A Barney in Bali--Day 23, 30JUNE2011 THU

Like a gaping anus before you, you never stop, you keep going, despite the consequences.

Going at it Alone:


    For reasons that I’d like to keep as a private matter, I have decided to hit the road and stay the rest of my vacation elsewhere. I am sure that I will still see my brother, Jessica, and my little nephew, but I won’t be staying at their home until my final night here. Despite the state of affairs, I look at this as an opportunity to capitalize on my trip. It’s not pure surf gypsy status, but it’s enough to get me out of my comfort zone and explore this paradise on my own.


The Plan:


    Last night Randy asked me what the plans were for today. I broke the news that I won’t be surfing, and I’ll be searching for another place to stay.

    There’s no need to wake up at 0500 as usual, so I expect to sleep in. The door opens, there’s light outside, Randy’s standing in the doorway holding my tea, money, and passport. It’s some time after seven. He asks where I’m thinking of staying. I tell him that I plan to drive around and just ask how much each place is charging.

    “How much are you planning on spending?” He asks.

    “Hmmmmm.” I do the calculations in my head. “About twenty to thirty dollars a night,” I say.

    “Where did you want to stay?”

    “Well, I was just kind of gonna check around here, maybe cruise around Seminyak. I wouldn’t mind staying near BK (Big Kahuna Surf School), but I don’t know that area that well. Do you think I’ll be able to find somewhere for twenty to thirty a night?”

    “Well, maybe. I don’t mind spending the morning helping you find a place. I can help you bargain, I’m good for that.”

    I finish my tea and spend the rest of the morning getting ready to go hotel hunting. Fuck breakfast. I’m trying to hit the road before traffic gets thick and settle in before I’m stressed behind a million cars and bikes. My first choice is to stay near BK because Randy hangs out there sometimes, all the Balinese homeboys and girls that work there are cool as fuck, and if I get into any trouble I’ll probably be asking Kadek for help. It’s good to have friends near by. Another advantage of staying near BK is that the beach is literally right there. Of course, the surf sucks ass. Well, let me take that back. . . . The surf here doesn’t necessarily suck, but it’s like having a surf break in the heart of all the tourist madness. I’ve never surfed  Waikiki, but I’m sure that this place is just as crowded if not more. None-the-less . . . who gives a shit? I can still spend all day at Balangan, come back to Kuta before rush hour, have a fat ass lunch, and maybe do an evening session here. We’re talking triple sessions!


Enter the Surf Ghetto:

The famous Poppies Lane 1

    There’s only one problem with Kuta. Actually, there are a couple. One, I don’t know my way around here at all. I’m pretty comfortable with the road to Canggu, I know how to get around Seminyak to all the restaurants and cafes, and I’ve somehow been able to go Balangan without ending up on a Balinese milk carton. Two, there’s fucking ridiculous traffic here. Once again, this is like Honolulu’s Waikiki, Maui’s Front Street, and it’s crowded as Santa Monica Boulevard . . . the gay part of Santa Monica Boulevard . . . on a Friday night.

Tighter than a nun's. . . .

Two, you can forget about scenic, lush vistas with greenery and vegetation. If Venice was ever considered the ghetto by the sea, that title is now relinquished. This ain’t the Beverly Hills of Bali, this is the part of town where everyone is looking for a deal. Picture the alleys of downtown L.A. except everyone’s riding their motor bikes instead of walking. There are motels, cafes, mini marts, tourist shops, spas, surf schools, bars, malls, EVERYTHING. Of course the main difference is that the beach is near. Third, it’s party central. There are little hotel-motels every couple buildings, they are cheap, alcohol is everywhere, and people staying in the surf ghetto for cheap are here to drink. All that being said, I’m obviously not here for that. This is the other side of Bali that I haven’t experienced yet, and I’m literally in the armpit of it.


