A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY TWO (19MAY2013)

Enter the Jungle:

     Seeing our surroundings in the day time is much different than what we saw last night. On the third story of our compound, we can see the whole bay. Waves are breaking out front, but they look soft and mooshy. At six in the morning the sun is already peaking over the mountains, creating a stagnant heat from the lack of wind.

    Randy says that we’re going to check out The Machine but that there are French and Japanese pros in town who have taken it over.

     Anyone who knows me knows that I hate crowds, but my brother . . . REALLY hates crowds. Sweat’s already starting to show through my shirt while we’re packing up our gear. Randy says that Al will have to ride bitch with him and that I will have my own moped, but I have to give Al a ride to Compound Two.

     I remember how to ride a moped; it’s easy. At home I even have a dirtbike and know how to shift, but my moped doesn’t have a hand-operated clutch, and the up shift and down shift levers are by my left foot. With both of our boards loaded on the surf rack, Al hops onto the back of my moped. When I put it into first gear, I wheelie, almost causing Al to fall off. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he says. “Are you all right?”

     “I’m fine,” I say. I start again from a complete stop and do the same thing over again. This is embarrassing. I’m gonna put the both of us in the hospital before we even see a wave. My brain can’t ride this thing without a clutch. When I get momentum on the bike, I’m squirrely. Al’s weight in the back feels weird. The bike is all over the place. Thank goodness Compound Two is only two-hundred meters away.

     Compound Two is different than where we’re staying at. There are bungalows; a huge open bay for the kitchen, dining tables, and a huge open space to sit on a large mat and chat. There is an office and a dormitory, where people can stay for cheap so long as they don’t mind sleeping on a mattress touching the floor next to other traveling surfers.

     My head is cooking under my helmet. Even Randy’s forehead is beading up. We have a late start today. It’s about 0800, and a group of surfers have congregated under the shade next to a bungalow. Randy inserts himself into this Elite group to discuss the plans for today. Al and I are introduced to Grant, an English bloque. He has dirty, blonde hair, a thick neck, a well-defined jawline, and he’s deathly handsome, even more handsome than Al. Reese is a wiry mate from Australia with black, curly hair, like a black-haired Beavis. He says he’s been traveling Europe, which explains why his skin is still pale. Edo manages the compound, an Indo guy with long hair and thin, smooth, hairless, brown limbs. Last but not least is the man who runs the whole operation: the muthafuckin’ Doctor.

     “The Machine is crowded,” says a voice in the pack. “Too many pros.” Silence follows. Then there’s a discussion on where to surf. And then the decision is made to check out some new spots past the machine, spots that might be uncrowded and at the same time might not work.

     One of the compound’s long time guests is leaving. A van waits outside. A different group comes out from the canopy of trees and housing units to bid the guests farewell. Randy says, “Let me see if a moped’s free.” The van takes off, leaving a gathering of people who are waving goodbye. Randy comes back with a moped. “Al, here you go.”

     Now, this moped is just gas and brake. I’m a selfish asshole because I really would rather ride that. “Al,” I say, “Do you want to ride mine instead? You’ve ridden bikes like this before right?”

     “No,” says Al, “but I can figure it out. We’re hesitant, staring at each other. I kind of don’t want to bitch out but at the same time, my short ride from the other compound has me questioning my shifting ability.

     Randy says, “You two figure it out,” and he heads back to his bike.

     Now, here we are. This seems like a military operation. The seven of us on a convoy, but instead of tanks or Humvees we’re moving out on mechanical mounts that buzz through the streets. The traffic here is nothing like Bali. In this small town, there is enough room to maneuver, enough margin for error for one to learn how to ride, and there is uncrowded open space with only sparse motorists in either direction. Leaving Indo-Napili we leave behind the town and begin our journey uphill, through the mountains and to who the fuck knows where.

     Turns, I forgot how to turn. Spots of light shine on the road, through bare areas between branches. Potholes are hard to spot through the shadows. I weave through miniature obstacles as we descend down the hill, losing the canopied cover, exposed to the sun once more. Construction diggers are on the side of the road, working, destroying a cliff to make the road wider. At the top of the hill, our convoy comes to a halt. A woman who was driving towards us in the opposite lane is lying on the ground; her bike a skidded mess on the road. Grant dismounts his bike to help. A local man reaches her first, cradling her in his arms, carrying her to the side of the road. Construction workers rush the scene with cups of water. Doc dismounts from his moped and feels her leg. She winces. After a few minutes, he comes back to our convoy, waving his arm for us to continue our march. The look on his face tells me that nothing’s broken; she’ll be all right.

