BARNYARD JAVA: Day 19, 20, 21, MON 04AUG2015

Time: 0600-0730

Conditions: 2-3 FT

Fins: JF-1 sides, Rusty Q-R trailers (small)

     Yesterday night, Randy suggested that we go to one of his secret spots because the surf would be too small for Choco Point. “It won’t be barreling,” he said, “but there will still be size, and the direction is good.” I thought about it. “And Bri could see something different,” he added. It would be nice. I thought about the drive. I’m familiar with the area we would be in. Randy said we’d have to wake up early, ride for about a half hour to forty-five minutes, and be back before lunch. Although, Bri and I still had to pack. Priority number two on this trip was to bring Bri home in one piece. Other than a few close calls dumping the bike in soft sand, and one near head-on collision with a truck, we’ve warded off many hazards that could happen to a foreigner out here. That being said, I told Randy that I wanted to play it safe

#

     I turn off my alarm prematurely at 0515. At 0545 I wake up to the sound of a rooster crowing. The dawn light is already pouring into our room. We can’t be late on our last morning of surf here. I brush my teeth quickly. Bri’s still lying down. “We gotta go,” I say. Heading out to the moped, board in hand, ahead of her, I spot Randy at the kitchen table. He says he’s still going to check the other spot.

     When Bri comes out, we ride to the point. As soon as we get there, we’re faced with the worst sight of this trip. Having been blessed with decent surf the whole time here, Choco Point is finally a lake. Others come and go. We watch it for about fifteen minutes. The sets look small from shore, barely three feet.

     I wonder if we’ve made the right decision. We head back to the compound, and Randy’s gone. Bri and I Check the other breaks towards the center of the bay, but the tide’s too low. No shape.

     No matter how the point looks we must get, at the very least, one session today.

#

     The only people missing from the point are the locals, but every foreigner that was out yesterday is out right now. Since the surf is smaller and inconsistent, everyone is sitting tighter. It’s like a replay of yesterday but with smaller surf.

     Flan-Flan Jorence is the master ripper right now, or at least was for the last half hour. It’s hard to be sneaky in these conditions, so I just sit inside.

     The new local who had paddled out yesterday is actually one of Randy’s friends from Jogja. He looks like the Indonesian version of Carlos Munoz, but his name is Hadi. He had brought five more chicks with him, so the lineup’s filled with more noobs.

     Sitting inside, Hadi and I trade off on a set. Just like I had been too deep at the top, missing my sections, yesterday, that’s what’s happening to everyone else this morning.

     My wave’s small but it’s still rip worthy. With help from the quads, I get some distance, a wrap, and two snaps. Stoked for such a tiny morning.

     I chance the top of the wave. Flan-Flan sits right on me. I scratch out on a wave. He doesn’t go. Next wave, I’m deep but chance it. His buddy, who’s on my outside, paddles for the wave, too. Even though I have priority, he yells, “Heyy!” at me as I still take the wave.

     I miss the section. Resurfacing, I can’t help but laugh. Damn, am I turning into that guy? Have I been getting too many waves?

     I paddle out back, and the set is still working. Flan-Flan and his sidekick had scratched themselves out of position. Since the set is breaking wide, I turn and go in time to catch the wave at the perfect spot. On the inside, I hear Hadi grumble as I take my wave.

     Two good waves on the smallest day here. I’ve met my quota for what the surf is doing. With the tide rising, the surf is getting small. Hadi looks back at me with a pissed off look and starts shaking his board with his hands like he’s trying to strangle it. Maybe I have finally worn out my welcome.

     The surf gets so soft that Bri and I leave. Back at the compound, Randy is back from his recon. He asks to use my earplugs to surf out front. “It had morning sickness,” he said. “I stayed for like a half hour, looked at it, and came back.” Turns out the gamble on staying was a good call after all.

     Randy comes back in thirty minutes. Says he didn’t catch shit.