Memory:


    Randy’s already a couple bikes ahead of me. I lost him when he shot a gap and drove against oncoming traffic. I tried, but I would’ve been plowed by the AWD Suzuki heading in the opposite direction. He’s showing me how to get there, so I have to literally be “on his ass” while we’re riding. Traffic isn’t thick yet, but it’s always a challenge driving here; it’s not easy. We hang a right at the fork. Right turn first, I ingrain it in my mind. We keep driving, cross an intersection that has no rules, we squeak by, and we hang a left where it “Ts” off. Okay, right turn left turn, that’s the pattern. I’m looking, identifying, searching for anything that will stick out. There’s traffic ahead, we’re on the shoulder, we’re inching close to vehicles. Throttle, brake, put my foot down, throttle, break, turn, repeat. We make a right turn into a street that’s more like a sidewalk; we’re entering the alleys. Right, left, right. We make a left turn at a shrine, I’m losing track of all the turns I’m making. We make another right, and I give up on the memorization.

    I’m not bullshitting when I write this. Yes, narrow, very fucking narrow. Luckily it’s early. At peak hours, there’s no room to pick your asshole even. There are cars, mopeds, and people. We stop at our first place to take a look. No vacancy. We walk across the street. The guy says it’s only 100,000 rupiah a night. That’s exactly $11.68 US. No AC, but we walk on the second floor to see the room. There are two chicks sitting out on the balcony near by. The room is okay. There’s a shitter, a shower, a bed, and a door that locks--beyond a surfer’s needs.

    Randy says, “If you want to check out the places right by BK, we can take a look over there.”

    “Lets do it.”

    Why not take another look? I’d be a fool to drop cheese on the very first place. What bothers me about motel #1 is that there’s no view, and it . . . it looks like the apartments in Lennox, CA, on Felton and Century, and I’m sure that I can do better for a little more money.

    We ride a little further towards the beach, and motel #2 is gawd damn LUSH! Huge pool, patio set ups with tables and chairs, cable, AC, internet, free breakfast, it’s fucking clean, and the people there look like they have cheese. Cost . . . 250,000 a night. Breakdown, $29.20 US. The room is solid; it’s a no brainer at this point. For us westerners $29/night at a nice hotel is dirt cheap, but I have to remember that I’m in Bali, and for Bali this is kind of expensive. I’m a surf bum after all. I only need a place to shit and sleep that’s close to some food and internet.

    Randy tries to bargain with they guy. He says in Indonesian, “He doesn’t need the breakfast.”

    “It’s all a set price,” the worker says.

    I tell Randy, “Lets check out the place across the street before I make a final decision.”

Balcony view

My surfboard has a bed.

    We move our bikes and check out motel #3. I’m beginning to feel like Goldilocks. It’s quieter, there’s less people, and it’s set up more like a nice apartment complex. We check out the room, there’s no AC, but it’s really spacious. The room we’re in overlooks the pool. The worker’s name is Wayan, and he tells us of a different room at his other property down the street for only 100,000 a night. We go, but it’s pretty brutal. Back to motel #3, the price is 170,000/night, that’s $19.86 US. Sold! I pay a deposit, and Wayan tells us to grab a free breakfast. The complex is bigger than I thought. We walk past the other rooms, swing by the pool, and there’s an outdoor eating area with coffee and fruit. We sit, grab some food, and discuss the scenery. “I’ve never stayed in the surf ghetto before,” says Randy. “The bars are right there, you can practically walk there. I’ve never been there. BK is there too.” A young Balinese girl dressed like a school girl brings toast, eggs, and jam to our table. It’s unexpected . . . both things are. School girl outfits, what the hell? They look like they belong in high school, it’s a bit odd. There are little bugs by the fruit, a tiny wolfspider hops across the table, I take a look at the creamer and decide to take my coffee black. It’s still a good deal, I’m excited for the my last week here.

    I have to do the whole memorization thing on the way back to Randy’s house. It seems easier than getting there, but I’m still paying close attention to detail every second we’re riding. I pack the rest of my belongings, and we ride back. It’s a little more familiar, but I haven’t mastered the route. Randy suggests that I surf Balangan because the swell is up. I can’t though. I’ve thrown myself into a new environment. I must settle in and check out my surroundings; I can’t help it. We’re at an intersection in the ghetto. He directs his nod toward the direction that I must travel. I tell him I’ll see him later. Two brothers part ways.

