A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY THIRTEEN (30MAY2013)

The road to Choco Point

Morning Sesh:

     I haven’t pulled a morning session at Choco Point yet because the tides haven’t been right, but at twelve days into my trip, the tide push is just right at first light. I do sleep in a little though, waking up finally at 0615. Without brushing my teeth, I ride out to check the surf. There are about five guys out, and the waves look small and weak. It would be fun for a fat fish or a longboard. The swell supposed to pick up at five-to-eight feet by noon, but it’s not quite hitting right now. I head back to the compound to grab my board before checking the surf at the harbor, but Sonia tells me that the harbor only works on high tide. So, if I really want to surf this morning, it’s gonna have to be Choco Point.

     When I paddle out, I see that Camille, Ana, Edo, and a couple other guys who I don’t know are out there. There’s this one longboarder who’s staying at Compound One. He’s an old Aussie guy with a bald head and bushy eyebrows. He looks like Wario from the Super Mario Brothers video games. Anyway, this fucking asshole, on this slow ass morning he’s catching waves way on the outside, comes back, and does the same shit again. No fucking etiquette.

     Once he leaves, I’m able to get some waves for myself. I only total two good rides, the rest are small and gutless. On my first wave, I try to whip the tail out on my turn. Since the morning sun is in my eyes, I don’t realize that Ana’s in my line on the inside. She duckdives, and I’m forced to bail on my board. When I resurface, the both of us are okay, but I feel the rail of my board while I’m sitting. The Tokoro has a ding from colliding with her board.

     At least the damage isn’t an open gouge like the Lost board, but I’m thinking that I’ll still have to take it to Edo for a repair.

     On the next waves, I practice what I saw Gayun doing the other day: looking more behind me on my turns to get more accentuation on them. It makes my turns feel more fluid, and the transfer from the high line back into the pocket becomes much smoother too. By time 0900, the tide is too high for anything to break. Even though it was a small morning, I milked it the best I could.

Compound One

     Back at the room, Al says that he had looked at it while I was out there, but it didn’t look like it was worth it. A little bit later, we check out Reese and Grant. I ask if they’re going to check out that spot that Reese had surfed yesterday. He says he’ll probably head to Machines, but there’s a chance he might push further in that direction if Machines is too flat.

     We load up and about an hour later, Machines is right in front of us. The right isn’t working too well, something about the angle of the swell maybe, but it’s not hitting right. Even though the tide is high, the left is just starting to work. The wave off of the cliff looks turnable. Reese and I grab some nasi pecel with an egg on top of it and two ice teas. Grant and Al are a little behind us, and by the time they show up, there are already a couple barrels. 

     Here’s the main problem. It’s crowded. The French pros are still here. I now understand the reluctance that I’ve heard other surfers talk about when there are pros in the water. Besides the three pros, there are ten other guys, all fighting for one take off spot, possibly to get the barrel of his or her life. On a Cali scale, the waves are probably five feet, of course over gnarly reef.

     My main concern is Al. I know he’s tired of surfing Choco Point. I’d like to bring him to a different wave. Al and I ask Reese if he wants to surf that other spot, but he’s set on Machines. Grant’s foot is still lacerated and oozing puss, so he’s just there to take photos.

     I have a meeting with Al. “You’re leaving in a couple days,” I say. “I’m with you, man. What do you want to do?”

     The call is that there are too many people here. It’s crowded and pro central. I remember a spot off of the road on the way back. I offer that we have a look at that before we call the trip quits. On the way there, Al rides next to me and suggests that we just go back.

     So here we are, once more looking at Choco Point. It’s about 1441. The tide is still dropping. The waves are rideable but small. There was supposed to be a swell that hit by noon today, but I can’t tell if it’s hit or not.

     “I’m gonna go drop off my stuff,” says Al.

     “Okay. I’m just gonna wait here and get my stuff ready.”