#

surf bum bunnies

     We won’t be eating dinner tonight because we’ll be on a fucking seven-hour car ride to Surabaya. “You won’t be able to sleep,” says Randy.

     We’re sitting on my bungalow porch. Sonja’s here. She adds, “You feel every bump on the road.”

     If we eat dinner, we’ll have to take a shit, and the last thing we’ll want to do is piss off the driver and other passengers if they’ll have to stop for our American anuses. Lunch will be our last opportunity to splurge.

     We go to Padangs. I should have a double order of everything, but I go with the usual rice, Javanese spinach, tempeh, and eggplant. Bri eats more than I do. Afterwards, I suggest a final run to Quick Chicken for some chicken burgers.

     Riding the moped through the streets, my senses are heightened. This will be it. One of the last times on the moped.

     Even though my chicken burger is the shit, I can’t enjoy it. “I’m so bummed we’re leaving,” I tell Randy. He assures me and Bri that we’ll be back.

     We stop at the Indomaret and buy snacks for the long drive tonight. Bri and I kill an ice cream each.

     Randy offers to lead us through the town square. We follow and see a whole new section of town that we’ve never seen before, more stores and more warungs. He takes us back to the compound on a new village route off the highway. Next time, is all I can think to myself. Next time we’ll experience more of this.

     Riding through town on a different route, the layout of Indo Napili is becoming simpler. You always get the hang of things just as you’re leaving.

     Bri and I take our time packing and then head back to the point to go rock and shell hunting. Juan A. wants a cone shell. “Dais also said he wants a rock with personality,” says Bri. Meanwhile, the surf has dropped to an all-time low since we’ve been here. Two longboard chicks are out, but they’re not selling it. At this moment, I know that that’s it. We’ve already surfed our last session of this trip.

     It feels odd not surfing in the afternoon. At 1500, we’re on our porch sifting through all the beach loot with Sonja, who’s recovering well from her nasty moped spill. At 1600, Bri and I check the surf out front, but there’s no shape.

     I draw a dick in the sand. Bri draws out a heart and write some mooshy gushy stuff inside of it. We just sit there on the shore, taking it all in. The cliffs on both sides of the bay, the little crumbles of whitewash from the point in the distance, the salty air hitting our faces. A group of kids are walking along the beach towards us. They stare and look like they’re on the verge of asking Bri if they can take a pic with her. The kids keep on walking. They look down at our artwork on the sand. Even though they’re walking through our drawings, they pick up their feet so they don’t ruin them. One of the kids turns around for a last look.

     At 1800, Bri and I sit in the kitchen and watch everyone cook. We can’t eat any dinner, but Bri finds our instant noodles that we had bought the very first day getting here. “We have to eat them or they’ll go to waste,” says Bri. “Sonja won’t eat them.”

Brennan on the left, Gayung in the background. German family cut off to the right.

     She boils some water. Gayung tells us how good they are, and he’s right. As soon as we finish the noodles, Randy comes rushing towards us with a concerned look on his face. “There’s volcanic ash in Surabaya,” he says. “You guys need to buy masks.”

     This is a last minute mission, but I’m grateful for it. I ask Gayung for the moped keys back, since I had just turned them in, and take Bri on one last ride.

     When we get back, Randy says that the lock for his boardbag broke, so now he needs to go to the Indomaret. He’s gone for a while. Our driver shows up to the compound early. Bri and I load our bags and start saying goodbye to everyone.

     The farewells are hard. The last time I felt this bummed about leaving somewhere was during my childhood vacations between Maui and Los Angeles, where I was either leaving my grandparents or my friends behind. Both lose-lose situations, but as far as the cool people here at the compound, Sonja, Gayung, Rian, Tina, and Edo, I’m really going to miss them.

     Randy pulls up. I hug Sonja and thank her for taking care of me and Bri when we had first showed up here. Rian’s not around. Neither is Sophi. I stop by the kitchen table to say bye to Brennan and Sarah. Edo, Tina, and Gayung are like family. The hugs are all genuine. They can tell I’m hurt to leave, and they even seem to be hurting a little, too.

