The Phone Call.
The transit to Indonesia began with a phone call from my maternal family. Normally, these calls are uneventful—filled with joy, laughter, and the latest stories of weekend escapes. But this time, it was different. Mom picked up the call and went completely pale, as if a black hole had sucked her soul into the abyss. Dad’s trembling footsteps toward his sobbing wife only confirmed it wasn’t good news.
We weren’t completely unaware of the situation, but this call was different. My Nani had begun to lose her battle with cancer. Like the brave Rajwadi kings of Rajasthan, who were said to fight even after being decapitated, she was still holding on with a warrior’s spirit.
What a way to start the journey. It was supposed to be filled with sorrow, grief, and worry. Yet there’s something so positive about my family in Indonesia. They don’t seem to worry too much about what life throws at them. In all my 30 years of visiting, I’ve never seen their eyebrows furrow.
Met with an accident? “Cool, we’re alive. We’ll fix the car.”
Missed a rest stop on the highway? “Cool, pour hot water from the thermos, eat instant noodles, sing karaoke.”
Don’t feel like working? “Cool, let’s close shop and camp by the beach.”
That subtle art of not worrying is the magic of life I learned from them this time. In India, a call like this would bring a rush of bad feelings, frantic thoughts, and plans for last meetings before emotions could even settle. In Indonesia, they carry it differently.
2 Hill's Away
The next morning, we were up at 5 am, pumped and ready. By 6 am, the city was already buzzing after morning prayers. I packed my action camera, one power bank, a little cash, and off we went on our bikes.
Two hills away—that’s how destinations are measured in my mom’s village. Not by postal codes. A 30 km ride, about 2 hours on motorcycles. Scenic not only for the landscapes but also for the people. No one’s in a rush. They drive slowly, listen to Dangdut folk songs, shift gears with one hand while puffing their favorite cigarettes with the other. Amidst the smoky fog, even I felt relaxed.
Around sunrise, our stomachs growled as we stopped to admire a clear view of Mount Gede and Mount Pangrango, both usually shy behind clouds. I flew my drone for the first time, capturing their majesty in 4K. As the drone climbed, all three of our stomachs growled together like a trending “grrrr” meme. Hunger hit us hard.
Nearby was a resort, but we didn’t want to break the adventure’s tempo. Instead, we stumbled upon Amador Ranch—a horse ranch. I’d never seen proper stallion-grade horses in my mom’s village. Ponies, sure, but not this. That’s why I love roaming: to find experiences no book or YouTube video can replicate.
Amador Ranch sat on a high hill, overlooking the valley we had just climbed. From its bamboo suspension bridge viewpoint, I launched the drone again, capturing panoramic memoirs against the backdrop of the two glorious mountains, flaunting themselves like peacocks in monsoon.
The sun lit the dewy grass while clouds played hide and seek with the valley below. Breakfast was black coffee and cheeseburgers with potato fries. Hungry or not, the food was genuinely good. And cheap too—what cost us 3 burger's with coffee there would barely cover a sandwich back in India.
Hidden Among The Pine Trees
At the first gate, locals sat smoking cigarettes and snacking on tahu, asking for a small entrance fee. My uncle paid, shaking hands with the elder, while my brother and I rushed ahead, too excited to care. We parked the bikes near towering pine trees, passing school kids and even spotting a rusty yet stylish custom chopper.
The forest dipped suddenly, almost like a crack in the mountain, split by the mighty Curug Bibijilan. A welcome board confirmed it. Mist from the falls coated my glasses and hair. The rocks were slippery, and both my brother and I regretted wearing the wrong shoes. Still, we made it to the base of the fourth waterfall, where we spent the rest of the day.
A bamboo-and-wood bridge crossed a calmer part of the falls, decorated with moss and dripping water—like something out of Jumanji. The roar of the waterfall filled the air, mixing with the laughter of children swimming in the pool below. My uncle jumped in first, then me, then my brother.
I was scared of the rocks, and the rush of water was so strong it kept pushing me back. Hesitantly, I dipped my left foot first into the icy pool while the others were already sitting under the falls above, claiming a spot for us. Slowly, I pushed forward through the current, mounted my camera on the chest harness, hoping it captured the POV of what I was daring to experience for the very first time.
From a distance, my uncle saw me struggling. Probably I took the wrong approach because he yelled, “Keep coming straight, you’re all right!” and reached his hand out like he was saving a man on a ledge. Step after step, I gasped, swallowed gulps of mineral-rich water, but finally, I reached his hand. He pulled me up. Boy, it was fun though—never felt so refreshed and energized before.
We sat there for an hour or so, clicking pictures with occasional silence in between, as if everyone needed to shut up and bask in the chaos of the waterfall crashing behind us. We didn’t speak for another 30 minutes, just exchanged smiles and smirks while combing our wet hair with our hands, sinking into the moss-green stones nature had lent us for the time being.
I felt like I was in zen, within myself. Very rarely am I left thoughtless—no murmurs of my brain, no voices debating right or wrong. In that moment, I was weightless, free. I’d drive or travel any distance to feel that again.
Later, we dragged our tired bones and glittering skin back up the hill, our legs trembling as if we’d done leg day at the gym. Famished, we ran to a small shack for a cup of black coffee and instant noodles. Sitting on a bamboo bench, slurping hot noodles and warming our hands on steaming coffee, I suddenly remembered a scene from Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara. After his ocean dive, one protagonist cries—not out of fear, but from pure bliss. That’s exactly how I felt in that moment.
Sometimes we complicate life so much with self-imposed goals that we forget why we’re here in the first place. I’ve noticed it in the rains especially. Kids, weighed down by heavy backpacks, still laugh and splash under the rain, umbrella closed. And then there’s us—running for the nearest shed, hiding from the very thing we once loved.
So I’ll leave you with a question today. Are you the one who still enjoys the rain, no matter what? Or are you the one who now runs for shelter? Think about it.
That’s all from Curug Bibijilan Waterfall—a natural wonder that might not be on the world map, but will always be pinned to the wall of my memory.
Roadster out!
Check out the video here: Curug Bibijilan Waterfall, Sukabumi, Indonesia.
