When I arrived at Lake Maninjau in western Sumatra and saw this steep-sloped little island sitting half-a-kilometer across the water from the front door of my guesthouse cottage, I knew I’d have to swim out and see what was there.
As I’ve traveled over the years, I’ve come to realize that a given travel moment is often connected to other moments from one’s own life. I learned how to swim at age four, at Twin Rivers Swim Club in Wichita, Kansas. I swam competitively from age 5 to age 14, and my fixation with swimming probably peaked around age 10.
It occurred to me, as I stared out over Lake Maninjau, that wading into the water and swimming to that island was exactly what 10-year-old Rolf would have wanted to do. Not just for the physical challenge, but for the thrill of not exactly knowing what he’d find when he got there.
I don’t recall how long it took me to get to the island, which I later learned is named Tarandam, or “Floating Island”. I swam out using the breaststroke (my competitive specialty from age 10), which enabled me to keep a steady pace, my eyes above water-level. I arrived just as a fisherman was leaving, which meant I had Tarandam to myself.
I’m not sure what 10-year-old Rolf would have dreamed of finding there – fugitive bandits, perhaps, or hermit mystics, or a bunker full of Pac-Man and Galaga video games that could be played for free. Adult Rolf found trees, vine-tangled slopes, and the rich, earthy smell of bird-shit.
After I’d climbed to the crown of the island, I sat down on a rock and stared up at the birds catching gusts above me. From where I sat they looked suspended in the air, their wings not moving, their bodies tilting and squirming against the wind.
Some of the birds, I came to realize were actually bats – giant fruit bats that, every so often, would swoop down and fold themselves into the trees (which, I realized, were quivering with brown clusters of bats).
I sat on the island for more than an hour – maybe two – that afternoon, just staring at the birds and the bats. I felt privileged to be there, in a way that (I hope) 10-year-old Rolf would appreciate.
Note: “Dispatches” are short vignettes, profiles, and mini-essays written and posted from the road, often in tandem with my Instagram account. For more full-formed writing, check out my book Marco Polo Didn’t Go There, or the Essays or Stories archives on this site. I don’t host a “comments” section, but I’m happy to hear your thoughts via my Contact page.
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