     We load up in the minivan, roll down the windows, and wave at everyone as we pull out of the compound gate.

#

DAY 20, 05AUG2015

     We leave at 2000 to begin the seven-hour ride. My suitcase is fucking huge, so we had to stack it with some other luggage in the backseat when we picked up more passengers on the way out of Indo Napili.

     Randy, Bri, and I have the middle row. Bri’s trying to sleep. Since she’s sitting in the middle, she doesn’t have a headrest, so I tell her to swap places with me. Big mistake. The center of the bench has a raised hump in the seat, so it’s really uncomfortable. An hour into the ride, and I’m trying to lean my head back, but my ass keeps slipping off the bench. Randy’s knocked out. Bri’s out. Some Javanese chick’s in the front seat wrapped in a blanket. The kid all the way in the back is racked out. It’s just me and the driver awake.

     I lean forward and prop my chin on my palms like I’m taking a shit. All I can think of is how I can’t imagine how I’ll be able to maintain for so long sitting like this cooped up in a car.

#

     It’s hard not to look at my watch. Randy and Sonja were right, and even though they had set the expectations for how difficult this trip would be, I’m still having a hard time dealing with it.

     With everyone knocked out, the driver has the AC on blast. Mind you, I’m wearing fucking shorts, flip flops, and a T shirt, so I’m fucking freezing.

     Bri senses that I’m uncomfortable whenever she wakes up. We go back and forth, her offering to switch seats, me refusing and finally giving in. She’s been an awesome travel partner. Not only has she been surfing nonstop with me, save for the two times she slept in, but she’s also willing to endure some of the hardships. Most chicks would just sleep through the ride and let their men take on the brunt of being uncomfortable. Not Bri.

     I want to believe that the driver is making good time. It’s well past midnight, and the driver is making a stop about every thirty minutes. He eats at a warung where all the late-night drivers are chillin’, uses the bathroom, and hits up the Indomaret for snacks.

     Around two in the morning, we stop at this transit station that is fucking packed. Busses and cars fill up the whole lot. An old guy is singing karaoke without the TV; he’s just reading from a thick booklet.

     Our driver, a short and stocky middle-aged man offers us tickets to get something free to eat. We all pass. I people-watch all the travelers. A bus full of Indonesian nuns stand out in their blue outfits. Families are together, walking like zombies into the station cafeteria towards the bathrooms. There are assorted bread snacks lined up at a big storefront. Some of the drivers are young and look shady, the street cabby type. They’ve been doing this shit, driving this late every night.

     Our driver walks out from the cafeteria and sits down next to the old man who was singing karaoke, and then our driver sings two songs.

That's our driver on the right with the blue shirt.

     At 0300, we’re behind schedule. I’m the only one awake, sitting in the middle once more. Our driver just looks roadshod. All the mannerisms that I have when I’m tired, he’s doing. The consistent rubbing of the head, the yawning, the forced singing along with the music and tapping along with the beat on the steering wheel. This guy’s worse, though. He had been honking his horn all night, but now he’s honking for no fucking reason. Other minivans are swooshing past us. He’s letting his foot off the pedal and decelerating even though there’s no traffic.

     Trust me. I want to say something, but I’m tired as shit, too, and then there’s the language barrier. My brother had said the guy was speaking straight Javanese instead of Indonesian when he picked us up, so even Randy couldn’t quite communicate with him. I can only hope that being awake in case something happens is insurance enough.

     I sit there awake, unbeknownst to the driver. He starts burping nonstop now, like regurgitation burbs. He might be forcing himself. The burps sound like they could be from a pig or a frog. He misses the turn off for Surabaya twice. We end up down a dark road heading towards a black mass that I can only assume is a mountain. The driver shakes his head and peers closely ahead of him before making a U-turn and backtracking.

