A Barney in Bali--Day 1, 07JUNE2011

  

Asia bound, a first for me.



I said it, so now I’m doing it:

It’s so funny to think that I’m on a plane to Bali. A year ago to this day I was in Iraq staring at my buddy Al in our tiny room. I told Al about my brother’s move to Bali, and how we need to go and surf over there. In Iraq, obviously, there was no surf, just a murky pool with fifty rock hard sausages in it. So now I sit in my window seat not knowing what to expect. It sure wasn’t easy getting here.

I think I bought my ticket two months ago, but I didn’t have much time to prepare. Between finals and work, I had to rush to prepare. I had a laundry list of things to get for myself and mostly my brother. One of the things I received was a massive donation of surf gear from friends for my brother’s people in Bali. My friend Manny A. donated three huge boxes of all brand new clothing. I literally spent the whole day up until I left, packing. The result was two surfboards in surfboard bags filled to capacity with clothes, two huge suitcases (courtesy of Boris) filled to the brink of busting open, and two carry-ons. I’ve never traveled with this much shit before. I got clipped $164 for both boards and another $32 for exceeding the luggage weight limit. After that whole mess, I kissed Lauren goodbye and headed towards my gate. I didn’t expect parting from her to be so hard, but it slightly brought back the feelings of when I left for Iraq. We’ll manage; it’s only thirty days this time and without incoming.

I’ve flown international before, but never to Asia. So far, everyone seems cool. The flight is full, but it doesn’t feel like it, and there’s enough room for everyone without feeling like flying in a sardine can.

I’m not the only surfer here. I saw some surfer chicks dropping off their board bags at the same place I did. I thought it necessary to give off the aura that I shred, but in reality, those chicks would probably own me in the water. I at least know one thing for sure. My dark complexion and weathered, sun beaten skin gives the appearance of someone who spends a lot of time in the water. But I’m not a fool to forget that it’s one’s surfing that does the real talking, not his appearance.

I’m hungry . . . ravenous. I didn’t eat dinner, and I have a feeling that we aren’t eating for a long ass time. It’s 0138, the plane’s gaining speed, and it makes my stomach feel emptier. I have fruit snacks.
I gave the Taiwanese chick next to me a stick of gum. There’s another chick sitting in the aisle. I’m glad I’m not sitting to a huge hairy bastard. The plane’s taking off. I am tired. --0141


Ten hours later . . .

I’m not sure if this plane actually has room or if it’s just because I’m sitting next to two tiny females. Dinner was just “okay.” I chose the chicken with rice. The vegetables were so overcooked that they were mushy. The rice was cooked with too much water, and the chicken tasted like a failed attempt at shoyu chicken: not enough salt, not sweet, but the texture and sauce color was deceiving. Damn . . . and the flight attendant forgot to give me a fork to eat with. I kept trying to get her attention, but it was too much for her to notice the brown monkey waiving his hand. The chick next to me saved me, and the stewardess apologized. I spent the next seven hours dozing on and off, waking to uncomfortable and awkward airplane sleep. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to piss or shit so as not to disturb my neighbors. I woke up to the sound of wrappers being opened; people were eating. Dammit, I thought. I slept through them handing out snacks. About an hour ago I woke up to find the seat next to me empty. I woke up the girl sitting in the aisle seat, so I could get through and take a piss. So now it’s 1223 in Los Angeles. I have no idea what time it is over this part of the Pacific Ocean.

I ate some Kellogg’s fruit snacks. Jesus H., they were delicious. I didn’t offer any to the girl next to me; they are much too precious.


Two and a half hours from the last time . . .

So I finally need to take a shit, and pretty badly too. They served us breakfast about an hour ago. I wanted to take a picture, but I didn’t want to weird out the people around me. After all, isn’t taking a pic of your airplane food normal? I had a choice between Chinese Congi and scrambled eggs. The eggs came with soggy hash browns and what tasted like a vegetarian sausage link. Delicious.
The turbulence was so strong. My tea spilled all over the tray. Current time in L.A. is 1427. We’ve flown over a couple islands. One looked barely the size of two football fields. My buddy Klaude gave me a book titled “Saltwater Buddha” by Jaimal Yogis. I’ve already blazed through half of it on this flight alone. Jaimal’s narrative made me think of my own. Everyone has their own story to tell.
I don’t even know what the local time will be when we land, or how long my layover will be. All I know is that I’m about to shit my pants. I think we’ll land in a half hour. Thankfully, this doesn’t feel like diarrhea. --1435 L.A. time


0736 Taipei:
 

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I waited until everyone got off the plane before I got my bags from the overhead bin. From there I looked for a monitor that would have my flight info. I was a little worried to find that my flight to Bali wasn’t listed. Some guy was assisting people on where to go. Even thought I wanted to fend for myself, my look of confusion sent him my way. Gate A6 was my destination. As soon as the sky car arrived, everyone crammed in it. I thought I was smart by taking the corner, but soon I was pushed into the corner, then I, Donny Duckbutter, became the corner. The need to take a shit took a back seat to finding my gate. There was a flight going to Ho Chi Minh first, so I had some time to kill.

