Tidal

It’s a hot Saturday morning with the promise of sunburn. I walk with my husband and our young guide, Mas Anton, down a damp gravel path, stones sticking between our toes. We're about to go tubing through Goa Pindul, a cave full of bats and stalactites. The pictures online boast spacious blue waters. As we finally arrive, life vests donned and inner tubes in hand, it’s obvious we’ve been misled.

Ahead of us is the shore of the river, but we see no clear blue water. Instead, a vast and endless sea of humanity waits to be herded through the mouth of the cave. It appears that all of Jogja has decided to join us on the river. Our guide is just one of dozens funneling people from the shore. Jackson and I accept our fate and join the crowd, bobbing on our inner tubes until we are absorbed by the mass of people. As we become one with the river of tubes, we are pleasantly surprised. Surrounded by hundreds of strangers, the mood is carefree and childlike. Grown men splash each other and giggle, their laughs echoing through the cave. I look at my husband, wide-eyed, and begin to laugh as well. How fun to be surrounded by a sea of happy people, to be able to share this sunny weekend day with them! 

The water is still and warm beneath us. Rubber tubes bump against each other, squeaking and squishing as we’re moved along. Mas Anton is learning English, so he and Jackson chat happily about the cave, the bats, the river. He shares the words in Indonesian and asks for translations which Jackson provides. I watch in silence, smiling, observing my surroundings. The interior of the cave is vast and dark. There are great sections that have been sanded smooth, but some active stalactites still remain, dripping cold water. The ceiling is black with guano, and small fruit bats hang happily in the darkness. There is still life here, but much of our surroundings are not what they once were, and I can’t help but wonder what this cave would have looked like hundreds of years ago, before it was touched by humans and worn smooth from the constant traffic of tubers. I feel a brief sting of shame for adding my part to its erosion, and wonder if others feel the same.

Eventually the mouth of the cave disappears from view, taking the daylight with it. We’re surrounded by people, with water beneath us and dark looming shadows above. Bats flitter overhead while people laugh and splash, taking pictures and waving flashlights across the void. It’s dark in the cave now, and eerie in a way that is post-apocalyptic. I feel like a refugee during a bombing raid, waiting in a subway tunnel with flashlights and story telling to pass the time. 

“This is how the zombie apocalypse begins,” I say to Jackson, eyes alight with imagining. “We’d hear a scream from up above and then turn to see a wave of people and inner tubes coming toward us as people struggled to escape.” “Each one turning to bite their neighbor,” he adds. A man coughs loudly behind us. “And there’s patient zero.” I continue to dream up disaster scenarios as we bob along. 

Soon a light appears at the edge of the cave. It grows slowly until we’re squished back into daylight. People squirm out of their tubes and climb to shore, on to the next adventure. Jackson and I swim in the spring water for a little while longer and decide to take a short trip to a different section of the river to continue tubing. After clambering ashore, we’re corralled into the back of a truck with a family from Bali. The little boy is practicing his English and switches back and forth between singing the Dora theme song and insulting his siblings. “You’re so ugly I could die,” he says. Jackson and I are pleased. 

The ride is brief but bouncy. We pass some eucalyptus and the mom reaches out to pluck a few leaves and share them with me. We rub them on our wrists as perfume. Everyone is happy and smiling, even when we lurch to a stop at a steep incline and gravity squishes us into a lump. Eventually we are freed, and we pluck our inner tubes from the truck bed. We’ve stopped in the midst of a field and must walk single-file down a thin dirt path. I carry my tube on my shoulder, but the mom tells me instead to use my head. I look around and notice that everyone else’s tubes are hanging from their brows, so I comply, but mine slips down and blinds me for the entire walk to shore. 

We come upon the river and scramble down muddy banks to the cool brown water. Jackson steps in a boggy section and is suctioned in mud up to his knees. I’m already scooting on my bottom to avoid slipping to my death, so I laugh at him and scoot in a different direction. The well-earned water is cool and lovely. This section of the river is much less crowded, and we see waterfalls and small rapids up ahead. As we float past groups of happy tubers, we see old ladies splashing each other with their feet, wearing big sunglasses and bright pink hijabs. We bounce off the riverbank and hold hands as we swirl around in the water. Our cheeks are pink with the sun and our hearts are full. We come to a point on the river with the last bit of easy road access and, regrettably, this is where our float ends. The river flows on, cool and inviting, but we leave and head back to the car.

Our next stop is the sea. We have a specific beach in mind, but after a few wrong turns and a much longer drive than anticipated, we end up at another called Pantai Siung. As usual, it’s a happy accident; this place is quiet and serene. There are no crowds here, and the tide rushes in over shallow coral. Huge islands of rock loom at the edges of the shore, topped with generous dollops of greenery. The ocean is berry blue jello, and I want to eat it. 

Jackson and I play on the inactive reef. Timeworn coral is now home to dozens of tidal pool creatures. Jacksons eyes are wide with excitement as he steps from pool to pool, looking for new animals. He calls out to me when he finds something good. “Urchins over here!” “There’s a crab under that rock!” I follow, squatting to look at his discoveries, my sandals slurping and sucking at the algae. The water is so full of life. There are tiny fish everywhere we step, swirling in patterns through the clear, warm water. We find half an eel and wonder what happened to the other half. We find a purple snail and big, skittering crabs. We find a friend on the reef who willingly takes our picture before posing for a selfie of his own. And then just as we’re about to head back to the sand in search of a snack, we see two men hacking away at the coral, filling their backpacks with rock and reef alike. I don’t know what they’re doing, so I ask. “They’re harvesting coral,” Jackson says. “Probably for the aquarium trade.” I’m baffled. I look at the reef beneath my feet, imagine it shrinking, then gone. Where would the fish go? What of the crabs?

Once more I’m left to wonder what this world would have looked like before humans came to harvest it as their own. How much is left and how long will it last? When will we realize that it’s not ours to take?