Black Canyon Coffee in Kuta

    I find the hotel without getting lost, unpack my things, and realize there’s no power. I ask Wayan what’s up, he says that there’s a power outage right now, and they’re working on it. Three other Balinese dudes are scratching their heads over a generator that’s making noises but won’t start. My camera battery is dead, and I need power. I throw my laptop and electronics in my backpack and search for a café. I stop at a couple, but they’re either packed with Aussies starting their drinking binge, or there aren’t any power outlets within convenience. I stumble on to BK without realizing it; it’s such a short distance. I choose the Black Canyon Coffee café that’s across the street. There’s no wifi, but it’s air conditioned, and their smoothies are delicious. So this is where I am now. I’m writing, enjoying a watermelon smoothie, eating a mixed fries appetizer plate, and charging my camera battery. This is a nice café, the price is a little more than the smaller cafes, but I think it’s worth it. I’m not sure what my next move is. I got a pocket full of rupiah, all day to burn, but I do feel a shit coming on. I think I’ll start the souvenir shopping and eventually pull a long evening surf session here.

Big Kahuna in Kuta

The Nonbargainer:

Endless swarm of surf lessons

    I pay my bill and get outta there. That watermelon smoothie saves my life. It was so cooled and chilled; the glass was sweating. I stop by BK, but they are busy, so I head to Kuta beach to take a look. The swell is here, but it’s nothing but close outs. It’s actually a clusterfuck. So many people are out taking surf lessons, and they are all on the inside. It looks like the grunion run, but it’s just tourists on soft tops. There’s one local guy on the outside going straight on the close outs. He’s one hundred percent Bali DRC. I’ve seen Kuta’s surf  break before, but the tide is going out, and there’s too much swell for it, so it’s closing. Luzda (pronounced lose-duh) spots me and waves. He’s a surf instructor for BK, and he witnessed my doomed Michael Jackson dance my first couple days here. He’s young, dark, and has a 70’s hair-do; he’s a good kid. He’s teaching a Japanese tourist how to surf. It’s pretty funny, maternal almost. Luzda has the cooler out, and he’s giving the exhausted guy a drink of water. I think about when I was just as green as that, and I praise Luzda for the job he’s doing. It’s not just a nine-to-five, he’s taking good care of his student, the way a business should be operated.

Luzda on left

    I go back to BK and say hi to Citri and Little Kadek. Big Kadek isn’t there today and neither is Wulan. I tell them that I’m living up the street now, and then I go souvenir shopping. Poppies 1 is the street that I’m on, and it’s known for all of its shops and alley ways. I go to the first place and put my hands on a towel. A worker approaches.

    He says, “Hello, my friend, you want towel? I give you good price.”

    “Yeah, how much is each towel?"

    “I give you each towel for . . . 100.”

    He means 100,000, and that’s like $11 US. “100,000?” I say.

    “Yes, 100,000. Where you from my friend? You Japanese?”

    “No, I’m from Hawaii.” Randy says they like Hawaiians out here, and I can, so why not.

    “Ohhhh! Hawaii! Okay, my friend. My name Ali G.” He holds out his hand; I shake it.

    “100,000 is too much.”

    “How many do you want?”

    I go over the names in my head: Klaude, Dais, Cheryl, Christina. . . . “About five?” I say.

    “Okay my friend, I give you good price. Five towel, 400,000.”

    “Damn, uhhhhhhh, I was thinking 50,000 for each towel.”

    “Okay, okay, my friend, I give you . . . five towel for 350,000.”

    “Hmmm, nah, it’s okay. I’ll come back.”

    “No, my friend, I need good luck. You name the price.”

    At this point I’m over it. The more I look at the towels the more their quality is questionable. If he’s starting me off at 100,000 a towel, who knows how much they are actually worth. I leave, and he keeps following me. I manage to lose him. I look in a couple other stores, everything looks the same, plus I still have to take that shit that I felt a little while ago. I say hi to the vendor, and Ali G is right there waiting for me. He says, “Come on my friend. I give you five towels for 200,000!” Fuckin’ A. My shopping is over for the day. I can have Kadek get the Bali Kama’aina rate for me, or I can just go to the market and buy it all for a fixed price. I’m a bad bargainer.

Map making, before I forget.

    I take a monstrous shit and decide on the next move. The surf sucks, and I contemplate on driving to Canggu or Balangan. The only problem is that rush hour traffic starts in an hour, and I’ll be driving home in horrendous traffic too. It hits me how important it is to surf here, and I’m already getting the itch from being out. I decide on paddling out at Kuta just to at least get wet, maybe get lucky and catch one wave. Just as I’m done prepping, there’s a knock at the door. It’s Randy. He tells me that Balangan sucked today, he watched it for over an hour, the sets took forever, and he didn’t even paddle out. He’s here to check on me. We sit on the balcony as he gives me more info on where I can eat and find internet. We plan to meet at Dunkin’ Donuts at 0630 tomorrow.