I was hoping for more places to eat or drink without feeling like a foreign idiot. Oh . . . but I had to shit too. When I did find a bathroom, I was not prepared for what I stumbled upon. My intention was to use the bathroom and change into a pair of shorts, but the toilet was in the ground, like the kind I’ve seen on the travel channels on TV. I’m somewhat ashamed of my Western attitude, that something like this would strike me as odd. How do foreigners feel when they come to America and sit on our shitters? Not knowing how to approach the situation, I got butt naked, squatted, threw up the “W,” and released about five pounds of ass logs. The first flush barely moved the brown glacier an inch. Three flushes later, and it was still only half gone. Patriotism filled my bosom. American shits . . . built tough.

Freshly changed, I walked up and down the terminal looking for some hydration. The vending machines didn’t take my currency. I settled on an expensive looking coffee shop. With the baristas choppy English and my inability to really listen, I eventually ordered a mocha ice coffee which came out to five bucks. Not too bad for airport prices. The staff was amazed by the one-dollar coin pieces I paid with. They congregated and asked their manager if I could pay with that. The all said, “Coo-ool.”

The Second Leg: 4 hrs. & 45 min.

It’s 0858. After my coffee I found my gate emptied. The flight to Denpasar Airport looked to be an empty one, but the crowd began to thicken with each passing minute. Eight guys sat next to me. I could’ve passed for one of them on a quick glance. They spoke their native tongue and could’ve been talking shit about me for all I knew. It brought back memories of high school in Hawaii, and the Ilocano insults that I could only translate through disdainful facial expressions.

It was almost boarding time, and I wouldn’t be held up at the back of the line like at LAX. After first and business class, I was the next person on the plane.

This plane is smaller but in much better shape than the last. The headrest monitor isn’t scratched, the remote looks brand new, and the tray table looks like a contraption you’d find in the W Hotel. Just as I got into writing this, a stewardess asked me if I was traveling alone. She told me how a married couple got separated, and if I wanted to switch seats to help them out. I looked up and saw the aisle cluttered with people shuffling to their seats. Reluctantly, I said, “Sure.” She thanked me, grabbed my bag, and said to follow her. At least she was nice enough to clear a path. I don’t know how, but her little Chinese frame plowed us through the gauntlet.

She offered me a free vegetarian meal, but I declined. I want meat! Maybe I’ll hit her up for seconds. At least I’m more towards the front. Easy exit maybe? Randy told me what to do when I land, but I still feel like I don’t know what to expect. Those doors will open again, and the adventure has yet to begin.

The First Impression:

As soon as the plane stopped, I rushed towards the airplane doors before the seatbelt signs were off. I was stopped by the stewardess as she told me to wait, and then she pulled out my bag that she stored for me. I was happy for securing the first spot to be out the doors. I rushed down the hall and was passed up by some chick that was in an awful hurry. My instincts told me to follow her, but I was also worried that I’d foolishly get myself lost on a whim. I came across a fork that didn’t have any signs guiding me on where to go. Like an idiot, I chose the wrong path. By the time I turned around and was back on track, half the airplane was ahead of me again. Again, once I got downstairs, I had to choose to go left or right. I chose to go right, which was fucking wrong again. The security guy with horribly crooked teeth told me to turn around. I paid for my on arrival Visa, got my passport stamped, and headed straight for the baggage claim. My brother told me to just find a stray cart, but what I saw was airport workers with carts in hand. When I asked one of them for the cart, it finally hit me that they were jockeying to help out passengers and receive a tip. I declined the help and finally found the empty carts in the back. Now the other battle started: struggling with my two carry-ons, the two suitcases, and the two board bags. My surfboards were between two carousels, and I’m glad that no one was stepping on them or knocking them around. The final battle was going through customs. Since I had so much shit, they opened up the third conveyor belt just for me, and then I had to talk to the Customs Officer.

He said, “You have cigarettes?”

“No, no, just vodka. One bottle.”

“No, you don’t have any cigarettes?”

“Nope, just the bottle.”

“How many?”

“One.”

He looked at the pile of bags, and he chose to only inspect one, but it was the one with the vodka. When traveling into Bali, you’re only allowed a single one liter bottle of alcohol. Mine was 1.75L.

He picked up the bubble-wrapped bottle and said, “This is big bottle, how many liters is this? Two?”

