A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY THIRTY ONE (17JUN2013)

The Road to El Segundo:

     It’s 0400 when my alarm goes off. I sit up immediately and flick on the lights. I’m still dizzy but functional. Three and a half hours of sleep . . . that’s not so bad. No, it’s terrible. I open the door and see Randy and his friend cooking. Shit. I need to hurry and pack; the cab will be here at 0500.

     Randy walks up to me, hands over a cup of coffee, and says, “How you feeling?”

     “Not too good.”

     “Was that you throwing up last night?”

     I pause. “Yeah . . . that was me.”

     He laughs. “Yeah, cause we heard you. I was like, ‘He normally doesn’t throw up.’”

     He’s right. I don’t. They heard it; they heard the horror. “I’m gonna pack up real quick and I’ll be right out.”

     He nods. “Yeah, yeah.”

     Brush my teeth. That’s the priority. No time to floss. I take a cold ass shower, but it’s not sobering. Wax is still on my boards when I put them in Klaude’s FCS bag. I zip it up, hoping that the airlines don’t damage them.

     I’m looking at my watch, rushing. Moving quickly, my head still spins as I pull my stuff off of the shelves and chuck them into my suitcase. Fuck it, no valuables, no fragile stuff, just clothes and bullshit.

     I make a pile for the things that I’m giving to my brother. He’s given me his Tokoro, so I let him have both of my leashes. There is the activator juice that Bri had bought me for my hair. I barely used it, so Randy can have that too. There are other minor things, like the bodywash that I never got to finish, extra toilet paper, etc.

     It’s one of the quickest packing jobs that I’ve ever done, and I’m super fucking anal, but there’s not much to worry about because I really don’t have much. I’m done at exactly 0440.

     With my bags on the porch, I walk to the kitchen to join Randy and his friend.

     “Matt,” says Randy. “Here.” He lifts a black, plastic bag and unties it. It’s full of snacks. “Here are two Anker Beers, something to take home and drink with Bri.” He pulls out a small pouch. “These are the first snacks that we had, that first night drinking at Indomaret when Al was here.” He digs through the bag further and pulls out the instant coffee. “Coffee, just like we’ve been drinking here.”

     “Awww, Bro. Thanks, man.”

     “Yeah, no worries. And here.” He hands me a plastic, rectangular container that has a wooden fork, rubber banded to it. It’s filled with fried noodles and meatballs. “Mie gorang. This is for when you get hungry. You can eat it at Jakarta or whatever.”

     Speechless, all I can say is, “Thanks.”

     I sit down, and there’s a plate of food for me, ready to be eaten. I’ve only taken about three bites, and then a car pulls up outside. “Fuck,” I say. “He’s early.”

     Randy stands up. “Don’t worry. Just eat.” He walks out to the cab driver to tell him that I won’t be leaving right this second. Hungover but still able to eat, I force the rest of the food down. If you recall, I had skipped dinner last night, probably a dumb idea—drinking on an empty stomach.

     It’s a quick goodbye, similar to the last time I went to Bali, but at least I was sober then. We load up my bags in the morning darkness. I’m ready to go.

     “All right, Bro,” says Randy. He opens his arms for a hug. “I love you, man.”

     We hug. It’s a much tighter hug than that morning when he had apologized. There’s no need to hug tighter. I squeeze his shoulder upon release. “I love you too, Bro. Thanks for everything.”

     I jump in the front seat with the window down, still looking back. Randy walks out to the gate to watch us drive away. We have a few more words and wave. We’re watching each other until the compound is no longer in view. 

     I could easily get emotional right here, but I don’t go there because I’m worried about my nausea. Will I be able to hold this food down? The smell of the plastic container with my lunch that’s in my backpack is already making me a little queezy. It reminds me a story about my best friend Manolo back in his drinking days.

     He had told me that he went to Denny’s one morning after a bender. He said that all it took was one whiff of the sausage from his Grand Slam Breakfast, and he ran from the counter and starting puking right on the sidewalk, in front of the glass window where all the booths were. Children and old women recoiled in terror, watching him blow out last night’s chunks. Manolo walked backed into the restaurant with only one word: Resaca. The Mexican waiters understood and boxed his food to go.

