A Barney in Bali--Day 26 (double sesh), 03JULY2011 SUN

Milking It:


    Before we paddle out again, we watch others starting their morning sessions. They have no idea what’s out there. A tourist couple paddles out, there are yells that follow, and they catch a wave in. Some Sunday beachgoers start to fill up the beach, and some other travelers that we’ve already met arrive. There are two Aussies named Greg and John, and they have their families with them. Greg’s cool. I show him my battle wounds, and he takes note to watch out for his kids.

    John, on the other hand is making some funky comments about Hawaii, and why in the ASP that you can be from Hawaii and the US. My brother tells him, “It’s a pride thing.” The energy is getting weird, John can’t stop talking, so I decide to test the waters to see if it’s safe.

    I’m bare backing it again, and halfway out to the line up I’m stung in one of the worst places possible. A jelly gets me right under the throat at the base of my neck, right between the collar bones. It hurts, but I keep paddling. I see no other signs of them, so I sit to work the inside again.

    The session picks up where I left off, and it’s even a little bit better. The big sets are too fast at the top of the wave, and the shoulders hold right where I’m sitting. The drop ins are fast, and I start my rides with good speed, pumping down the line. I do some lame cutback attempts as usual, but I’m enjoying myself, and that’s all that matters. The tide is high enough to create some right handers. I split the peak with a tatted Aussie, but when I look behind me, he’s going right as well. The wave closes out on us, and I apologize when we resurface; he’s cool about it.

    As Randy paddles out, he sees me pop up on another good wave. “Yeah-heahhhh!” he yells as I ride past him. My timing’s off on the next couple waves. Instead of paddling out to the peak, I sit and wait for it to come to me. When I do, I’m too deep, and the lip pitches me over before I pop up. It’s a worthy wipe out and in front of the Balangan crowd. This happens twice. The Aussie I cut off earlier gives me a thumbs up on one. After that the waves stopped holding shape. The lowering tide shuts the place down, and we end the sesh there.



Javanese Grub:
 

    We are rarely done this early, so Randy suggests that we go to this Javanese restaurant in Seminyak. I haven’t been there since my first week here. The traffic is still manageable, and we make it in good time. It’s Panda Express style, where you go down the serving line and tell them what you want. Randy gets about four items, and I think I order seven. It’s good stuff, and for cheap. As we’re finishing up our plates, Randy’s friend Sky pulls up on his motorcycle. He doesn’t even know we’re there yet, and the expression he wears on his face is one of full confidence, borderline arrogance. He’s Randy’s buddy of high school, the first to make the Bali fantasy a reality. He’s been here for about thirteen years and owns Big Kahuna surf school.

    It’s a pleasant surprise to enjoy a meal with a friend. He’s been cool with me since I met him, and he asks me how my trip’s going. He speaks good Indonesian, as he places his order without a fumble in the native tongue.

    After the main course, Sky orders us our desserts, and he elaborates in detail how they need to make it for us, giving precise directions in this language that I can’t understand. It’s similar to the Filipino dessert halo-halo. There are some fruits in there that I’ve never had before. I take a picture.

    When it’s time to pay the bill, Sky demands that we get the VIP discount. Randy’s just like me, taking the back seat, watching the show, and speechless at Sky’s demeanor. Sky has an interesting personality, and the reason I bring him up is because I think everyone has “that friend” that’s just like him. I smile at the whole situation and tell Randy that I’m glad he has someone like him in his life. It’s good to have a friend that brings a different energy into your life. After all, if we all had friends that were just like us, wouldn’t that be boring?

Bali's ambassador of Maui.

Autopilot:


    I’m so tired. I’m slipping into food coma, plus yesterday’s events still leave their mark. I have to drive back into Kuta. Now when I drive, I don’t smile. Every movement is with a purpose. I grimace, straight mouthed; I think you kind of have to when you’re in traffic like this.