     How do I explain this joy of riding, the sensation that I last felt in Bali that I didn’t realize I’ve missed so much. I’m picking up the rear of the convoy with Al in front of me. Through twists and turns on remote roads, we are literally snaking through dense trees and brush. Just when it looks like we’ve reached the end of civilization, on a narrow road, we reach a town that has life: shops, stores, city centers, and children. Little Indo kids wave and run after us as we pass, yelling, “Hello, Mister!” And then the road goes remote again, not a soul in sight, but then there are more towns, more desolation, and more villages. A half an hour into the trip, I wonder if these villagers even need the city at all? For sure, no postman can make it out here. Old men, weathered and leathered as my grandfather Andres, walk along the road with curved knives, carrying bales of grass on their back, and still, they have the time to look up and smile as we drive past.

     And then the road changes. Further away from Indo-Napili, the roads turn to stone. Riding down a steep hill, the last thing you want is to launch off of a boulder.

     Reaching the beach by means of small signs easy to miss, we turn off the road and find a cliff overlooking a small cove. A waterfall runs through it, and fisherman sit under a hut watching us. Kids play under the waterfall, which is next to a passageway down. The water is the same tropical blue that you see on postcards. The tide is high, but outside, there is a big mooshy peak, but it’s BIG. I know it’s rideable. Al looks at me, and I know he’s thinking the same thing. An Indo/Java introduction, it’s a heavy wave regardless of the tide, and there’s a lot of water moving around. 

     I turn around and the Elite who we are with . . . are not impressed. “It would be good on a low tide,” says a voice. Looks of disappointment adorn their faces, even my brother’s. I’m thinking that we can surf it, but what do I know? I’m no authority here, and who am I to make the call? My neck shines wet under the sweltering heat. The sun blazes on us all, much higher now. I keep my helmet on to keep the sun off of my head. Doc talks to the local fisherman for a while and then . . . we’re off again.

     Deeper and deeper we ride, passing tinier villages a little restaurant shacks on the side of the road. Palm trees, banana trees—my friends, we are riding through a fucking JUNGLE. Isolated break after break, there is size but no shape. The Elite have never set eyes on these spots either, so it’s a new experience for all of us, but unfortunately it’s a mission failure.

     On the way to another spot, I’m riding behind Reese when he stalls on a hill. He stops and says, “I think I just lost my chain.” I tell him that I’ll go tell the others and ride past him. When I reach the spot, I tell Edo that Reese is back there, so he grabs some tools and backtracks. This spot is the same: beautiful with no surf. 

    Back on the road, Doc talks to a family sitting in front of their home and asks if it’s okay for us to leave Reese’s bike there, and then Reese jumps rides bitch with Doc.

    

   The last spot we check has the worst road. It’s steep with jagged rock. Our bikes bounce as we go down. Reese even gets off of the bike to walk. Al puts his foot down several times for balance, something that my buddy Sebastian back home (he taught me how to ride a dirtbike) told me never to do. When we reach the surf, it’s rideable but small. Doc walks back up the hill and tells Reese to drive his bike back up.

     Al and I dismount our bikes. Hours have passed since this morning. We’re thinking the same thing: we need to get wet. After all, this is JAVA. Al and I mindsurf the waves. There’s a little left and a right. In Cali, this would be doable for at least a fuck around sesh. Water hits my feet for the first time. It’s warm and refreshing. No one else is feeling the spot. We mount back up to leave, but Edo’s bike won’t start. “Carburetor,” he says. He and Grant start disassembling it, draining out fuel so dirty that it looks like miso soup. Meanwhile, Al and I watch the surf for another half hour. Finally, we say fuck it and grab our boards, but Edo’s bike starts.