     Looking out at the road, everything seems the same for miles. Striped curbs, palm trees, late night warungs that are still open, Indomarets, Alfa Marts, the occasional moped rider. At a certain point, I can’t stay awake any longer. Bri wakes up and sees that I’m barely clinging to life. She makes me switch seats with her once again.

     I don’t know what time it is that I wake up again, but I’m awoken by the driver yelling and honking the horn. My eyes jolt open, and in that moment I see him swerve from hitting a car. I give off a muffled pussy yell myself. Looking to my right, I see Randy staring through the windshield, eyes wide open. Bri’s still knocked out.

     At this point, the driver stops at Indomaret and buys something to drink. I hope it’s ice coffee. We finally reach the airport to drop off a passenger. Our trip’s not gonna end here, though. We still have a seven hour train ride to another town.

#

     It’s 0600. The car ride ends up being ten fucking hours. By far, the longest and gnarliest car ride I’ve ever taken, topping the L.A. to Grand Canyon family trip easily. Even L.A. to Mammoth Mountain is child rape compared to this drive.

     At the Surabaya train station, we can’t board until the train gets here, which will be about 0900, so we wait for Dunken Donuts to open.

     It’s packed. There’s a line to get in, and like a bunch of assholes, we take up nearly half of the establishment with our bags and bodies. We kill some donuts, coffee, and sandwiches, and milk their wifi.

     At about 0800, I have to take a shit, so I have to use the Indonesian squatters. I must say, I’m still a spoiled American with my Western toilets. I’m just not used to squatting. Everything in the bathroom is metal and wet, so you don’t know if it’s piss or what. The door doesn’t even lock. There’s just a bolt that’s tied to a piece of twine, and you’re supposed to stick the bolt in a hole in the door. The door opens six inches before the bolt catches.

     My shit is fuckin’ brown water. Must’ve been something from Padangs. I use the pail to dump water into the squatter to flush my poop, but the water’s still brown. Definitely not how I found it. Walking out of the bathroom, another guy walks in. Fuck . . . I feel so bad but not bad enough that I don’t hurry the fuck out of there.

     Back at Dunkin Donuts, I just imagine the guy barging in through the door and pointing at me accusingly. Yeah, I’m the one. I’m the one who blew up the toilet and didn’t leave it in a presentable state, but what’s a girl to do? I tried. I poured water into the hole hard and fast to the point that my own shitwater was splashing out.

We're just glad to be out of that motherfucking car. . .

     The train’s not so bad. Randy bought us executive class tickets, so it’s like sitting on an airplane. The train’s still far from Amtrak standards though. The windows are dirty, and there’s some soundproofing gunk around the window frames that looks like molasses.

     Every time someone takes a shit, Bri and I get a fresh whiff of Indonesian cuisine, but . . . man is this train way fucking better than riding in the car.

     I sleep for the first two hours and then I’m awake again. The plan is to meet with Randy’s friends, a whole Javanese household. They’ll have a feast ready for us. I’ve been starving since yesterday night.

#

     As far as meeting the Javanese household, I’ll keep this one a little short and brief for privacy sake.

     For the last two days, Bri and I have been nervous for this moment because of the language barrier and customs. We want to leave a good impression, but I’m not sure how far my Indonesian phrase book will carry us.

Randy following our taxi. 

     Pulling up to the house via taxi, we see the head of the household already in the driveway. Stepping out of the car, everyone from inside starts coming outside. Bri and I do the official greeting by grabbing the elders’ hands and bowing down to touch them with our foreheads, calling them “Bu” and “Pak” respectively. I’m mostly taken aback by Pak. If I thought my brother was dark, this guy has Randy beat by about three shades. His voice is deep with so much bass that it bounces off the walls and vibrates the air. I’m a couple of inches taller than Pak, but his persona is larger than life. King of the household no doubt. And my worries about the language barrier aren’t even that bad. They are happy that I’m at least trying. Pak’s talking the whole time with Randy and other members of the family trying to translate for us.