     Three hours. This is the journey. The sky is beginning to light up a little bit. Dizzy and deflated in my seat, I look out the window and see parts of Indo-Napili that I’ve never seen before, and then I realize that I’ve been in a small town, the coast, for a whole month.

     The road is thick with smoke from the burning trash, and it makes me more nauseas. Al had given me a pile of mints before leaving. I didn’t want them, and I was actually upset that he had pawned them off on me, but now I’m reaching in my backpack, tearing open each individually-wrapped mint, one after the other. The taste, something to chew, the flavor, they sustain me. Thanks, Al.

     There are long stretches of nothing but road, and then there are small towns here and there. People are up early. We pass market areas where there are stands of agricultural goods. And then . . . the traffic gets thicker. Further from Indo-Napili, the number of mopeds grow. Now I’m claustrophobic. All around us, swarming around the gaps of our vehicle are motorists. Black smoke fills the air. The smell is inescapable. How many years of my life am I losing breathing this shit in? I don’t think they do smog checks in Indo. Mopeds gamble passing us up despite the oncoming buses. At a stop light, some motorists gamble too hard. There is no room for them, and they are stuck in the road next to our car. They slap the hood, signaling us to give them more room, but we can’t because there are people jammed up on our left. The bus doesn’t slow down and is only inches away from grazing them with its tires. Fuck. It’s ruthless out here.

     I don’t sleep the whole ride. I can’t. Just the terrible smell of smoke and my hangover make it impossible.

     We stop at a gas station. My driver knows little English, and he points to the sign for the restrooms. “Okay,” I say. I’m thirsty, but this gas station doesn’t sell any food or drink. When my driver comes back, the smell of fresh feces fills the car. Motherfucker. This guy just wiped his ass with his left hand. That’s the first thing that comes to mind. I wonder if he did a good job pouring the water down his crack because it sure as fuck doesn’t smell like it.

     Three hours later, and the road skirts a cliff where I can see Jogja down below. The sight is breathtaking. We are so high up that we have a bird’s eye view of the buildings and the layout of the whole city. A volcano breaks the flat horizon, jutting out and towering over the city. The city . . . I was expecting major development, more structures and malls or something, but the road to the airport isn’t impressive. Its’ just more traffic and shitty buildings. I’d rather go back to Indo-Napili or back home.

     When we reach the airport, I feel vulnerable. I had Al with me the last time I had traveled, but now I’m doing this journey alone. I see no signs for Lion Air. The cabbie parks and pulls out my bags. Curbside, the flow of people this morning is still light. “Lion Air?” I say to my driver, pointing at the entrance in front of us.

     “Yah,” he says, pointing at the same door. “Go.”

     “Okay.” I smile. My ride is already prepaid with Tina. I say goodbye, but I don’t shake his hand.

#

     Surfboards are awkward to travel with. This is the shittiest part of being a travelling surfer I think, this fucking bag. Lucky I don’t have four or five boards like a lot of other surf vagabonds do.

     I weasel my way through the crowd, making sure not to knock over a small Indonesian with my luggage. The morning air is still a little cool, so I’m not sweating yet. That’s the goal: reach home without being a greasy mess, the less excretions the better.

     Jogja Airport . . . the people here are cooler than the ones in Jakarta. “No fuss, no muss,” as my best friend would say, but my bags are still a little heavy according to the Lion Air people. The woman behind the counter scribbles on my ticket and shows it to me. It’s a figure of 44000 IR. “You must pay,” she says. Seeing as how the Lion Air people at Jakarta had fleeced me over 200000 IR, I pay this amount with a smile and a sigh.

     Before I enter the gate, I buy two vitamin drinks from the Indomaret; it’s the last time I’ll be shopping at one. My instincts tell me to buy more. Hell, they even have ice cream, but I’m in no condition to splurge. Hydration, that’s what I need.