     Under the shade, I rest my head on the handlebars of my moped. I’m a little bummed that this trip didn’t turn out the way that I had hoped. Al’s about to leave. I’m not sure what it’s gonna be like once I’m here solo. Even the crew back at Compound One is gonna start thinning out: Camille leaves in two days, Ana shortly after, and then Sonia. It’s gonna be me, Reese, and Grant after that. That’s it. I know that they’ll be surfing Machines a lot, so I figure I’ll get my shot at getting barreled there.

     I lift my head and look up. It’s the first set I’ve seen since parking. It looks three-to-four feet and rideable. I grab my Vertra and start smearing it on my face.

     Al shows up just as I’m done getting ready. We walk out together, but the water’s deep right away because the tide is still high. The paddle’s long but doable. I thankful for the lull because I’m able to make it out easy. Al’s still way behind, but he stops short. I realize that I’ve paddled too far and head back inside. On the shoreline, Ana’s making the walk to the lineup too.

     A wave forms on the outside. Al paddles for it, but I know he’s too deep and that it won’t break for him. I turn and go. The wave stands up to about five feet. My Lost board, even though I bought it for barrels, man, it has so much volume that it works very well for an all around board. It has more volume than I need. It’s dimensions are 6’0 x 2 ½ x 20, but even on these mooshy waves it works like a funboard. With a tri-fin setup, I can actually get some decent turns on it. At first I thought my Motorboat Too, which is in El Segundo collecting dust, would be ideal here. However, with these long ass paddle outs, it’s nice to have a little extra board. The section where the wave starts, since we are sitting deep, is really rippable. The section stands up, and I climb the face with speed, getting nice carves off of the lip. On the way back, a new set approaches. Al gets the first wave, Camille the second, and Ana the third. When I get to the lineup, all the fucking waves are gone. Three wave set, none left for me, but I’m glad my friends got them.

     On the shore, a new crowd approaches. Three Portuguese dudes had moved in upstairs today, and  . . . they are here. Aside from them are some local Indo dudes, but now they’ve brought three other brown guys who I’ve never seen before. They all sit deep, at the top of the wave. One of those guys is tatted up and has Fox stickers all over his board. More pros.

     What was once a serene scene is now crowded. Al paddles to the top of the wave with them to do battle. I try to sit on the side, but these guys, they are good. They catch the waves all the way at the top, greedy, not leaving much for anyone else. Then the rest of the Euros from Compound One show up, so now . . . it’s just a mix bag of ability levels. I’m so fucking annoyed. My stoke suffers.

Girl Power:

     I tell Ana and Camille that in Cali, girls can drop in on anyone, and no one really says shit. “Go!” I encourage them, “take any wave you want. Guarantee they won’t say shit.” The Fox pro catches a wave deep. He’s pumping towards the open face. Hell yes, I’m thinking. Anna is on the shoulder. She paddles and gets the drop. I see the pro frown as she takes his line away. One of the Germans girlies from Compound One also drops in on one of those dicks. Awesome. Then, three chicks go at the same time and take a party wave. That’s right, blow this whole place up. If they’re gonna be hogs then serve those fuckers up too!

The Clearing:

     The waves are getting better as the tide is dropping. Also, that swell that was supposed to arrive at noon is starting to show. Sets are forming further out, breaking wide, giving others a chance. And the pros, now they’re spot has turned off. However, I see one of them catch a wave deep at the point. With the increase in size, since that part of the wave stands up, he pulls in and gets a little cover up, shampoo. Fuck, I’m so jealous. I’ve caught waves from there and have fought to make the section. I had a feeling it was standing up enough for an almond shaped slit to fit in. I’ll have to keep that in mind.

     And for some reason, over half of the crowd leaves. I’m a bit tired from the morning sesh, but at the same time I can’t leave. The waves are getting bigger and more fun, but it’s almost dark. Only the German chicks are left out, so I catch my last wave in, in hopes to avoid the barrage of bugs on the ride back. Even though I’m last to leave, it was an easy three-hour session. That’s five hours of surf time for today. Not too bad.