    At the motel, I clean up, try to reach Lauren, but she’s not on line. I try to start writing, but I need to start my list for souvenir shopping. Kadek agreed to do the bargaining for me, so I need to go over what I need to buy. Randy tells me to be there a little after 1700, as he plans to have a drink with his Balinese buddy. I walk up to BK as Randy is parking. Luzda is working there too.

    Kadek offers me a street cappuccino. I say, “Sure,” and Kadek gets a couple from a street vendor, a kid carrying around plastic bags and a cooler. Man, every cup of coffee I’ve had in this country is strong, even this cup off the street. Randy gets them a couple beers, and Randy donates some clothes to the guy I got the moped from. Randy’s iPod plays on the loudspeakers into the street, Cali and Hawaiian reggae fills the evening air as mobs of tourists file in and out of Poppies 1. I spot an Amazonian. She’s Caucasian, at least six feet tall. And . . . a little Balinese guy, barely over five feet tall, picks her up on his moped. She kisses him on the cheek. “Nice . . . good job,” I say. He’s doing something right.

    I take a picture with Luzda, and he offers to bring me to his friend’s shop to get the real prices on the souvenirs. It’s only a couple shops down, but he suggests that I jump on his moped. Only tourists walk in this country. So I find out that shirts are 30,000 and towels are 45,000. He doesn’t have the bottle openers that are shaped like huge cocks, but I’ll find them elsewhere.

    I still have a lot to write, so I say my goodbyes and head to the motel. It’s so hard to recall events if I don’t write them the same day, but I do my best. It’s getting late, I still haven’t had dinner, and I need to go to Chat Café to post my blog. As tired as I am, I hop on the moped and head back to Seminyak. I maneuver through the gauntlet that is Poppies 1 and make my way to the main highway. It’s one thing to drive tired in a car back in the states. I usually just drive slow in the right lane, letting people pass me that are in a rush. Driving tired in Bali is a very, very bad idea. I try to stay alert, especially at night because the potholes are harder to see. I don’t even look for landmarks; I’m just focuses on the roads and the traffic in front of me. I find my way without even trying; it’s effortless, a good sign that I’m learning my way around this town. I eat my dinner at Chat Café, it’s pricey, but I’m short on time, and I need to pleasure two holes with one finger.

Kadek

    When I’m done, I drive through the Kuta nightlife, but this time I take a closer look. Traffic is only slow because everyone’s people watching as they drive. Balinese go-go dancers are in front of one club, different songs blare in the streets every couple meters, an Aussie is restraining his other Aussie friend in the middle of the street. He’s saying, “Let me go! I’m going to kill him!” I drive around them thinking how funny it would be to stick my finger in his asshole as I drive by. The whole scene is chaos: Aussies, tourists, locals, they’re all in the streets, the bars, the clubs, drinking, and partying. I drive right through that shit; it’s not what I’m here for.

    I make it back to the hotel unscathed. I think about walking Poppies 1 for some dessert, but I hear a drunken argument in Indonesian, and it sounds like someone’s about to get stab. The streets are darker and less crowded. I opt to just go up to my room instead.

    In my room I hear a scuffle outside. An Aussie is drunk, passed out, and his friends are dragging him to the room across from mine. I’m on my balcony, it’s dark, I’m black, so they can’t see me. The guy carrying the drunk is giving directions to the motel staff on how to take care of him: “Make sure he’s by a toilet, give him water when he wakes up. . . .”

    The drunkee wakes in a rage and yells, “Let me go! I need a toilet!” and then he starts throwing up.
    A girl in their group says, “I’m going to be sick.”

    Wayan, the hotel guy that showed me my room, is approaching them with a large basin of water. I look across, and another surfer guy peers over this spectacle as well. Animals. I wonder if I was that bad. For what I can remember, when I was drunk, I was always a happy drunk, and I hated having people nurse me back to health. Thank goodness I’m here for the surf. Once again, I’m not here for that.