     Dinner is laid out of us on the table, about eight different dishes to choose from. I stuff myself to the point of over-satiating discomfort. I can’t even sit up straight. And then more fresh Javanese coffee comes out. Pak makes a run to Indomaret for ice cream. We were supposed to stay at a hotel, but Pak insists that we stay there as his guests.

     The cameras come out, and we take about a dozen photos. My only regrets are that we aren’t staying longer and that we don’t know the language better.

     After the ten hour car ride, the three hour layover at the train station, and the seven hour train ride, to meet such a nice Javanese family and be welcomed into their household with the utmost hospitality, all of the traveling woes were worth it.

#

DAY 21, 06AUG2015

     Randy’s knocking on my door at 0455. I get up. Time to get ready. It’s going to be another long day. Our breakfasts in East Java have been small. Literally coffee, biscuits, water, and bread, maybe some bananas. On this morning, the family warms up the leftovers from last night. As good as all the food is, I can’t splurge until I’m full. I’d like the five hour train ride to pass in comfort, and I’d also like to avoid having to take a shit on the train.

     Its more goodbyes once again, more photos. Pak welcomes us back to his home any time Bri and I would like. He says G-Land is only three hours away, the ferry to Bali is close by, and that he’d like to show us around his own village more.

     This morning’s five-hour train ride is ridden in economy class. It’s bench seating, facing random passengers. It’s actually not so bad, but with the extra bodies, it’s a hot trip. I get restless at the four-hour mark and pace the train.

     Getting off at the station, we walk to the street with our luggage, dodging cabbies that flock to the first Westerners they see. Still not as bad as Tijuana and the time I had landed at Cairo Airport.

     Our driver takes us on the first legit toll roads that I’ve been on in Indo. We’re heading to Surabaya Airport, speeding in the emergency lane. I’m the only one wearing a seatbelt. I had expected to maybe see some high rises and more infrastructures, but there aren’t any. Just a few two or three storey mall-like structures. For the most part, the towns are similar with small roads, farm land, and warungs.

     Reaching the airport, it’s the last goodbye of the trip. My brother has taken great care of me and Bri, pretty much holding our hands the whole trip to make sure we were getting taken care of. He didn’t even have to follow us every step of the way to get us here, but he did. He’ll still have to turn around and get back on that long ass train ride before he can finally take a breather. I thank him for everything and tell him I love him. Best Indo trip by far, eclipsing the stoke and fun I had on my last two times here. I’ll never forget it.

#

     We’re the only foreigners on Lyon Air. I tell Bri how they announce on the P.A. system that the penalty for drug trafficking is death. They don’t announce it until the plane’s about to take off. I get a good kick out of that. Not the kind of thing you’d expect to hear announced by a pleasant voice over the intercom. It’s an hour and a half to Jakarta Airport.

     When we land, unlike my last trip through Jakarta, I actually talk to the lady at the information booth and get guidance on taking the free shuttle to our terminal.

     The shuttle’s crowded, but our ride is free. The rest of our Indonesian Rupiah is spent on A&W combo meals (Bri’s choice), Krispy Kreme donuts, and a soda.

#

DAY 22, 07AUG2015

     Before the flight, I might be jumping the gun by changing into my clean shirt too soon. I had brought it with me because I expected to soak through it during the train ride and that wonderful place we call Jakarta, but I change anyway. I feel fresh in a clean shirt.

     The flight itself is all right. They only feed us once. I ask for a coffee. Mistake, as I barely get any sleep during the eight hour flight. One thing I can say is, any time you can fly Japan Airlines, do it. It’s the best airlines I’ve ever flown in my life. Their staff is courteous and punctual. No bullshit, just straight to the service and whatever you need. When we had left the runway at Jakarta Airport, the baggage workers all waved to us as the plane was pulling away from them on the tarmac, and then they all bowed. The only Americans who do shit like that work at Disneyland.

     Towards the end of the flight to Narita Airport, I start dozing off. For some reason, my nose gets stuffy. I blow it in the bathroom, and it just makes it worse. Now my nose is plugged up.