Casualties:

     That hill I wrote about earlier. Yes, we must overcome this beast once more. A dirt trail, under palm trees, leads up a steep hill before turning rocky and jagged. One must keep momentum to successfully make this hill climb. Reese is on the Doctor’s bike. He goes first. His engine buzzes up the hill, his bike disappears to the left, and then we hear a crash. Al is next to go, but he stops before the turn where Reese disappeared. He looks back at us. Something’s not right. I want to tell Al to take it easy. He’s trying to ride while putting his feet down, but he’s trying to go up the hill like that. His bike wheelies. The tail of his board scrapes along the rocks. He loses control, holding on to the handlebars but not realizing that he’s engaging the throttle the whole time. He’s standing up but twisted around. The bike’s front wheel finally lands. “FUCK!” yells Al. Even though I’m still at the base of the hill, I can already see the dark, trickling, red stream all over his foot.

     I ride up to him and ask if he’s all right. His toes look like filleted ginger at a sushi bar. “Yes!” he yells, “I’m fine. Just . . . go help Reese.” Doc’s bike is on its side in the bushes next to the rocks.

     Reese is standing there with little cuts all over his body, but his shoulder looks red and bruised. “I’m all right,” he says. “Just my shoulder.” Grant rides up past us to park his bike.

     Randy rides up the hill and says, “All he had to do was walk it up.” I go to the top, park my bike, and come back down. Grant and I pull Doc’s bike out of the bushes. Surprisingly, other than some minor scratches, the bike’s okay. Randy rides Al’s bike up. Al’s left slipper is broken, and his foot is in a puddle of blood.

     He says, “From now on I’m taking it easy. If anything, I’m mad at myself.”

     The journey continues. We pick up Reese’s bike from the village, and we all drive to a roadside mechanic shack. They work on Edo’s and Reese’s bikes. Randy says, “You down to check out The Machine?” Al, Reese, Edo, and the Doc say that they’re gonna head back after the bikes are fixed. I tell Al that I’ll meet him back at the compound.

     Grant, Randy, and I head towards the spot, and it starts pouring rain on our way there. We park our bikes under some shade and check out the surf. “It’s small,” says my brother. A few guys are out. There’s a left, then a channel, and then a right. Two massive rocks jut out from the ocean on each side. “It usually barrels,” he says. Grant goes to the warung on the beach to order some noodles.

     I can’t believe how disappointed they are. I guess after being in Java for months, it’s easy to be picky, but I just came from Cali. And . . . sure, it’s not big, maybe 2-3 Cali Scale, but it’s a little rippable, probably a guaranteed turn or two. 

     It’s about 1630, and from being in Jakarta, I know it gets dark around five. The rain has barely let up. “You can go out for a little while,” says Randy. Trust me, I want to go. I want to finally get wet, that’s what I came here for. I want to paddle out just for a half hour at least, but then . . . we have at least forty minutes of riding back, now in the rain and possibly in the dark if we wait longer. Grant kills his noodles, and we head back to the compound.

     Back home, Al’s toes look terrible. I’m so scared that they’ll get infected, but I feel horrible as well that his surf trip may be affected by this. And it wasn’t even worth it. It would be one thing to get cut up surfing a wave at least, but this happened while riding. All I can do is stare. “It’s my fault,” he says. “I should have just walked it up, but instead I tried to ride it.” We go over the scenario several more times. 

     Around 1800, Randy comes downstairs and asks if we’re ready for dinner. We drive through Indo-Napili to a restaurant called Padangs, but I don’t know if “restaurant” is the right word. The storefront window has several bowls in a pyramid stack. There are no doors or windows; it’s open air, everything is around here. We walk in. There are four plastic tables. A fan whirs on one side of the wall while a TV plays an Indonesian version of TMZ on the other side. Randy says to walk up and serve ourselves and that we are supposed to pay afterwards. I get a huge scoop of rice, chicken curry, something that resembles spinach, and tempe. I don’t know if it’s just because it’s been a long day, but the food is fucking outstanding.

     Two little bowls of water rest on the table. I ask, “What are these for?”

     “You use them to rinse your hands if you eat with your hands,” says Randy.

     “Do you eat with your hands here?”

     “No.” He picks up a fork and spoon. I go for just the spoon.

     When we’re done, I walk up to the counter to pay, pointing at the things I just ate. The owner looks up at the ceiling, mumbling numbers to himself. He looks at me and says, “Twelve-hundred.”

     I walk out thinking, holy shit. I just dined like a dictator for only a dollar and twenty-five cents.