Backdrifts

A friend from Dubai is here and life is slipping into the old familiar territory of excess as I attempt to cling to my frugality.  I tried my best to bring her to my side ("I know there is good in you!") and show her the beauty of 60 cent meals in rickety looking shacks but she is on holiday and she will have her Starbucks Latte in the morning and her glass of wine in the afternoon, price be damned.  And, well, I am not made of stone.  I love to drink gin and tonic on the beach with a friend in the presence of a spectacular sunset.  And so the budget suffers, calling to me with a wounded, accusing voice, asking what it has done to deserve this abuse.    

We're on Gili Air at the moment; an unimaginable island paradise surrounded by water of a blue, fantasy-color that I thought only existed in postcards.  The island has a diameter of about a kilometer, no motor vehicles are allowed, the restaurants and hotels are generally overpriced (by 8KUSD standards, at least), and there are magic mushrooms available for sale at various, openly advertised locations.  I walk around in a daze, not quite believing the evidence of my senses, wondering where I am and if I am really the same guy who washed his clothes in a bucket during his weekly shower in the rural hills of Nepal, or if I am perhaps some different guy, vaguely related but not at all the same.  With some difficulty I find a way shrug off these considerations and tentatively order another cocktail from a seat in a softly lit cabana, watching the sky change colors over the ocean.  

My Own Private Medewi

I'm stuck at the moment.  I don't have enough money to pay my hotel bill until my ATM card is unblocked so I'm lingering in the tiny surfer town of Medewi, using my last 22 USD of cash on meal after 60-cent meal of delicious, satisfying, healthy nasi campur (Rice with "odds and ends" according to LP. Fantastic.).  My hotel has a view of the ocean, comes with coffee and breakfast, and at the current rate I can eat well, plus use the internet, for eight more days without going bust, hence I'm not all that worried about the money situation.  It'll get sorted soon enough.  In the meantime, I'm making use of the beautiful stretch of black-sand beach in front of my hotel on which I am usually the sole human presence.  I'm virtually alone here and I kind of like it that way.  Just for the moment.

Trying To Catch Me Riding Dirty

We were now rolling four deep on the Bali blacktop; Belgium, Holland, The UK and The States all represented.  We came to an intersection, engaged in some debate on the subject of which way to turn, and looked up to find a police officer standing at the opposite side of the traffic signal and waiving us forward.  He motioned us through the light and had us pull over.  He asked Belgium where we were going, leading us to believe that he wanted to help us.  Then he asked for our driver’s licenses.  Belgium and Holland produced their home licenses, UK and I told him ours were back at the hotel.  He also asked to see Belgium’s registration on the bike, and then held on to the registration while telling us we were all in trouble for not carrying an International License and also for driving through the traffic signal.   At his request we followed him across the street to a small office where another officer was waiting.  He opened a book with a list of fines.  Belgium and I looked on as he flipped through it, saw numbers from 150 USD and up, and became gradually certain that this was a hustle, just as he was getting around to telling us that our oversights were, in fact, criminal offenses.  Belgium was the first to act, reaching for his registration and pulling it gently from the officer’s hand. “Let’s just go.  Get on the bikes and ride.”   I couldn’t have agreed more.  We moved as a group, making it a difficult task to stand in our way.  With the officer barking behind us, we waived farewell and crossed the street with our hearts pounding.  Belgium and I fired up the bikes and took off, but Holland couldn’t get her bike started.  UK sat with his motor running behind her, looking anxiously across the street at the police, “You gotta be shitting me.”   Finally the bike started and they quickly joined Belgium and I a few blocks up the street.  To our relief no one followed us.      

Easy Rider

I found my way to Ubud after 3 nights on Java.  It was more expensive than it should have been to get here, largely due to a rookie mistake (failing to inquire diligently enough on the availability of cheaper train tickets) that I should have been veteran enough to avoid.  Determined not to overspend again, I hunted relentlessly for the cheapest hotel in town, then with equal determination for a month-long scooter rental.  I found both, the scooter for a bargain 50 USD for 31 days.

Since acquiring the bike I have seen more of this island than I would have thought possible.  Petrol is cheap, the roads are decent and the scenery is mind-blowing.  One can supposedly circle the entire island in one long day of driving, but so far I've been content with four to six hours per day, up and down volcanoes and around most of the eastern coast, each day returning to my pleasant home in Ubud.  After the first 3 days I picked up a companion, a young Belgian man who had never ridden a two-wheel, gas-powered vehicle before.  He took to it with all the certainty of immortality that comes with youth and by our 3rd day riding together I was having difficulty keeping up with him.  With my compass hanging from my key-chain and a torn map page from Lonely Planet to guide us, we covered 722 kilometers, stopped for 31 photo opportunities, got lost 5 times, asked directions from non-English speakers 26 times, survived 2 torrential rainstorms, 1 suicidal dog, 1 homicidal pig, and a flat tire.  After 7 days of high-speed wandering, my forearms are sunburned, my ass is sore, and I think the helmet is contributing to my thinning hair, but I'm not planning on stopping anytime soon.  

Forty-Eight Twenty-One and Eight-Six Cents

Quickly then…I got off the bus from Lily’s place, checked into my dorm-room, tried without success to reserve a hostel in Jakarta via Skype, met some travelers, secured a recommendation for a likely punk-rock venue, failed to generate interest among potential companions in the face of the eminent World Cup matches, took two subway trains and a 15 minute walk to get to the overpriced club, drank an overpriced beer, watched a Chinese version of Wilco play a pretty decent set that contained none of the insane, hard-core energy I’d hoped for, caught the subway halfway back to the guesthouse before the trains stopped running, joined a couple of possibly-intoxicated Chinese youths in a somewhat foolish scamper across 10 high-speed lanes of traffic, each of us laughing with relief when we reached safety on the other side, found a taxi, found my hostel, found late-night chicken skewers, and climbed into my bunk. 

The next morning I woke up, took two subway trains to the airport, checked in without incident, took off and transferred in Guangzhou without incident, landed in Jakarta at 10pm, spent a few nerve wracking moments realizing I was two dollars short of the visa fee and that they don’t take credit cards and my ATM card could very well be blocked, before (CHING!) the machine made me a Rupiah millionaire, ignored the taxi touts, found the right bus was still running, met a friendly Indonesian girl who got off at the same stop and asked me to join her for a short taxi ride to the main guesthouse street, thought I might be getting hustled until we exchanged emails and she insisted on paying for the taxi, found the first 10 hostels full and the first 3 hotels far too expensive, checked in at 1am, sweating and jittery, to an 8 USD per night, mosquito-swarmed shithole called Rick’s, dropped my pack off, found a convenience store, grabbed a beer and a bottle of water, and headed back to the room to sit in front of the fan and read Narcissus and Goldmund and swat mosquitoes and wait for a fitful sleep to find me.