This game has gone into overtime

It is unfair to make broad generalizations or snap judgments about a population, but based on my second visit to the town of Denpasar, I can say with confidence this about its people: All of its men are pimps, and all of its women are whores.

Early-morning flight logistics back to Jogja are such that once again I must lay over near the Bali airport. I negotiate a hotel and transport with the villains who staff the terminal’s traveler “help” desk. The shuttle driver arrives and we go. On the way – and I mean on the way to the van – he dispenses with pleasantries and gets down to business: “You like girls?” (Sigh.) I decline the official form of Denpasar hospitality with thanks, just like last time. Later at the hotel, I step out to a nearby market to buy water and get two different offers of back-street massage from smiling local maidens.

Back in the room I catch a glimpse of my goofus self in the mirror: Sweaty, balding, bespectacled, 50-something guy in his short pants, Merrells and white ankle socks. Yup, that’s sure what a John looks like. Can I stick my finger in the 220 socket now?

---

I admit it: at this point I am simply marking time until I can get on the BIG plane and come home. At the risk of sounding like some first-class bitcher about the grind of the developing world, I am tired of Indo-everything: piss-poor Internet connections, night-light levels of illumination, having to haggle, swarthy con artists, feral cats and dogs, singing imams, and inane, inexplicable Indonesian television. Plus being a constant sweat-bomb for almost six weeks in the same ill-laundered clothes. And I haven’t felt motivated to snap a picture in days.

I am ready for Levis and long-sleeved shirts. And food, glorious western food! Last night I caught an Italian Iron Chef-style cooking show on TV, competing pasta preparations, and it was like I’d stumbled across the Spice Channel.

Justin, kudos for sticking with this, and let me know what we can do to make your remaining time any easier.

Adventures in Paradise

The morning I check out of my fancy-pants resort, I learn two fascinating things:

• My Visa Signature card has been canceled.
• My WaMu MasterCard does not work in the only ATM on the island.

Dropping my bag behind the reception desk, I double-time it down to the I-café make a Skype call to Visa customer service. (Amazingly, Voice over IP works even here!) Turns out there was some big security breach involving thousands of card numbers, mine included. So a new card is waiting for me at home and the old card was closed out last week. Surprise, surprise!

Happy ending: old card restored until I get home, fancy-pants resort paid off, almost-deadbeat guest on his way to cheaper but still comfy digs down the road. A-frame grass hut just 20 steps from the beach, with an open-air bathroom, air-con, breakfast, about 35 bucks. Sweet.

That afternoon I walk all the way around the island, a two-and-a-half-hour hike across sand in 90-degree equatorial sun. I am a sunburned, footsore idiot.

---

Once again, a tropical Asian paradise in which the prime restaurant locations are dedicated to White People chow – your Irish pub, your sandwich joint, pizza place, etc. And once again, the sure-fire way to find real-deal local food is: turn your back on the ocean and start walking. Two blocks inland I find a scruffy little warung called Borobudur 2, cooking up the equivalent of Indonesian soul food.

First time there I didn’t have my glasses to read the menu, so I just went to the big bowls of ready-made food and pointed. Big plate, lots of rice, tried different stuff. Came back for seconds and he told me to come around the counter and help myself. I eat my main meal of the day there now for all of a buck-twenty.

---

The Visa situation is fixed, but the no-ATM access I can’t resolve, and I don’t want to cut it too close with my last 100,000 rupiyah note. Gili Trawangan is a high point of this adventure, but it might be time to pull up stakes and catch the ferry over to Lombok. But not before one last stop at Borobudur 2.

I am a Gili-man

I might have found a candidate for World’s Worst Beach.

Viewed from nearby hilltop, Pedangbai seems pleasant enough: a bayside village that serves the ferry from Bali to Lombok, with maybe two dozen small fishing boats pulled up onto the light-brown crescent of sand. Just how the Lonely Planet book described it – my Bali beach adventure at last!