     Looking outside the window is just a different landscape. Indonesia just had that third-world village feel with mopeds, shacks, and trash, but Japan is, simply put, clean. Grass, buildings, straight lines. There’s a sense that everything is in order. 

     Using the bathroom when we exit the plane, the bathroom is immaculate. Not that wetness in the bathroom stalls all over the squatter. In Surabaya, my bathroom door didn’t even lock. In Narita, my fucking bathroom stall leaves just a small slit beneath the door to slip mail through.

     The deal had been that I’d take care of every expense once we’d reach Indo, but that Bri would handle all the inter airport costs, whether they’d be lunch, snacks, or dinner. The whole trip, we had looked forward to Japan because we wanted to catch the train to go do sushi. Problem is, I never found good internet to research what exactly to do during our ten-hour layover.   

     Immigration stops us. It’s an old lone Japanese guy, and he’s telling us we have to fill out a form. Instead of just making us go back, he goes out of his way, grabs the forms for us, and checks our “work” when we’re done. Even the guy who stamps our passports is nice. The customs dudes don’t haggle us either. It’s just such a stark contrast from the every-man-for-himself attitude in Indo. Here, they’ll help you step by step. In Indo, someone will cut in front of you before the person at the counter can say, “Next.”

     My nose is on full-plug status now. I can’t breathe. All the travel is finally catching up to me. Bri’s leading the way, saying that she has money to exchange and that we can go to the information desk for help. At that moment, I make her our proclaimed Japanese liaison for this layover. I handled Indo. She’ll handle Japan.

     Like a powerless sidekick, I accompanied her while she went to work, eavesdropping on whatever intel she was getting to at least get some kind of knowledge. We wouldn’t have to board for another eight hours, but we also didn’t want to get lost, so long as we’d have a chance to actually take the train somewhere and get out of the airport to see some of Japan.

     Bri buys us two tickets for the train. “We’ll be getting off at the first stop,” she says. Today’s adventure. We’ll be cruising through Narita.

     On the Subway, no one’s staring at us. It’s the first time in three weeks that Bri hasn’t attracted the stares of locals who aren’t used to the white devil. Instead, the Japanese seem preoccupied with their own lives, not noticing us at all. Little things come back to me from the time I was here last winter. The abundance of pastry shops at the train stations, how you need to insert your ticket at every turn style, and how there are barely any fucking public trashcans. It’s easier find somewhere to take a shit in Japan than somewhere to throw away your random trash.

     We bust out the maps on full tourist mode, but no one cares. Fuck it. Hey, when the Japanese come to America, I don’t give them a hard time if they want to take pictures, so now it’s our fucking turns to be dorky tourists.

     The maps aren’t helping, but I spot a Family Mart and immediately demand that we go in there. For the love of sushi triangles, we must. We also pick up some sunblock.

     Unraveling the triangle, I follow the step by step procedures that are numbered on the wrapper. It’s fun introducing things to Bri. We share it. It’s just as delicious as I remember.

     One thing we did not account for is the fucking humidity. The pilot had said it was 77 degrees out, but there was no account for the humidity. The soldiers I had met who are stationed here told me that it’s humid in the summer. I should have listened.

     Within a block of leaving the train station, the sweat from my ripped Filipino chest starts showing through my shirt like buckshot. Jeans was a bad idea. So were shoes. At 0900, the sun is a fucking magnifying glass. Even though we had ditched our carry-ons at the train lockers, we’re still heavy in our clothing.

     Spotting a McDonald’s that’s posted on the map, I finally get our bearings and lead us in the direction recommended to a big Buddhist Temple. Before we get there, we find shelter in a random café. Since it’s early, its empty. The Japanese girl working the counter has blue eyes. Gotta be fake. All the Japanese I had learned escapes me. All I can recall are the two essentials that Klaude had taught us. The barista speaks English though. With Narita surrounding the airport, I’m sure this is a major tourist hub.