     My flight is delayed about half an hour, but that’s okay. The gate is small, typical because this is a small airport. When they announce our flight, everyone rushes the doubles doors. This time I’m not caught off guard, and I rush towards the middle of the crowd to make sure I’m not last.

     Walking onto the tarmac, I see the plane in the distance. Passengers are entering the front and the rear of the plane, unassisted. I head towards the rear, thinking about how my last flight on Lion went: I was stressed, sweaty, tired, and their service fucking sucked.  

     I sit next to an old couple. The old man turns to me and speaks Indonesian.

     “I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t understand.”

     “Ohhhh.” He turns back to his wife and then faces the seat in front of him. He looks nice, but I don’t know what to say.

     The flight is only an hour, and the captain speaks English very well. He apologizes for the delay and wishes everyone a good trip, thanking us for choosing Lion Air. Right the fuck on. Now this flight is smooth.

     When we land, the airplane slams hard onto the tarmac. Passengers’ hands reach up and grab the seats in front of them to brace themselves. A yells and sharp gasps are heard upon impact. The pilot comes on again, saying, “And thank you once again for choosing Lion Air. We hope you’ll fly with us next time.” No fucking apology, just ignore the fact that you’ve made all of your passengers shit their pants. The old man and woman look at me with their eyes wide. Their arms are trembling. I shake my head and roll my eyes. We understand each other perfectly well.

Jakarta:

     Al and I had gotten raped the last time we were here. I only have one mission once I get my bags: find a cab and pay no more than fifty thousand rupiah.

     Exiting the baggage claim, I don’t see many cabs, but there are a lot of people. I wheel my luggage cart past the row of arms and eyes. At the end, I look around, trying to figure out where to find a ride.

     “Psst! You need taxi?” says one of the guys who’s standing at the end of the railing where everyone is.

     “Eva Air,” I say. 

     “Yah, yah,” says the man. He’s not even dressed in a uniform. I’m not sure if this guy is legit or not.

     “How much?” I say. “Berapa?”

     “One-hundred thousand.” He grabs my cart and starts to wheel it away.

     I grab it and stop. “No. Fifty thousand!” I say.

     He stops and looks at me, giving me a difficult and sorry look. He shakes his head and closes his eyes. I’m waiting for the bargaining to begin. Another Indonesian cabbie approaches me. The first guy shakes himself out of his stupor and puts his arm in front of the cabbie to prevent him from getting any closer to me. “Okay,” he says. “Fifty thousand!”

     He’s honking his horn at everything in his way, probably rushing so he can get back to the baggage claim and make more money. The roads are slick and it’s raining outside, not hot and humid like it was the first time I was here.

     Anxiety fills me again when we park, and I’m facing the entrance to the departure terminal. He pulls out my bags with quickness. I hand him the cash, and then I’m off with my stuff.

     None of my bags get searched at security, and on the other side, the lines to the Eva Air counters are long. I choose the line closest to me. People stare while I stand there, at my surfboard first and then quizzically at my face. I say nothing and remain silent. Fear me not, for I am just your average surf vagabond who was once a pervert who now only sees all women as the mothers of our children.

     Another worry comes to mind, and that’s my credit card. I don’t think it will work here in Indo. If it doesn’t work, I’ll have to get out of the line to find an ATM. A hundred and fifty US dollars is what it had cost me at LAX.

     I’m third in line. When the passenger is done at the counter, the woman in front of me turns to look at me. She smiles and then she waves at some people past me. Out of nowhere, seven women file in next to her and cut in front of the line. Now . . . I had succeeded thus far in avoiding turning into a sweat machine. Some people start grumbling behind me. My sternum begins to bead up in sweat. Fuckin’ bitch, I just got bamboozled.

     I’m looking at the lines next to me. I should’ve gone to one of those lines, anyone but this one. The feeling is terrible. My look is stern and upset. One of the women turns around, sees my face, and she doesn’t turn around again; none of them do. My eyes spell murder. This is my luck, fuck me, fuck my life, fuck Jakarta, fuck—

     “Excuse me, mister.”

     “Huh?” There’s a woman in an Eva Airlines uniform wearing a pink headwrap.