I settle onto my $9 a night guesthouse and walk across to road to the water. Up close I realize that the beach is strewn with dried leaves and bark, plastic lids and other junk. But it looks cleaner out toward the water, so I venture off the grass and onto the – omigod, NOT sand! I sink up to my shins in what feels and smells like fertilizer granules, which fill my shoes as I fight my way back to solid ground. Later I see a local cat – and then an old woman – use this beach for personal toilette, and that ends my Pedangbai beach adventure for well and good.

About the $9 guesthouse: you get what you pay for. The “walls” between the individual rooms consisted of bamboo slats, so you could kind-of see your neighbors on either side. Toilet and shower at the end of the hall. In a matter of hours I am calling this place “Pedang buh-bye.”

A local travel agent and solves my problems: “You want Gili,” he says, and shows me the pictures. I look at him and nod: “I want Gili.” The next morning I catch the Fast Boat to the white-sand beaches of Gili Trawangan, one of three small, lightly touristed Gili (hard G) islands off Lombok.

Now we’re talking!

Gili Trawangan has no cars and very few motorcycles; folks get around mostly by bike and, get this, horse-drawn carriage. Beach rings the entire island and you can walk it in maybe two hours, which I plan to do. Guesthouses are a little pricier but well worth it, because THIS is what I was envisioning.

I amble down the main drag checking out the different bungalows, guest rooms, and even the foo-foo resort way up north. After last night’s flophouse I am in the mood to move upmarket for my first night on the island, so I ask about price.

A slight misunderstanding here: What I think she says: “Four eighty-five,” as in 485,000 rupiyah, i.e., roughly forty-eight bucks, pricey by Indonesian standards but okay. What she actually says, I learn later as I’m checking in: “For eighty-five,” as in 85 U.S. dollars.

Without batting an eye, I whip out my Visa Signature card and quietly vow to enjoy the heck out of this room because I am paying an Indonesian fortune for it.

---

Charming local commerce:

On the beach

One more night in Ubud and then it's the weekend, and time to explore some sand and surf destinations. Stay tuned ...

Stalked by the Uh-Oh Lizard

From the moment I arrived at Justin’s place in Jogja, this little bastard has taunted me with its knowledge of my future.

The Uh-Oh Lizard* calls out in the night with its croaking sing-song: “Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh,” over and over, until a final, crestfallen “UH—ohhhh.”

I have not yet caught a glimpse of the Uh-Oh Lizard, but it follows me to every guest house, and I relocate every few days. In one place it even uh-oh’s me from within the room … and then leaves enormous lizard poops on the floor at the foot of my bed.

Early this morning the Uh-Oh Lizard is out there again, chiming in above the frogs and the chickens. So this will be the soundtrack to my final days in paradise: an unseen, reptilian Cassandra singing me home to my doom with a last, prescient, “UH—ohhhh.”

Except I still have a functioning ATM card, so not today, you evil lizard, and not tomorrow.


*Not to be confused with the Horrifying Uh-Oh Baby in the comic strip Cul de sac

---

Someone might want to rethink the name for this homestay.

Beaches? We don't need no stinkin' beaches!

After a few days, central Ubud starts to wear thin – you can take only so much “Taxi, Meesta?” every five steps – so one morning I set out on a hike away from town. In no time I am past the art studios, warungs and spas, walled in by dense foliage.

Around a bend and across a creek, away from everything, I come to the stone archway for Arjana Bungalows. Up, up, up the narrow, winding steps, I arrive at … this:

A cheerful young man named Chanto shows me the different bungalows, most of them off by themselves, a few poolside, one even tucked away under the dining patio with its rice paddy view. The rooms are clean and spacious, the beds are an Asian version of the Tempur-pedic mattress.

I ask how much. “Hundred twenty thousand rupiah,” Chanto replies; about twelve bucks. “Plus 12% discount if you stay week or longer.” Closer to ten bucks, now. “Includes breakfast,” he adds. Deal!

Chanto promises to hold a bungalow for me until tomorrow. I trot right back to town and start packing, even though I am committed to one last night in my current abode, which now looks dowdy and depressing. How did I ever endure this conventionally mattressed, pool-challenged crap-hole?