It's hard to tell, but that's a wave approaching.

Community:

     Edo’s wife had bought a gigantic tuna from the local market this morning, and she spread the word that everyone is invited to tonight’s feast. At compound One there is a huge bowl, like banquet size made for a feast, of tuna salad. Next to it is a basket of white rice. Under the hut-like platform, thunder lights up the sky like a strobe light, making everything visible from the flashes. We are protected by the rain, and our crew sits at the table, just eating and talking story. Reese said he got a couple barrels today, and the girls are stoked about their party wave. We’re so full we’re drowsy, but that doesn’t stop us from making a trip to Indomaret for some ice cream. 

 

Best meal since being here. TUNA!!!!

     We say our goodbyes and head back to the room. My eyes are so heavy that I can’t write. I close my laptop and set it aside for tomorrow. Al’s up reading; he can’t put down Pressfield’s Gates of Fire that I had lent him for this trip. A little later, I wake to the sound of Al grunting in the bathroom, followed by the sound of liquid splashing in the toilet.

A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY TWELVE (29MAY2013)

    

     Still in last night’s clothes with breath that smells like a cat took a shit in my mouth, I wake up at 0730. It’s not really late nor considered sleeping in on normal standards, but I’m usually awake about an hour earlier. My dehydration from last night’s debacle only gave me a slight headache. Al’s snoring. I have no idea when he came in. I wonder how late they stayed up.

     I brush my teeth, go outside, and make myself some instant breakfast. I still think it’s a miracle that I’m not hung over. I recall a conversation I had with Gayun. At about midnight, he revealed that he had school at the uni. I assume he means college because he’s twenty two and majoring in English. While drinking the arak, I asked if he’d be okay in the morning. He had said that as long as he doesn’t mix alcohol that he’s okay. He then went on to explain how much mixed drinks are the things that mess you up, like the chemicals in soda and what not.

     Sonia’s on the platform where we partied last night. She’s lying on the rug with her pillow. I walk up to her and say, “Have you surfed yet?”

     “No. I have only slept for an hour and a half because my rash came back.” She pulls out her phone and shows me some pictures of her arms and legs.

     We compare rashes again, but mine are starting to go away. I think not scratching has made the difference. I chill in the room for a little while and write until about 1000. When Al wakes up, we head out for an early lunch. Stopping at the Indomaret, we run into Reese.

     “You going to Machines today?” I ask.

     “No, but yesterday some guys were happy that Al wasn’t there.”

     “What?” says Al.

     “Yeah,” says Reese, “some guys were talking about how they were happy not to see you there.”

     “Why did they say that?” says Al.

     “I don’t know, mate. I wasn’t there, but there might be something about your surfing.”   
     Al’s face turns serious. “Who was it that said it?”

     “I’m not telling you. Look, just chill, mate. Maybe you should just take it easy with everyone.”

     Reese says he might head out towards Machines later, and he tells us to check him out later.

     Al and I grab lunch at the place with the nasi pecel. When we enter the restaurant, I just realize that I have nobody with us that can speak Indonesian. In Bali one can get away with speaking English everywhere, but it’s different here. This place isn’t a tourist trap, overrun with Westerners.

     It’s embarrassing, trying to order for us. I ask for the nasi pecel, but she says something. All I can do is repeat, “nasi pecel,” like an automaton. A guy eating points towards where the food is placed, motioning for me to go and pick what I want. And that’s when I see what the problem is. They’re out of tahu. We get the ayam in its place.

     Al’s quiet while we’re eating. I try to joke about what Reese had said, but Al’s in a bad mood over it. He’s saying that he doesn’t recall snaking anyone.

     I say, “I saw you snake that kid yesterday at the river mouth, but I didn’t say anything to you. Those kids were being greedy anyway.”

     “I remember that, but I pulled out.”

