A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY ELEVEN (28MAY2013)

     With my Lost board needing a repair, I know that I won’t be traveling to Machines today. I sleep in until about 0630 and then go to the kitchen to eat some instant oatmeal. Sonia is in here. She says that she was kept up all night from a bad rash on her legs, breasts, and arms. It was so bad that she had to find some ice in the middle of the night to calm the itching. I tell her that that was me a day ago. I couldn’t sleep because I was so itchy, so at one in the morning I had opened up my laptop and started writing. My rash is behind my knees and in the bends of my arms, opposite my elbows. Also behind my armpits, the skin is raised and sensitive. When I go back to my room, Al’s scratching his ass. He was scratching it all last night. I thought he was jacking off, but when I didn’t hear him moan, I knew he was itching.

     “I think we have bed bugs,” he says. “Bed bugs, or it’s the fuckin’ jelly fish.” Oh, I forgot to mention. There are a lot of jelly fish here, but nothing life threatening, just a bunch of little ones that sting a bit, more of a nuisance than extreme pain. “We should find some Benadryl,” Al continues. “I saw a bottle of it at compound one. Somebody bought some somewhere.”

     Al leaves to go talk to ask around about the crème to relieve his itch, while I furiously type away and try to catch up with this blog business, this business for my whopping twenty five followers, for the five or six people that will comment. I thank you all, and at the same time, this is for myself. Yes, so I can remember every detail of this trip, twenty years from now I can tell Al that on this very day he was scratching his ass all night long.

     Al gains intel that they sell Benadryl at the apotek or pharmacy, but before we head out, we stop at Compound One to drop off my damaged board to Edo. He takes it willingly. Holding the board and looking at the dimensions, he says, “This board too big for you.”

     “Yeah, I know,” I say. Fuck, I want to tell him that “The guy who I kind of look like” recommended the board’s dimensions, and that it’s supposed to work well in big barrels, but this point, who am I kidding. The board works fine. It’s me.

     We cruise around town looking for the apotek. No one has Benadryl. We hit Padangs for lunch, but the lunch crowd already beat us. Only meager cuts of chicken curry are left over. The curry sauce has been drained of the good stuff, and now all that’s left is oil and grease. We’re disappointed, but it’s too late to turn back now because the owner’s daughter has already scooped us our rice on two plates.

     Afterwards we head to the Rajawali restaurant, the place with wifi. I order an avocado smoothie while Al plays with the internet on his phone. He leaves a half an hour later, and I finally post all my blogs and pics to catch up with everything. Most of my email isn’t important. I swear, you order one penis pump, and now you get all kinds of random email. I get to chat with Briana, which is good to let her know I’m alive. Her sister will be visiting, and they’ll be partying it up together in my tiny studio. Shan messages me and lets me know that surf’s been good back home. I don’t bother to check what’s going on with the NBA or ASP. Lastly, I purchase my return ticket from Jogjya to Jakarta for 17 June.

     By the time I park my bike at the compound, other mopeds are zipping past with surfboards loaded, heading towards the river mouth. I go in the room and tell Al that we should head out.

     When we reach the surf, we see that the waves are small. Today’s swell is supposed to be five-to-eight feet, but it’s missing Choco Point. The waves are more like three-to-four and soft, save for the take off spot at the point, which is a little racy and good for some turns.

     We take the easy route, walking to the lineup and paddling out. Six Indo kids are already on it. They speak among themselves, motioning towards us, as we approach. Who knows what they’re saying about us. I head more towards the shoulder before I start taking their waves. On the beach, the German onslaught has arrived.

     Nothing is really swinging wide. Everyone’s at the point. A wave does swing my way, and an Indo kid that had just got a wave turns back around on his way to the lineup and takes the wave. Son of a bitch, I’m thinking. Here I am trying to practice good etiquette, letting the local groms get on it first before I paddle out, and then this guy is still greedy.

     I paddle towards the top of the wave and insert myself in the lineup, but then “the guy who I kind of look like” shows up, so I go back to the shoulder. I really don’t feel like surfing close to him.

     And with the poor surf positioning that I’ve placed myself in, watching everyone else catch waves on a scant day of surf, a bad mood sets in. I’m putting on a straight face for the benefit of my friend Al. I don’t want to be a downer, and I’ve held a lot of my thoughts and feelings inside about the whole thing with “the guy” upstairs, but Al leaves on Sunday and it’s already Tuesday. I wish I could switch my plane ticket, but Al already checked, and it’s about $750 to do so. Maybe I just need to go to Bali. I don’t know, but I just feel awkward staying here now after wearing out my welcome early. It’s too late to be salvaged.