---

I catch a made-for-turistas performance by the Ubud Women’s gamelan and traditional Balinese dance troupe in an open-air auditorium. The footlights attract many bats, which add a surreal touch to the spectacle.

Wait, what? I am amazed to see that one of the dancers is Katie Holmes! Does Tom know?

---

The reports so far from other travelers regarding the attractiveness of Bali beaches is not good: dirty and poor water quality, say two dudes just back from Amed; black sand is ugly, grouses a bald-headed old German guy. (But then, don’t bald-headed old German guys prefer their sand, and all else, to be white?)

I will reserve judgment until I see for myself … but what’s the hurry? Scroll back up and look at the pictures again. Maybe I’ll get to the beach, maybe not.

No phone, no pool, no pets

After the extravagance of my $30-a-night lodging at a hotel/spa, I have moved downscale to much more humble guest-house accommodations up a side street in central Ubud, $12 per night. Pity me:

---

I do go on about how much (or little) stuff costs, but can you show me a place in Portland that offers a 1-hour full-body oil massage for five bucks? I will happily forego a meal to slot this in the daily budget.

In trying different places in search of The Ideal, some are clearly better than others. Take last night’s gal: hands like a bricklayer, but gag-inducing oils. No kidding, a dog followed me for blocks barking wildly at the cloying reek, and at my homestay entrance, a local guy commented, from across the street: “Been to masseuse?”

My research continues and I’m sure you don’t want to hear a damned thing about it (except you, Patty, this would all be of great professional interest to you).

---

Random picture time.

Justin turned me on to this wonderful fruit, which resembles a hairy strawberry; you peel them to get to the succulent grape-like part. The tree they grow on is next to my new place.

No, no -- these people are "Buddhists," not "Bundists!"

Welcome to the Monkey House

Attention, family: please sell my house and possessions, and send me the money so that I can stay on Bali forever … unless the island council enacts a rule barring excessively sweaty foreigners, and who could blame them?

---

Jogja roommate Jeannie, who just got back from a week in Bali, suggests a strategy: catch the late flight to Denpasar, taxi straight to a cheap hotel in nearby Kuta, then travel to Ubud in the morning. Which is what I do.

Hotels in Kuta, you should know, are cheesy, and not even Vegas cheesy. Reno cheesy. But my plane was two hours late, it’s almost midnight, so what the hell yeah this is fine. The bellman shows me the room, which is dark and a tad musty but acceptable.

“You want massage?” he asks. “Hundred thousand rupiyah, one hour. You want massage with pretty girl?” And here he makes the hourglass shape with his fingers. “Three hundred thousand. What happens after that, up to you.”

This could be my Eliot Spitzer Moment! Or not – I doubt we’re talking a 4-diamond girl, here.

I turn out the lights and try to sleep, which is not easy because now all I can think about is how many hookers have done what-all with how many Johns on these very sheets? Whores! Fornication! Ewww!

Sleep, finally. Then, much later in the night, my dream cycle stops abruptly and my eyes fly open, and I realize that my room light is on.

I lie there, frozen, waiting for the sound of an intruder. Nothing. I get up to find the doors and windows are secure, my backpack beside me on the bed. Near as I can figure, the light switch was only half-off and had flicked back to the “on” position. No more sleep tonight, folks!

---

The next morning I finagle a good price from an airport porter to drive me to Ubud and happily throw in a little extra, once I see the town – it’s such a pleasant destination and he did bring me in by a scenic back way.

In no time I secure what is the polar opposite of my previous nights lodging: clean, spacious, tasteful, with a garden view. And if anyone has been whooping it up in the bed, I am certain that it was in the context of a virtuous and loving relationship.

Ubud is a tourist town for sure, but nicely integrated into the ruins of a much older Balinese culture. Crumbling palaces and places of worship are interspersed with small shops devoted to local arts and culture, guest houses, eateries, and personal pampering spas. But wander just a few hundred feet off the main drag and you are in rice paddies and jungle.