     We pound our iced mochas and keep on walking. We pass a bunch of gift shops. Small restaurants have their lunch and dinner sets on display like plastic toys, but they still look tasty. With the intense heat on our necks, we go to the tourism office for a break and hang out in their museum for a bit. Bri asks the workers if there’s a sushi-go-round here, and they plot the points on a map for us, only thing is that we’ll have to either bus it, cab it, or walk it. The third option is a joke. We decide to play it safe and just eat sushi in town, go-round or not.

     Once we reach the temple, we’re amazed with how well kempt the grounds are and how immense everything is. There are koi ponds, sculptures, shrines, so many things that I want to get up close to and learn about, but it’s so goddam hot that I’m sweating through my crotch. It looks like I pissed myself.

     “I can’t,” I say. “Let’s just do the sushi-go-round at the airport.”

     Bri’s not sweating like me, but she says she can’t take it anymore either.

     “We’ll also try to find a place to take a shower,” I say.

     And if you think we’re the only ones dying, you’re wrong. Every Westerner here is sweating bullets, some worse than me. The local Japanese have their umbrellas or are fanning themselves while they walk.

Had to throw up the W

     Bri buys us water and ice cream, but the solutions are just temporary. Now we’re powerwalking back to the station. Waiting for Bri to open our locker, sweat drips from my nose. Fucking A. Why the fuck did I have to change my shirt so early?

     We get back to the airport on the train without ending up on milk cartons. The information desk people direct us to the airport sleeping-rental spaces where we can take a shower. I’ve only heard of these places but never been. When we show up, they say it’s only 500 Yen for each of us. That’s only about four bucks each just to feel fucking human again. Worth it.

     I get handed towels, slippers, and a key to my locker. The place is empty when I walk in. I loiter a bit and check out the sleeping capsules. It looks so space odysseyish on some futuristic type shit. LAX doesn’t have anything like this. Japan just has all the cool shit.

     It’s my first hot shower in three weeks, and they already have bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and soap laid out. Even though the water’s hot, I crank it all the way to cold to rinse off, Indonesian style. Leaving the shower, a female Japanese worker is cleaning the area. In the bathroom, same thing. While I’m changing, there’s a lady right there. I feel so embarrassed with how white my ass is in comparison to the rest of my tanned body, especially my sausage. I just figure she does this all the time, so I’m nothing new. Had I known, I would’ve at least knocked out 50 or 60 pushups in the shower to get some good veinage going on first.

     I meet Bri in the lobby, and we’re recharged again. I’m wearing the dirty shirt that I had initially changed out of. New socks. Unfortunately, the best I can do for my underwear is turn them inside out and backwards.

     Leaving the 9H Capsule Hotel, we enter a separate walkway above the train station that leads directly to our terminal. During this walk, I am so impressed with Narita Airport.

     Bri asks the information counter where the sushi-go-round is, and we’re directed upstairs to terminal 2. The sushi restaurant is all the way at a dead end. The bar is about 75% full when we step in. The workers say a loud Japanese greeting to us and direct us to sit down. The multi-designed plates each have separate prices, and all are within reason. We sit down and just start pulling plates. Bri’s already polished off three when I’m done with my first. I remind her to take her time. There’s an art to power eating. First rule is that you absolutely must enjoy eating your food. Anyone can put something in his mouth, chew, and swallow, but to truly love what you’re eating involves the senses, time.

     Customers come and go. Half dozen JAL stewardesses come in and sit down. At one point, the sushi belt is so full that the sushi chefs start offering the fresh batches by hand.

     A surf-bummy looking Japanese dude, in a pointy farming hat, sits down next to Bri and orders all the sushi items from the 150-Yen plates, the cheapest ones. At first the chef tries to hand them to me but corrects himself.

     The Japanese dude looks at me, puts his hands together, and bows his head.

     All I can do is smile and nod back while my mouth’s stuffed with sushi. Go for it, dude!

Salmon, and they are on the 150 Yen plates, just over a buck each. 