    I lock up and head out the door. Walking in the surf ghetto is a trip. The board makes my profile wider, and I’m cautious of all the mopeds trying to squeeze past me. A couple vendors shout “Aloha!” and “Hawaii!” as I walk by. Either word travels fast on the street, or I just have that look. Japanese has always been the first choice. I stop by BK, and Randy’s talking to Wulan. I leave my belongings there and walk the Kuta shoreline.


Walk of Lame:

Dump City

    I walk for a while. The tide’s even lower. I pass two peaks that are actually working. They are breaking over shallow water, they’re fast, maybe only three feet, dumpy, but the shoulder races and holds. Little Bali groms are milking at least three turns on what should be a one turn wave. Too crowded for two peaks, I continue my march. I’m willing to walk to Dhyana Pura, but up ahead I only see closing white wash without a body in the water. Scratch what I said earlier. Waikiki has impeccable waves compared to this. It’s tourist land. The whole beach is covered with beach chairs, umbrellas, and people lying everywhere.

That watermelon smoothie isn’t enough. I feel a familiar foe creeping upon me--dehydration. I turn around and go back to that peak I saw earlier. There’s the same amount of people there, so I paddle out. There are tourists there, but the locals are getting first choice. I sit on the shoulder and wait for a turn. I don’t expect anything, and I accept that I’ll probably get nothing. After a good wait, I see a bump in the surface heading for me. Everyone else is out of position because I’m on the shoulder. Close out, I’m thinking. I paddle, drop in late, and I can’t believe that the it’s holding shape. I’m expecting a close out, so I’m not ready. I crouch low and let my momentum take me. I go down the line until it’s vertical. It’s not hollow, but I practice keeping my cool as the wave crashes onto me. I need to have the same mindset at Balangan. The crowd gets thicker, but I enjoy the show. Those Bali kids again . . . insane. Even if the Aussies get it first, they still drop in, and no one complains; they can’t. Even when the locals drop in on each other, the intruder cranks out at least two turns. The guy on the inside patiently waits in the pocket until the other guy kicks out. Local favoritism, they make it work. I get another one similar to the first on an outside set. It’s probably a disappointment to the show being put on. I’m not busting airs, cracking the lip, or even getting turns. I’m just staying with the pocket and crouching low. The crowd’s beyond capacity; it’s surf bukaki. I paddle towards the end of the other peak where the right handers are. I sit way on the outside; I’m ready to wrap up the session. I get two more waves that are fizzlers, not worth much.

Real Men or Real Diarrhea?:

    I go back to BK to pick up my stuff and talk to the whole gang. Their hospitality never fails to amaze me. I do my trademark “boobie dance” that’s always good for a couple laughs, but I’m not the beef boy that I used to be, so its effect is wearing off. The bathroom in my hotel room has everything in one spot, or should I say the sink and toilet are in the shower.

A fashion disaster.

 
    I can pretty much shit, shower, and shave, literally, all at the same time. I change and go exploring for some dinner. Randy told me about a Thai restaurant up the street, but the place is small, and I don’t see pad Thai, pad see ewe, or pad kee mow, so I can’t fuck with it. I walk by a Mexican restaurant called TJ’s, but . . . I can have Mexican food at home. I continue my search until I’m outside of Poppies 1 and on a main strip. The small shops changed to expensive clothing stores. I stop at a sushi restaurant and see that the prices are over 70,000. That’s too much. At Cabe in Seminyak I was getting meals for no more than 29,000 a pop.

    A guy stops me as I walk by him. He asks if I’m local. I say, “No,” and he says that I’m wearing long sleeves like a local.

    “What are you looking for?” He asks.

    “Uhhhhh . . . I’m looking for something good to eat,” I say. I figure that a little small talk won’t hurt, and that he might give me some good info.”

    “You like lofster?” He asks.

    “Lobster?”

    “Lofster.”

    I can’t help but be worried that lofster is a local dish made out of bread and tofu, the opposite of lobster. I say again, “Looooob-sterrrrr?”