This morning I stroll through the nearby monkey sanctuary, a tropical jungle park of pathways, Balinese ruins, and monkeys everywhere. For two hours I hang out with hundreds of healthy, frisky monkeys, wild but acclimated to humans and unafraid to climb up on my lap or perch on my shoulder. Wrestling, frolicking, feeding on local fruits, making baby monkeys, but thankfully not flinging feces. I wish I had a good analogy for what this place is more fun than.

The Real Road Warriors

The two William J. Landerses, Feb. 7, 2009, Jogjakarta, Indonesia.

---

I “stick out” in this Jogjakara neighborhood, and not just because I am a big, white galoot; more remarkable, I am a pedestrian – sometimes the only one in sight.

Most locals get around on motorcycles and the rest bike, drive, or pedal a becak (a bicycle-powered taxi). Sidewalks, if they exist, are an uneven, up-and-down step-aerobics course, and much of the time you are hugging the muddy edge of the street to avoid the whizzing blur just inches from your elbow.

But here’s the deal: for all of the crowded roads and “crazy” driving, nary a vehicle shows a dent or ding. What’s more, road rage seems non-existent. Asian motorists appear to be guided less by rules than by etiquette. They speed, pass on the wrong side, and jockey for position like nothing you’ve ever seen – but they do it so politely! A honk means no more than “I am here.” Busy, uncontrolled intersections are approached en masse, but there’s a kind of protocol about it, a mildly assertive give and take. This supposed “chaos” is what traffic looks like when you remove ego and territoriality.

And you know what? It works. Justin and I pedal up to a local warung for a late lunch of goat satay, cozying right in among the buzzing swarm.

---


The house that Justin shares with Jeannie and the two Carlas is big in that mid-‘70s residential construction sort of way, before architects gave much thought to usable space. Tucked away down a side street in a cluster of upscale-looking homes, it might be the nicest student housing I’ve ever seen.

And yet, it has some uniquely Indonesian touches.

For example, against one wall of the living room is an enormous bathroom sink, which would make more sense in the bathroom behind it, which has none. This is not some goofy error, a friend of Justin’s reports the same setup in his house. The kitchen is way in the back of the house, down a breezeway closed off by a lockable door; off the kitchen is an Asian squat toilet and a stairway the leads to tiny rooms between the first and second floors. Jeannie explains: the house was built to accommodate a live-in cook … which this week is the role I am trying to assume.

Also: my camera’s resolution is insufficient to show the 10 trillion ants in any of these house pictures. They are everywhere but mostly benign so you just live with the little suckers. The cockroaches you stomp.

---

The Islamic call to prayers is creeping me out, here.

At any hour of day or night, the calls are blaring from loudspeakers connected to every mosque in town, each with its own singing imam or ayatollah or whatever. They’re all free-forming it at once in this disturbing, dissonant call-and-refrain, like coyotes.

Another Indo-noise: the wail of the neighborhood feral cat, a filthy and friendless creature. Tail grotesquely twisted and broken, loose folds of skin hanging off a cadaverous body, sickly yellowed demon mouth – an awful wretch that cries to Justin’s landlady next door, who chases it away with a broom.

A more amusing sound outside is the cry of the mysterious Uh-Oh bird, which is this: “Uh-oh. Uh-oh. Uh-- … ohhhh.” I ask Justin what it looks like and he informs me that it is in fact a lizard and they only call at night, and he’s never seen one.

---

Roti bekar, a total guilty pleasure sold by street vendors around town. You take a loaf of white bread, slice it lengthwise so that it resembles the pages of a book. Slather all sides with butter, and for the inner “pages” spread chocolate sprinkles and drizzle with evaporated milk. Grill on all sides, slice into servings and smear all over your face. Yum!

---

Justin is a student and a teacher, of English. His qualifications for this position at a private language school are: he speaks English, he is a fine young fellow, and his students like him, which means they keep signing up for lessons.

He makes up his own curriculum. There are no success metrics or review processes. Basically he is winging it. But the pay is double his living stipend from ISI and a guy’s gotta eat.

I am invited to sit in on a couple of classes, the Basic and the Intermediate. In Basic today’s assignment is to “describe your basic routine,” in which everyone in turn gets to share the excruciating details of their boring-ass life. In Intermediate the topic is “Indonesian politics,” which devolves into “corrupt Indonesian politics,” and then a promise from the teacher to choose a happy topic for next session.

