little Freudian tendencies hiding in its midst.

So far, in Turkey, most people want to know how old you are and whether you are married or not. For a female, it is always safer to say yes. If you are travelling with a male, pretend you are married or engaged, even if you’re only friends. And always sit in the back or closest to the door. Never sit next to a Turkish male, he might see this as you soliciting sexual advances from him. Crazy, but it’s very common.

If you’re name is Natasha or Tatiana, or anything remotely sounding Russian or Eastern European, consider making a fake name just while you hitch-hike. Turkey has a history of female sex workers coming from these parts of the world, so much that these names have become synonymous with prostitution.

And dress modestly, even conservatively. Denim short and a singlet top may not get much notice back home, but in rural Turkey, you will be turning heads.

With all that said, hitch-hiking is super fun and incredibly easy in Turkey. You will never be waiting for more than 15 minutes, and most often you’ll be picked up between 30 seconds to 5 minutes of sticking your thumb out.

I hitch-hiked with my partner this time in Turkey, and we were amazed at how easy hitch-hiking is in Turkey. Cardboard signs usually helped to communicate where we wanted to go, but also unnecessary. Muslims who practice their faith, firmly believe that you have to help someone who looks like they are in need. And guess what, when it comes to hitch-hiking, being in a predominately Muslim country like Turkey means you will always get picked up.

We learnt key phrases in Turkish such as: Hello. How are you? What is your name? My name is… How old are you? I am .. years old. Are you married? We are married. Do you have any children? No, we don’t have any children. Maybe later. Where are you from? I am from Australia, He is from France. We worked in a small hostel in Kadikoy, Istanbul. Where are you going? We are going to … I’m sorry. I don’t understand. I speak Turkish, only a little bit. Thank you. Goodbye.

I was always pretty quick with languages so I did most of the talking, as my French partner search through a French-Turkish dictionary we had bought in a second-hand bookshop in Istanbul, pointing at words and creating more interpretive but highly hilarious conversations.

Even though it is easy to hitch-hike, you still have to keep sharp. You’ll be riding in a cloud of smoke (everyone smokes in their car in Turkey), in some dodgy cars where the windows don’t wind down and it is almost 40 degrees outside, plenty of Renault 12 models, trucks delivering tomatoes and cucumbers across the country, the occasional drunk driver at 3pm, Turkish men evading the police (and don’t make jokes about your immigration status unless you want to further unleash their paranoia), Turkish men who think masturbating while driving is ok, and even a Turkish mobster in an Audi sportscar who needs to do a small detour to speak with his friend “Stefano” who owes a Ferrari with personalised number plates (you guessed it, also “Stefano”).

Mostly, it’s harmless, interesting and entertaining. But if you’re not up for the hitch-hiking experience, just use the local dolmus system.

It all sounds fantastic, until the tradition of every family butchering their own meat sends rivers of blood along footpaths, gutters and roads, and the screams and cries of lambs, goats and cows can be heard throughout the town. Especially for a vegetarian, this sight, smell and sound is not for the faint-hearted. Back in Istanbul, part of the Bosphorus ran red too, from all the blood that was spilt.

However, this special celebration does demonstrate the importance of family of local Turks. Grandfathers, fathers, uncles, sons, nephews, brothers and male cousins all gather together as they participate in prayer and slaughter, whilst the grandmothers, mothers, aunts, daughters, nieces and female cousins spend hours preparing feast upon feast in the kitchen.

We cooked our vegetarian micro-feast too, sharing in the celebration of family. We offer some to the family of our adoptive grandparents at Bahar Pansiyon (refer to previous post), who despite all understanding of our vegetarianism, had returned our offer with a dish of the meat they had slaughtered. After 12 years of vegetarianism, I wasn’t quite game to stomach it. But luckily, my other half was more respectful and ate all that was offered.

Hitch-hiking out of Uchisar the next day proved a little challenging. Not only was everyone on holidays and most shops closed, we dared not look further for cardboard signs when all the bins had animal offcuts, heads and offal engulfed by flies inside. Just opening a couple of bins was enough to say, we’ll just take the risk stick our thumb out and hope whoever stops is going in the same direction.

Ironically, Eid al-Adha coincided with World Vegan Day this year, where around 20 Turks protested for animal rights and against animal cruelty.

Here is the Hurriyet Daily News coverage. Warning: Graphic images may disturb some readers.