By Neil Grant
A tender guy trips via Indonesia as he attempts to give an explanation for the tragic dying of his fellow browsing good friend during this attention-grabbing coming-of-age novel. whilst Goog loses Castro to an enormous wave within the Indian Ocean, he starts a actual and emotional experience to determine how mysterious postcards from his useless pal proceed to seem. With strong topics of id, independence, and friendship, this lively travelogue bargains a wild and gritty story of transforming into up. A priceless map of Indonesia is incorporated for tracing Goog's trip.
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Quiet. Too many tourists want Bali, Lombok, surfing Sumbawa. ’ Me neither, I think. Why would Castro come here, anyway? To the south is Sumba – a wild island, full to bursting with gnarly reef breaks. Why would he come to this place? But Sumba has crazy tribes who will cut you up as soon as look at you and Niags won’t come with me. So I’ll keep tagging along with him on his loopy trek to shit-knows-where. There is safety in numbers. I go outside with my bundle of postcards. I place them one by one on the dusty earth.
Black lumps with rice and two-minute noodles. Niagara heaps his plate high and tucks in. I am slower. There is something strange about these black things – they look cancerous. I bring a piece to my nose and it smells oily and wrong. I poke my tongue at it; it tastes like the eraser at the end of a pencil. I put it in my mouth, grip the fork with my teeth and drag it onto my tongue. It sits like a toad, heavy and poisonous, waiting for me to make the next move. I shift it to my back teeth and give it a slow grind.
Stopping to catch our breath, we look down on the bay with its circle of thatched boathouses. The water, though surfless, looks inviting. But then Niagara points out a red flower of blood on a rock and a huge backbone slopping in the shorebreak. There are black-haired pigs cleaning up flecks of snowy fat from the volcanic sand. Behind us are racks filled with drying strips of meat, oil dripping down corrugated iron gutters and into tins. The slabs of meat are dark red, turning to black, with seams of fat marbled through them.