---


Claire used to say this about visiting relatives and fish: after three days, they both start to stink. Here with Justin, Jeannie and Carla I am on Day Five. “Uh--… ohhh.”


NEXT: Bali, hi.

Pleasures of the (sunburned) flesh

In my fancy digs on Koh Phangan I am seduced by the luxe life – billowy king-size bedding, boozy tropical cocktails, the pool, the pleasures. But my flirtation with being a Pampered Resort Pig passes in just a day or two. I pull out the pack, lace up my shoes and get back on the road.

At the ferry leaving Koh Phangan for the mainland, I see resort tout Charlie one last time, working the fresh arrivals from Surat Thani with his pictures and his pitch, both colorful.

This is Charlie: In look and personality he reminds me of an aboriginal Tim Trautman, kind of.

---

On the transport to the Surat Thani train station I meet Petra, my favorite personality on this trip so far. A solo traveler and Koh Phangan returnee like me, Hungarian-born Petra is on a two-month leave from her job as (I think she said) a curator in the U.K. to trek through SE Asia.

We each experienced the island, shall we say, differently: While I was agonizing over which umbrella drink to order next, Petra hiked around and across Koh Phangan toting two packs, hacking her way through unexplored jungle to visit a hundred different beaches.

Waiting for our respective trains, Petra and I fall into easy conversation and end up palling around for a few hours, grabbing a bite at a food cart nearby. Instant buds – nice!

After Petra departs on the northbound train to Chiang Mai, I discover awesome new characters to amuse me:

• The Slapper Sisters – On holiday from Britain are these three thick and bawdy middle-age gals, whom I watch at the street café where I’d eaten earlier. The Sisters have killed most of a large jug of vodka and are (loudly and profanely) bemoaning their hard luck in the romance department. One of them suspects that her job as a pub manager might be a factor in her drinking too much. Ya think?

• The Brawling Stoner – Actual overheard conversation at the train station from a guy on the bench behind me, explaining the huge scar on his forehead: “Yeah, some Thai dude hit me in the head with a big stick. I couldn’t go to the hospital ‘cause I was way too high.”

• The Crazy Muttering Derelict – Barefoot, bearded and wild-eyed, he sits down close and stares at me, mumbling what clearly is gibberish, even in Thai. Is he talking to me? To an invisible tormentor? And how soon before I might be opening my own Crazy Muttering Derelict franchise? Because the way things are going lately, it could happen!

---

This is just sick and wrong:

Selling toilet paper outside the women's restroom, in case you can't read vending machine sign.

---

My 12:45 a.m. southbound train arrives at two in the morning and I board its ironically named “sleeper” car … if your idea of sleep involves fluorescent lighting and a constant rattle-crash like dinnerware in an earthquake.

I’ll make this next part quick so we can get to the good stuff, i.e., meeting up with Justin in Jogjakarta. Highlights:

• Train reaches end-of-line in Penang, Malaysia, far short of my target Singapore. Next southbound train departs tomorrow.
• Sleep-deprived Jeff attempts to problem-solve around this hiccup. Say aloud: “Uh-oh.”
• “Helpful” taxi driver transports Jeff to wonderful bus service. Speed! Comfort! Phooey on train! Jeff realizes that he has allowed himself to be spirited away in a car by a stranger – just what Mother always warned about.
• Hurtling through Penang in a taxi, Jeff sees a sign to airport. He hollers and points: “Go there! Go there!”

Penang International Airport to Singapore. To Jakarta. To Jogjakarta. Bang, done! Is there no problem my Alaska Airlines Signature Visa card cannot solve?

Except … I end up sleeping in the Singapore Airport, which is to say NOT sleeping for a second night.

---

In Jogja I secure a room at a reputable hotel / I-café that turns out to be within walking distance of Justin’s house. He's teaching English classes that evening, but we do finally meet up late in the coffee shop. He is still our boy.

NEXT: Sweet Jogja on my mind.