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