     “Are you travelling alone?”

     “Ummm, yes.”

     “This way please.”

     Fuckin’ A. Everyone around me watches as I maneuver my board, spearing through the lines. “Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me.” Yes, awkward American coming through.

     The woman follows, trying to clear a path for me. She stops, holds her palm out and says, “Right here, sir.”

     I look up, and it’s the sign for the Emerald Club line. It’s . . . empty. “Thank you!”

     You’d think I was about to piss my pants from the way that I rip my backpack off so fast to grab my passport. The Indonesian woman at the counter is being overwatched by a higher ranking woman. They are using me for training.

     I hand over my passport and put my luggage on the scale, and then I remember that the battle’s not over. Fucking credit card. The woman strikes the keys on the computer in front of her. She looks at my bags and says, “You have to pay one hundred and fifty, sir.”

     Fuck. I knew it. I pull out my wallet and say, “One hundred fifty?”

     “Yes. One hundred fifty thousand.”

     I swallow really hard and slowly say . . . “Rupiah?” She nods. With shaking hands, I wonder if this is right. Did she mean to say dollars? I mean, rupiah, shit . . . I got like five hundred thousand of those motherfuckers right here. I pull out two one-hundred-thousand IR bills and place them on the counter. She gives me fifty thousand back. I widen my eyes and crack an over enthusiastic grin, expressing my overwhelming appreciation, but the look on my face scares her. She pauses when she sees this and refuses to raise her head again while she explains the details of my boarding pass. I know my facial hair looks like shit, but is it that hideous? I walk away saying thank you over and over again, but they don’t even smile. That’s okay. It’s funny how things work out like that sometimes.

     Now I’m walking through a part of the airport that I’ve never seen before. They have a Starbucks here and lots of coffee shops that have free wifi. But first I need to eat. I sit on the outside of one of those conveyor belts that people use on the straightaways and whip out the fried noodles that Randy had given me hours ago. The container is still intact. Next to me are a group of Javanese women all in white from head to toe. They are eating meals from wax paper with their hands. I undo the rubberband around the container, pull out the wooden fork, and start grinding this meal. It tastes much better than breakfast because I’m getting over my hangover and because I’m starving. 

     Afterwards, I stop at a frozen yogurt place. I still have over 400000 IR to burn. I get some vanilla yogurt with Oreo toppings for 22000 IR. They don’t fill it to the rim like they do at Pinkberry, but this costs just over two bucks. And then I remember how cheap the meals were in Indo-Napili. For 22000 IR I could have bought two dinners with drinks. This place is a fuckin’ rip off!

     I wouldn’t mind ordering two, but I need to go to a place that has wifi. I stop at a café and order an ice coffee. Once in there, I Vox Bri and let her know that I’m on my way to Taipei. 

     When I go to the security area, I find that now there is a long ass line that wasn’t here before when I was eating. I’m supposed to board in ten minutes. I begin to panic, but after I go through the x-rays I see that my flight hasn’t boarded yet.

Five Hour Flight:

     I don’t sleep on this part of the journey. In fact, Randy had told me that the best way to adjust to the jet lag and fourteen-hour time difference is to stay awake during the flights. I whip out my Deepak Chopra book (that Francis got me into) and read for most of the flight. A Taiwanese chick sitting next to me is wearing short shorts that hike up so high they reveal her little, Asian camel. She struggles to pull them down to cover her legs, and eventually she flags down a stewardess to give her a blanket. I wonder what made her so uncomfortable?

     In front of me there is another Taiwanese woman with her husband. She’s wearing a short dress, and the booty part is sticking way out from her waist. Pervert ass guys are raising their heads from their seats or leaning into the aisle to watch her while she messes with the overhead cabin. While she’s fumbling with her bags, I notice something under her smooth, pale arms . . . HAIR. Fuck, armpit hair, dude. That just about kills it for me. Her armpit must be all clammy with sweat that smells . . . different. I don’t look at her again, not like I was anyway.

     Five hours goes by fast, and before I know it, we’re landing in Taipei. My layover is about three hours, so I have some time to kill.