     Al gets some decent waves from the point. Ana paddles out with Sonia, and they float around the shoulder with me or head to the top of the wave, disappearing and reappearing at different times.

     At about 1730, I tell Al that I’m going for one more. All my waves have been soft, or I’ve been too far behind the section on the sets. I had tried cutting back in the pocket to keep momentum, but I kept getting left behind. One legit floater that I landed is my only claim to fame for the day. On my last wave, I just go for it. Fuck the pocket. I pump and pump as far as I can on the wave so I can get as close to shore as possible, and I realize that the wave, on this small swell, stands up better further down the line. For the first time this afternoon, I’m able to connect three turns. On this smaller Tokoro, my turns feel sharper and crispier. I straighten out, lie on my board, and ride the whitewash all the way in until my fins hit the sand. That ride reminds me that the wave is the only thing I need to rely on. So long as I’m surfing, I can survive this trip.

Vagabond Friends:

     It starts raining hard. Al and I are hunkered in our room, hoping that it stops soon so we can grab chow. There’s a knock on the door. “Come in!” I yell.

     “Halo,” says Sonia, as she peeks in with her freckled face, TV-screen glasses, and red hair. She leaves back to Germany on 6 June. She had told us that she works the ski resorts and travels here during the off season. “We go grab the others for dinner?”

     “Yes,” I say. I look at Al. He nods. “Give us three minutes.”

     Ten minutes later, we’re on our bikes. The rain stings as we drive into it. At Compound One, Grant suggests that we go to a restaurant right around the corner since it’s wet out.

     Ana, Sonia, Camille, Al, Grant, and I show up to the nicest restaurant I’ve seen since I’ve been in Indo-Napili. There’s TV, tables, and the low tables where you have to sit on the floor. Camille leads us towards those.

     We order some large Bin Tangs all around. My mie gorang ayam only costs 10000 IR, but they get us on the beer, which brings my bill up to 60000 IR. Still only six bucks, but somewhat expensive compared to what we usually get.

     There’s something about my farts that make people laugh. That, my booby dance, and me and Al’s gay, military humor. I whip out my serviceless iPhone and show grant some of my best shit pics, and he cops over laughing, barely able to breathe. I fart again, not noticing that a random German guy at the next table is right behind me, about to ask to borrow the ketchup. The call is to get more beer. When I was in Bali two years ago, I couldn’t drink at all because I got a latent form of tuberculosis from my Iraq deployment, and they had given me some nine-month medication that disallowed me from having one drop of alcohol, so . . . why not go for it tonight.

     We hit the market to buy martabek, and then to the Indomaret for beer. Back at our compound, Grant has the music going on Al’s speakers. Grant calls Gayun and asks him to deliver us some Arak, which is Indonesian, homemade rice wine (I think). 

     At half past midnight, I’m gone. Not gone as in drunk, just immobilized. Everyone is smoking and talking. The smell of cigarettes makes me nauseas, but I don’t want to be rude and leave, but I give in. I exit stage left, lie on my bed, and turn off the lights. Ten minutes later, the door opens. “Come on, mate,” says Grant. He pulls me out of bed and leads me back outside. “On you go.” He pats my ass repeatedly as I walk back to the hang out area. It’s funny how people are a little weird around gay humor at first, but eventually they can’t resist and put on a homo show worse than yours.

     I’m lying back against the wooden frame, bordering the platform. I can’t even comprehend the conversations around me. Gayun tells us to lower the volume a little so as not to disturb the guests. Nausea returns. Why am I such a pussy? I’m representing America here among the Germans, English, and Indonesian, but I can’t hang; I’m fading out.

     I lie on the middle of the rug on my stomach. Camille is nice enough to grab one of the pillows there and puts it in front of my face.

     “He’s done,” says a voice.

     I stand up, walk down the platform, and rest my arms and my head on the railing. The party is still going strong, but I’m not. I should say goodbye, but I don’t want the ridicule, the “Matt, don’t be a pussy,” that I know is cocked and loaded in Al’s mouth. I turn and head straight for my room. No one objects. Shutting the door behind me, I lie on my bed. The AC in here is cool. We are supposed to surf in the morning. Not sure what’s gonna happen with that now. Outside the laughter becomes faint, like the sound of a distant, preschool playground.