I finished my two weeks in Indonesia in a fish market sitting at a crooked wooden table. A table covered in a vast selection of seafood – oceanic delicacies that would break the bank back home.
The husky sounds of a tanned South African guy’s voice fades in and out of the conversations, the other Saffas at the table tapping and singing intermittently.
I had that overwhelming sense of belonging again. Familiar, remnant of the time I spent in Mozambique.
I didn’t care if I missed my early flight in the morning, I could have sat amongst those rickety boats, breathing the stench of decaying fish and sinking Bintangs for the rest of my life.
Sadly, again my bank account let me down and I had to bail back to my world of cold water and working off a daily list to get everything done.
Of having problems to solve.
Doing more things in a day than should be allowed.
A life far more complex than my clothing a bikini, coconut oil my makeup and sand the only thing on my feet.
I could have stayed on that Sunday evening dancefloor, deep house music, tanned body on tanned body.
Sitting on the doorstep of the Indomart, drinking cheap beer and talking to the random Spanish guys that came and went.
Committed only to the ocean.
I suppose somewhere deep inside of me, I’m always a little bit there.