     My instincts tell me to eat, but I don’t feel like going through the whole currency song and dance, and I also don’t want to whip out my American for overpriced airport food. I walk the whole terminal and find myself isolated at the very end with closed shops on both sides. It’s not even eight o’clock, and it feels like it’s one or two in the morning.

     There’s a sign that says prayer room, where there are rooms with Christian, Muslim, and Hindu symbols, but I just find it hard to get over the negative connotations associated with the swastika. 

Reflection Room:

     I sit in the prayer room. It’s quiet with the AC blowing. Bibles rest on my side on some shelves, and the cross is on my right hand side. I relax, focus on my breathing, silence the voices inside me, and reflect on my trip. It’s hard to believe that I was living in a village for the past month, an isolated little town where all I did was wake up, surf right in front of my room, and eat. How simple was that? Now I’m in limbo, one flight away from home, at an empty airport. What would it be like when I reached home? I don’t know, but I have this feeling inside me like something’s happened on this trip, like I’ve changed and I’m not the same person. However, I have yet to pinpoint what that change exactly is. 

The Long, Thirteen-hour Leg:

     I walk back to my gate with my earphones on, chatting with Briana. She says that she met up wit DK, Dais, and Khang last night. It’s still early in the morning in L.A., so she keeps going in and out of sleep while I’m talking to her. I tell her that I’ll call her as soon as I land.

     At the gate, I whip out my laptop before boarding and get as much writing down as I can.

     On the plane, I have the aisle again next to a Taiwanese guy and girl, probably in their twenties. I try to read, but they dim the lights so people can sleep. I throw on my earphones and watch some different shows, but none of them grab my attention. My eyes are tired and I want to sleep, but my airplane seat is so uncomfortable. I doze off for minutes at a time, waking up to the dark cabin. I try to watch TV again and shut it off again.

     They serve us food and turn the lights on. After I eat I open up my Deepak Chopra book, and he talks about epiphanies and how the mind and soul evolve when we reach one. In the book are experiences from people who reached these points in their lives, whether travelling or going to work, when they knew that it was time to move on to something else. I thought about epiphanies in my own life.

     In 2006 I was hired as a temp worker by the American Honda Corporation. I was starting at sixteen dollars an hour, the most money I’ve ever made in my life. I thought I was a baller; it was more than enough money to sustain my lifestyle and pay my rent. I was surfing but still going out to clubs and drinking a lot more. Fourteen months later, and I was hired as an associate, and my salary was 45K a year. For a young man, that’s a lot of money. I had thought that I made it in life. That’s it, no need to go any further, just work, make money, buy a Honda, buy a house. Life solved! In the following year, I had gotten sick of my job; I fuckin’ hated it. To escape, I drove straight to El Porto from Torrance every day after work. I didn’t even care what the surf was doing, I just needed the release; it was therapeutic. I reached my epiphany one day in a big meeting, where the speaker on stage spoke about the future of Honda and our role in it. . . Sitting in the large room with my fellow coworkers, I realized that I didn’t care about the future of Honda nor my part in it. I worked for the weekends. Fridays were my favorite days because I could surf all day Saturday, but Sundays were depressing because I knew I’d have to be back at work. My friends had told me I had the perks of air conditioning, medical benefits, a stable career, and money, but how important was the money to me? Was I getting paid enough to wake up every day hating life?

     I ditched the money and went for myself instead. Since then I’ve returned to college, got accepted into the master’s program, and have been living my life as a broke surf bum.

     I lean back into my seat and find myself relaxed enough to shut my eyes and attempt another nap. As I doze off, the last thought in my head is that if I had never quit Honda, I would have never made all the friendships that I have through surfing, never would’ve found a deeper connection with my brother, never would have traveled to Bali, and Java would have never happened. Everything that I had experienced over the last month wouldn’t have been possible. I could be sitting in a cubicle right now, but instead I’m in an airplane returning from a long surf trip. I push a breath out of my nostrils, thinking: money.

