Twice weekly, a 12 seater prop-jet offers the option of a 25 minute scenic flight to the mainland. The two room terminal sits lonely beside the tarmac, with an unused xray machine filling most of the check in area. You walk around it to get to the bathroom scales, where you and your luggage are weighed in, and someone collects the hand written ticket stub. A glass door leads to the stuffy VIP area, where three plastic floral lounges wait for important uniformed bums.
The flying tin can dissapeared into a puff of white cloud and the Indonesian lady beside me dug her fingernails into my thigh like it was a great white life raft. I patted the gold rings on her hand reassuringly, confident the Australian and English pilots had things under control. While I have no qualms about flying, there is something unnerving about seeing the runway from the pilots point-of-view, their hands flicking between switches and levers as the white line guides them to the ground.
I've left the peace of our village to join other wordsmiths and bookish types at the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival. After the festival, Aquaman and I are skipping over to Singapore and Penang for a visa run, preparing for our final two months undisturbed as the wet season builds and the pace slows further under a blanket of humidity. I'm very excited to be an official photographer for the Writers Festival, as well as volunteering at a number of key events, including the Paul Kelly & Lucky Oceans concert. Keep up with who I meet, what I learn and how many coffees I drink over at Treacle for Stickybeaks.