     Al’s not pulling himself out of his mind, so I drop the subject. He decides to stay at the compound while I grab my stuff and head to the Rajawali Hotel to get some wifi. Right after I show up, it starts pouring rain, the hardest I’ve seen it since being here, so hard that the restaurant manager brings down the garage-like doors to keep everything from blowing away and getting wet inside. I check nba.com. I’m so disappointed that the Spurs are going to the finals, but I’m glad that the Pacers are giving the Heat a run. Looks like Adriano Desouza won the Billabong Pro in Rio.

     After talking to Bri on Skype and paying for my plane ticket to Jakarta, I head out to check the surf spots. The tide’s still too high and it’s small. Back at the compound, I take a half hour nap. Afterwards, I feel the need to get the hell out of here. I don’t care about the size. I’m going stir crazy. I need to get wet.

A long walk at low tide.

     At Choco Point, only two Germans from Compound One are in the water. The surf isn’t big but there is definitely shape. Al says, “I’m gonna go grab my board,” and takes off. I don’t know why he didn’t bring it in the first place.

     A white chick who hangs out with the locals is making her way to the water’s edge. I’ve talked to her a couple of times. She was born and raised in Java and talks like a Cali girl, but she’s also fluent in Indo. I can’t wait to paddle out, so I run out after her, trying to see if I can beat her to the deeper water. She smiles and I smile back. Once I’m out at the lineup, behind me, local grommets are making their way out. I know it’s going to be crowded, so I try to catch a wave first.

     The waves are about three feet. The first set of the session rolls in, and I scratch out on the first wave. So does the chick. Same thing on the second. On the third wave, I position myself so deep that there is no way that I’m going to miss it. I pop up as the wave is breaking. The first section of the point is fast and stands up an extra foot before it peels into the bay. I see the lip is about to curl in front of me. In desperation, I do a floater attempt. It’s not pretty, but I climb the foam and stick the landing. It feels like I’m going to get left behind, but I pump and pump and make it to the face. Fuckin A, it’s the best floater that I’ve ever pulled off. Progression. The wave is standing up, almost like I can pull in and get slotted, but my mind is on milking this ride. I draw a high line on the racy wave and pump down for more speed. Bottom turning, I top turn off of the lip, almost losing my balance in the pocket. I do the same thing but fall on my second turn.

     Paddling back to the lineup, I’m exhausted. Too much Bin Tang and arak last night. I definitely feel like I’ve drained my body of important fluids and electrolytes.

     Now the point is crowded. A kid in the water asks me where I’m from. I say, “California.”

     “Not Hawaii?” he asks.

     “Yeah, Hawaii too.”

     “Just like Randy.”

     I laugh.

     The kids own this spot. It’s their wave, but I’m not sitting on the shoulder like yesterday. I position myself deep so that no one else is on my inside, but I’m so deep that I can’t make the sections. Later, I sit wide where other waves are rolling through.

     Al’s not doing so bad. He gets some long ones, but the surfer of the day is Rian. I thought it was Ryan, but I saw his name written down at the compound. I mean, this break is a playground for lefts, and it shows in his surfing. While I’m struggling to keep momentum, constantly pumping, this kid is gracefully pulling off cutbacks on the softest part of the shoulder and still redirecting himself back into the pocket. I notice that he is practically looking behind him on his carves, which is something that I need to start doing, instead of looking in front of me.

     After his ride, he paddles up to me and says, “Oba Bagus.”

     “Oba Bagus,” I repeat.

     “Good wave,” he says.

     “Ohhh yah. Oba bagus!”

     He smiles and says, “Oba punja. Long wave.”

     The next wave is about to break. I paddle for it, thinking that he’ll give it to me. Fuckin’ bastard. He takes off the oba bagus for himself.

     The new German arrivals from Compound Two show up in full force on their fun boards. They smile while paddling into the lineup. Friendly they are. One short and stocky guy is getting frustrated. Every wave he goes for, an Indo grommet is on it. Sitting wide, I get some waves for myself. On the way back out, I see him overpaddling for a wave that’s not even breaking. He’s kicking and thrashing in the water, shaking his head violently. His face is murderous. I’m thinking, take it easy, man.