#

     Two hours left on this trip. They feed us again. A baby cries a couple rows ahead of us. My neck is sore. Fuck these seats. I get up and walk around to stretch my legs. Restless, I go to the bathroom to kill time, using up all of their complimentary lotion. Let me out of this cage. Get me the fuck out of here.

#

     I’ve been on this bitch for thirteen hours. People look out towards the windows, pointing and excited at the lights outside. I don’t look because I know this all too well. The airport, the South Bay, my home. El Segundo is only a couple miles away. If only I could get out of this sardine can.

     Once we land, I power walk through customs. At the front of the line, I stride to the counter when the officer waves me forward. I’m only asked a couple of questions and then it’s on to baggage claim. My skin is dry, hair looks like shit, and my breath smells like a cat took a shit in it.

     My surfboards takes forever, but I find that my boardbag’s been placed at the side of the carousel.

     “What do you have to claim?” says the Customs Officer.

     “Six T-shirts.”

     “No plants or fruits.”

     “No, sir.”

     He stamps my paperwork. “Welcome home.”

     When I reach the reception area, Bri greets me with a hug, but I keep the kiss short, telling her that my mouth smells like Jakarta. People watch in confusion, thinking: Is she really with that motherfucker? Yup, she is, she’s with this dark, Asian, scruffy, fu manchu having, monkey-looking motherfucker. “Please, let’s just get the hell out of here,” I say.

     Bri drives my wagon. The traffic at LAX makes me restless. We can’t get home fast enough.

     My apartment is much larger than I remember, even though it’s tiny. The first thing I do is brush my teeth, floss, and then I take a shower. Bri’s cooking a homecooked meal, but my penis is ready to make a meal out of her. 

#

18JUNE2013:

     As a surprise, Bri bought us a couple’s massage in Manhattan Beach. The smiles . . . the smiles we receive at the Spa. Let me compare them to the smiles from the ditchdiggers, the farmers, and the little kids running alongside my scooter in Java. The smiles from the people behind these counters at this spa, why are they so forced? When we leave, their, “Thank you, have a nice day,” sounds fake, and that’s the problem with their smiles: they’re not genuine.

     We stop by a surf shop on the way home. This guy, this big buff guy is shopping for boards, talking aloud to the kid who’s working here so everyone can hear. His Asian girlfriend with fake tits is next to him. He says, “My girlfriend cleared three sections today, so we wanna get her a board!” The kid grabs a medium board with a nose like a thruster. “No, no,” says the guy, “that’s too high performance. We need something bigger!” His presence turns me off. Why does he need to be so loud?

     At another surf shop, I look for a wetsuit jacket, so I can trunk it right now without freezing my ass off, but nothing in the store is good. Outside, a guy with a beefed up, yellow hummer loads his brand new surfboard into the back seat. The board doesn’t fit because it’s too long, and the Humvee door can’t be shut. Should I hate myself for being annoyed? What’s with the Hummer? Is that shit necessary?

     Java, there’s something different about this trip than Bali two years ago. In Bali they speak English. It’s a tourist trap; there are Westerners everywhere. Java is totally different. I was humbled by the kindness of the people, the quaintness of their town, and I for once had the feeling of being the outsider who couldn’t speak a lick of their language. An epiphany leads to an evolution of yourself. Evolve. Something’s changed in me, and I think I know what it is.

#

     Indo-Napili, Compounds one and two. I see people now, waking up and strapping boards to their mopeds. Some are heading to Machines, others to Choco Point. Someone’s watching it for the very first time. It’s early, first light. No one’s on it yet. This person, he or she is stoked, undoing the bungee cord around the surfboard. Someone’s walking out to Choco Point, where the edge of the shelf is now deep enough to paddle out. He or she is paddling and duckdiving the first wave and sitting alone at the lineup. A bump forms on the outside, and this person, this person can’t believe his or her eyes. Someone’s paddling harder than ever before, racing to get to the shoulder where the wave’s about to break. Someone’s popping up, riding a wave and smiling, unable to believe how the wave is lining up all the way to shore. Someone is catching the best wave of his or her life, and my eyes are watering as I write this because . . . I know what this person is feeling. 

THANK YOU FOR READING