“Nope, just one.” I waited for him to open it and catch me in a lie, but he struggled to rip the packing tape off of the plastic. After a couple more seconds of wrestling with it, he told me to go.

I had to pile all that shit back onto the cart. I was like an ocean liner moving through that terminal. The message was clear: I came here to surf. Once I exited the double doors there was a gate holding back a sea of people who were holding up signs with names on them, both in English and Asian characters. I was pretty tired by then, and a defeated look overcame my face. I knew that I wasn’t gonna find Randy in that crowd. I tried to listen for my name, and then I heard him calling. I strolled clear of the crowd and exchanged greetings with my brother. I fucking made it. He introduced me to his homeboy Kadek who took all my bags and drove them to his house.

Denpasar Airport reminded me of Kahului Airport on Maui. There was orange tiling on some buildings, palm trees, the angle of the sun at that hour, the humidity, and definitely the heat. The only difference was that there was no wind, it was five times as crowded, and there were a lot of motor bikes instead of cars.


Get Ready to Shit Your Pants:

Randy said that we’d get to his place via motorcycle. He whipped out an extra helmet for me, and he started his Yamaha. Jaimal Yogis wrote about letting go and just giving yourself to the situation that’s taking hold. I tried. I tried to do so and not flinch or tighten up, but it was useless. My hands gripped the rails on the rear seat to hold me in place. I don’t have the words to express what I felt as we drove away from the airport, but we entered an abyss of motor bikes. I say motor bikes as a general term because there were both mopeds, scooters, scooters on steroids, and dirt bikes equipped for the street just like Randy’s. The surrounding areas around the airport weren’t that bad. We weaved through motorists and commuters in their cars and vans.

Randy said, “I’m going to take you the exact route that my friend Sky took me on when I first arrived. We’re going to Kuta!”

“Kuta?”

“Yeah . . . the surf ghetto!”

Fuck . . . sightseeing . . . I fuckin’ love sightseeing. But it’s hard to enjoy sightseeing when you’re entering a busy city during peak rush hour traffic on the back of a motorcycle that’s weaving through unorganized traffic that’s going every which way while coming within inches of trucks, cars, vans, etc. What extreme opposites to go through. I was just sitting on my ass through eighteen hours of flight time, not including the layover and rigormorrig of getting outside the airport.

I don’t know how, but we squeezed in between another motorists and a van moving at top speed. I inhaled and clenched.

“Don’t flinch!” said Randy. “You’ll move the bike. Don’t worry, I got this.” As much as I wanted to look around more, my instincts took over and stared at what looked like impossible traffic to drive through.
“What are you thinking?” Randy asked.

“I’m thinking . . . that I’m just letting you focus on the driving.”

We reached gridlocked traffic, but not to fear, for Randy simply rode on the sidewalk and hit the throttle. Just let go, just let go, I thought to myself. We stopped at the Big Kahuna surf school in Kuta to meet my brother’s friend Wulan. I turned around and saw the beach right behind us through a small entrance in a wall. I told him that I needed to see the surf.

I’ve never seen such a busy street right next a beach that was surfable. I mean, during my high school days I spent a lot of time on Front St. Lahaina which was right by the water, but this was different. I walked through the entrance and saw a sea of beachgoers. Randy said that it wasn’t even crowded. It actually did remind me of Maui a bit, but just with more locals and less tourists. Some westerners were hanging out and mixed with the locals. A card game was going on, people were laid out on the sand, most people stayed underneath the shade of the trees closer to the street, and people came back from the water with boards in hand. It was a “small day” as far as surf goes. The peaks were long and lined, but the shoulders were more than workable. It was on the mooshy and gradual side, kind of like Trestles. It was only two feet on the Bali scale, but it still looked fun. It was eighty-two degrees, but a manageable eighty-two. I would’ve loved to paddle out at that moment. The beach was packed with longboarders. Mostly tourists I think. I watched a guy pop up on a left who had to kick out because a guy was paddling into his wave, and yet another guy was setting up to snake that guy as well.

We met up with Wulan and got invited to her birthday party taking place the next day. From there, Randy and I rode to his place. On the way there I glanced in a bar that was filled with tourists, which was very reminiscent of Maui. Our path led us away from the urban traffic and onto rural, residential side streets. Away from the chaos, we pulled into an open lot where my brother’s house is stationed. Jessica and my nephew Baby Jaya welcomed our arrival.

Randy’s maid had food already cooked for us. We ate, I settled in, and by 2100 I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. We were to dawn patrol at Nusa Dua the next morning. Randy said, “It’s gonna be small tomorrow so . . . don’t expect much.”

Funny how he felt he needed an advanced excuse for the small surf. I had a feeling that I’d be in for a shocker regardless.