     For the last half hour, the lineup clears out. Even Al leaves. Ana is out there. I see her going for a good left, but she falls on her pop up. Poor girl. Germany . . . not much surf there. But there’s a Swiss couple from the other compound. The woman has progressed since I’ve been here, and she gets a decent ride. The white local chick doesn’t know how to pump past the sections, so she keeps falling behind every time the waves go fast.

     Since it’s small today, I can’t get any long rides, but I can get at least three turns on every wave. With the crowd thinned out, I move to the top of the wave. On the way there, Al catches his last one.

     On the Tokoro, I have to paddle in late. When I do the section stands up, which makes them more rippable. Some of the waves have better reforms which allow me to milk out a fourth turn. I’d like to experiment, maybe do a floating, reverse three sixty and come out of it clean, but I can’t set myself up right. Even though it’s not a big day, I’m impressed with how this wave is good forehand practice.

     By 1730 I’m the last guy out. I’m a little spooked at the thought that I’m out here on my own. Who knows what’s lurking under this muddy water. But the water’s so glassy, and this spot is so isolated right now that I appreciate the solitude. The sky is a fading, metallic blue that reflects on the glassy surface. The wind is dead. I want a last wave, one that I can ride all the way to shore, but the lack of light throws off my depth perception. I think I’m in the right place, but two waves break directly in front of me. I paddle out a little further but still catch my last wave too late. Regardless, I ride the whitewash all the way in.

     On shore, there are two Indo kids smoking cigarettes and playing with their cell phones. I say, “Hello.”

     “Hello, mister!” says the kid.

     I fumble with my leash, worried that it might get caught up in the bike’s wheel. “Oba bagus,” I say.

     “Oba bagus! You speak bahasa Indonesia?”

     I tighten my lips. “No.”

#

     For dinner, Al says he just wants to eat some instant noodles and read a book. “I’m not that hungry,” he says. “I think I’m good.” I shower and head to the other compound. Grant’s knocked out in a hammock. He didn’t surf today because he has a bad slice on his foot from the reef at Machines. Anna’s reading a book. “You eat yet?” I ask.

     She points at a plate. “Yes, but I follow you.” She walks to her locker to grab a couple things, when a car enters. It’s Doc. Laughs and cheers pour out of the car as its doors open. Reese, a German Chick, and Camille come out. When Reese and Camille come upstairs to the dormitory, they say they scored the first spot that we had checked the first day that Al and I were here. “It was a big left,” says Reese, “A lot bigger than it looked.” Grant wakes up to hear the tale. “It’s a good wave for turns, we had to pass up some bombs though. Even the girls got some rides at the end.” I beg him to take me there the next time he goes.

     They say they’ll stop by my compound when they’re done washing up. Downstairs I catch Edo who says that my board will be done tomorrow before noon. He also says that the spot where Reese surfed today may not be good tomorrow because the swell will be picking up. “Will be too big,” he says.

     When the gang stops by, they ask about Al. “He’s not hungry,” I say.

     “Well at least tell him to come out and grab an ice tea or something,” says Reese.

     I go back to the room and open the door. “Al, you sure you don’t wanna come?”

     “I’m fine,” he says.

     For dinner, we go back to the market. I order the nasi uduk. I can’t help but splurge, so I order some mie gorang (fried noodles) too, but I’m not even hungry when the plate is set down in front of me. I mean, it’s so cheap. Sixty cents. That’s what my first meal costs me. Eighty cents for the second meal. At the Indomaret, we stop for ice cream. I force the food. How can I turn it down when it’s so cheap?

     On the way home, Grant pulls up to my compound while I’m parking. “Where we all hanging out?” he says.

     “Not tonight man. We’re not drinking anyway. I think I’m just gonna head in the room.”

     He revs his moped. “All right, catch you tomorrow.”

     In the room, Al’s still reading his book. He sets it down on his chest and says, “I’m fucking hungry.”

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.