     Even the low value items are fucking delicious, and the bill for both of us only comes out to $37. We spend more on all-you-can-eat sushi back in Cali. When we leave, I give out Klaude’s key phrase, “Goshisousama deshita!” with a courteous bow. The workers smile.

     The rest of the layover is tiring. I exchange the rest of my Yen back into cash. We burn the remaining Yen coins on drinks and dessert. After contemplating on souvenirs, we just head towards our gate.

I know the feeling. . .

     Our flight’s overbooked, and JAL is offering a $1000 gift card and a free hotel for the night for any passengers willing to give up their seats. Bri and I contemplate it for a minute. After all the traveling we’ve done, already splurging on sushi and having sweated our asses off, we’re fine with bringing this vacay to a close.

#

HOME

     The coolest German I know, Mr. Boris Busduga, picks Bri and I up from LAX. When we had landed, the feeling was surreal, looking out of the window and seeing California. Around us, most of the passengers were tourists, looking at the urban and suburban sprawl down below. No more rice fields and jungle. For the first time this trip, the roles were reversed.

     Boris piles us in his jeep and fills us in with the things we’ve missed out on, like how it had rained pretty hard. I entertain his info, but at the same time I’m so fucking tired.

     Opening the door to our studio apartment is like entering a crypt tomb. The air inside of it is stale with the odor of inactivity and vacancy. We air it out and spend the rest of the night unpacking. Before going to bed, my surf mentor Rick hits me up and invites me to Jalama Bay this weekend, start time tomorrow at 0430.

#

     And that concludes the Barnyard Java trip 2015. Back in 2011 when I returned from Bali and two years ago when I returned from East Java, I had felt obligated to have some kind of new profound outlook on life and surfing, a paragraph that wraps things up tightly into a neat bow. I don’t know if I can do that right now. This trip here has been beyond measure, the best one out of the three. No drama like the last two times. This was the first time I had the opportunity to literally sit on one wave and maximize my surf to the fullest alongside my love Briana. On top of that she surfed well, too. Hah! No babysitting.

     Perspective-wise, I can only write this. . . There’s just so much more out there. Just say that you’re a true surf bum, a surf fanatic. You don’t even need to be a hellman, one who charges the gnarl whose lifeblood flows within waves of consequence. You’re just plain stoked. That’s who you are. A stoked surfer who just wants to have fun on waves.

     My trip wasn’t about bragging rights, it wasn’t about trying to get better and coming home to show my peers how much I’ve progressed. If anything, Choco Point is such a mellow wave that after three weeks straight on it, I probably won’t fare so well at my home beach break.

     But say you don’t have much tying you down YET. Or maybe you are tied down. You don’t have to leave the U.S. for an extended amount of time. At least three weeks will do.

     Vietnam, Thailand, the possibility of teaching English somewhere in South East Asia where Bri and I would be able to spend more time and surf the rest of the archipelago, eating new foods and seeing new sights, being fluent in another language, all these things are possible and within reach. All those Euros at the compound had traveling down. A three week vacay was a joke to them.

     Given that I still have a military obligation until 2020, I can still vacay back to Indo and plan up to that day when Bri and I would actually be able to consider a legit move, a real adventure.

     Now that the trip is over, I need to find a job. At the same time, I still want to dedicate as much of my time to surfing, so good luck on finding a job that fits that criteria. I know my criteria. I’m the slum of society. Honestly, I don’t want to work. If I had it my way, I’d just surf.

     I’m gonna spend my time here devising a plan to make my way back to Indo again next summer. Every other year is not enough. Three weeks is not enough.

     I’m homesick for a place that isn’t even my home yet, but it feels like it. The smell of burning trash in the morning air, the hot milk-chocolate water that tastes like ashtray, avoiding potholes on the moped with Bri behind me, eating at Padangs while I’m dripping sweat from the spices, and then there’s the wave I love so much.

     By all means necessary, I need to find a way back to that bungalow.