    “You like seafood?”

    “Oh, yeah, lobster. Yeah I like seafood!”

    “Okay, I take you to some good seafood, not expensive.”

    Whether he was offering some genuine help without expecting anything in return, I don’t know. My western attitude has my pan-handler defenses up. In the western world, nothing is free, so I decline.

    There’s this place called Heaven’s Club. The menu doesn’t have gouging prices, so I keep a tab on that place as I keep on searching. A couple other places are still expensive, so I go back to Heaven’s club, and the three eager Balinese hostesses escort me in. The place is dark, candle lit, there’s a DJ booth that awaits the later hours, and there are hookahs in a corner. I see a sign that reads “Free Wifi.” Awesome, I’m gonna have to come back here, I think to myself.

    I’m presented with an Indonesian, Indian, and Italian menu. It takes me a while to decide, and the prices are so affordable that I already feel a marathon feast in the making. There are two types of guys in this world: guys who can dust off of their entire plate, and guys that let “that guy” dust off their plates. Me . . . I can fuckin’ eat! I’m like the soul surfer of eating: I’m not a professional/competitive eater, but I eat for the love of food. I start off with the fresh mango juice, and it tastes like they just sliced off the yummy parts of a mango and threw it in a blender. I order the Indo noodles with beef, a fried egg, and fried eggplant.

The egglplant was the true highlight here.

    I’m so hungry I inhale it. It’s a good meal, worth every rupiah. I said it before, “I’ve always wanted to come to a third world country and eat like a king.” I tell the waitress to bring back the menus. Round two includes tofu with tempe, an Indian fried onion dish, Indo fried rice with beef, Indian almond balls, and an avocado smoothie.

    Jesus H . . . avocado smoothies . . . they even swirled chocolate syrup inside the glass. It’s cold, euphoric, and . . . and the food’s starting to hit me.

     I kill off the tofu, tempe, and rice. The onion dish has seven individual pieces. When I start counting that’s a bad sign, a sign that I’m eating for pride and not hunger. I don’t know how, but I manage to polish those fuckers off. I can’t sit back in my chair anymore. My back is erect, stomach bulging. The syrupy almond balls are left. My gawd, they’re so delicious and sweet; it’s easy to put those away. My smoothie puts me at maximum capacity. They say you don’t have to tip in Bali, but my waitress has been so nice. She’s given me customer service worthy of some ritzy five-star restaurant. I give her a 20,000 tip. She thanks me, her friend thanks me, before I leave my waitress thanks me again. US value of 20,000 rupiah: $2.34 US.

    My walk back is hazy and slower; I’m food drunk. My pace quickens, as my ass cheeks start to clench; I need to shit . . . BAD.

    When I was stationed in Baghdad, the chow hall was about a mile away from our chus. It seemed every night after dinner chow, I’d walk out of the difac and feel a shit coming on. A half mile later, my walk would turn into an anus wrenching power walk. By the time I reached the chus, my anus was dripping sweat and poopwater; my asshole even bled once. We called it “The Diarrhea Mile.” This walk isn’t as brutal, but it’s close.

    I pull down my shorts, let my anus gape wide open, push, and feel the liquid fury drain from my insides. It’s relief, but I’ve been squirting all day. There’s no need to wipe because my cheeks are wet, so I shower my lower half off.

  
    Must’ve been that goat curry I had last night. They call it “Bali Belly,” but a real man can take it. Why? Because real men love to take a shit. There are two types of men in this world. . . .





    When I’m done, I’m still full as ever. I lie down for almost an hour before I muster the energy to go to the chat café in front of the hotel. It’s actually a chat bar. I’ve never been to one, but I’m right at the bar because the place is packed. It’s not a rowdy crowd. Wedding Crashers is playing on a projector, people are drinking, but they’re mellow. The real drunkees must be at the main strip, but these people came all the way to Bali just to watch movies in a bar . . . and blog. They cut off the internet at 2300; it’s closing time. The once busy streets now have construction crews, as small packs of Aussie chicks walk around, double fisted with Bintang beer. I go to the mini mart to pick up some toothpaste and call it a night. I hope that the mosquitoes aren’t gonna tear me up, and I feel another brutal shit coming on. Ohhhhh yeah!