It’s come to this. I finally sit down to write. My state of mind is quite serene, but the state of Bali is deliriously hectic. I have been on vacation from India for nearly three weeks and I look forward to going back, even if for only a day to Kolkata en route to Europe. Before I head back up and over the equator, I thought I would attempt to rekindle the blog and thereby encapsulate yet another strange world. I dare say that by now I have learned about two worlds within the one mishmash of nations and economies that we call the globe.
Bali and to a lesser degree, the other Islands in the Indonesian archipelago is a foreign tourist haven. Better yet, a hive. At times perhaps, a maggots nest. Without wanting to drudge up derision and create the perception that somehow I am different or better than the rest of the foreign pleasure shoppers, I’d simply say that I have learned a lot here about the relationship between the tourist development paradigm and the response of the local economy and culture to outside influence. The theme sounds familiar, no, like some far off Himalayan kingdom I once knew. Fortunately for me I can now permanently cross off Bali and for that matter Australia from my list of possible future destinations.
Noah and I made the absolute best of this place, though at every turn there was unexpected pitfall and accompanying hilarity. Let’s see, our first day together here in the party central conglomerate of Kuta began with Noah losing his ATM card out of a hole in the pocket of his newly purchased surfer dude shorts. Next, I spent twenty dollars on calling my own bank’s office to attempt to get the block taken off my ATM which I had incurred by stopping for two hours in the Malaysia airport where I bought a coffee with my card. The following day, we took off on our rented motor scooters and headed down for the famous surf break called Uluwatu on the southern tip of the Island. Upon first glance at the six foot peeling waves and the relatively small crowd, I thought to myself hell I’ll paddle out and give it a whirl. Low and behold a whirl is what I got, along with an ass kicking (foot gouging actually) along the reef lying four feet below the inside of the near break. After twenty minutes of waveless misery and a steadily bleeding right foot, I exited the water only to find a large chunk had been mashed out of the rear of my rented surfboard.
And so the curse of Kuta began. Hobbled and without access to cash, we spent the next day attempting to move ourselves out of Kuta into mellower surroundings and gentler reef breaks. I managed to get the block removed from my card, and strangely enough Noah happened to find his card had been returned to a random hotel near where it had slipped out.
On the third day of our island adventure, we packed our bags, fled the Kuta sprawl, and sped (at a safe speed on fine paved roads) up the coastal highway to the roadside community of Medewi with its famed long left perfect for beginners. The journey was peaceful and so were the three days spent surfing eating and sleeping in the Mai Malu hotel. Sufficiently bored by the fourth day of small and sloppy waves, we sped off again, this time bound for Java, determined to make the impossible crossing with our motorbikes.
Upon arriving at the ferry landing on the far western tip of Bali, it was confirmed what we had already been told that our scooters’ registrations forbid us to remove the bikes from Bali. Alas, it was back to two-footed walking with clumsy clunky board slung under one arm. It took us an additional four hours to reach our destination, the remote jungle outpost dubbed G-Land by the illiterate surfing community.
Noah and I then spent another three days laughing hysterically to ourselves, having more brilliant conversation between ourselves and generally getting pummeled by waves we could neither catch nor ride. The surf camp scene down in this jungle outpost was just that: summer camp for boys. We made the best out of the futile company, bonding mostly with the local staff and passing the between time recapping the highlights of our lives in Brooklyn and gazing upon the glowing horizon of our upcoming decades.
I turned 30 one night amidst this east Java chaos of throbbing wounds, a gourmet dinner of ramen noodles and local mussels, warm beer, and a full moon over one of the most pristine stretches of beach in the world. At the time I thought nothing of it. In fact I could think of little else besides my shallow skin abrasions, swollen lymph in my groin and the impending systemic infection and fever that was to be my birthday present from gawd. But this piece is neither about my personal pain and suffering – which for some reason was far more serene than mentally disturbing – nor the physical details of the trip itself. Sure enough, Bali and Java are some of the loveliest places one can conjure up – full of rich culture, traditional agriculture, pristine landscapes, and relative harmony between the tourist and the local economy.
But today I do not wish to write yet another experience narrative. I know that stories of intriguing interactions are crucial for the readers’ delight and I certainly wish to entertain to the highest degree possible. But truth be told, since leaving India, the experience narrative has been fairly monotonous, mostly involving the pursuit of outrageously good and cheap local pleasures – selfishly hedonistic and quite relaxing. I achieved great success in this but the tales shall remain untold at least for the time being in this particular medium.
What I did come across though - this afternoon at about three while lounging about the poolside in front of my hotel room door – is something less tangible to the outside world but possibly worth telling. It seemed to settle over me like a fine mist rolling through an arid desert. It was the first moment in two weeks that I was alone to fully comprehend the gravity, or rather the lack thereof, in my life of late. I'd been saying throughout the week how much 30 feels like the youngest and most innocent I’ve been since perhaps I was five. Perhaps it is some kind of early mid-life rebirth, compounded by the fact that I am officially a free agent, gaily wandering the planet, for another month or so at least. Sitting by that pool watching the breeze stir the palm leaves there were moments of what could be called perfect composure. Blissful repose, unhindered by responsibility to do more than what was being done. I merely attempted to jot it down in my journal before it was gone.
Unfortunately, the details are again disappointingly sparse in the eyes of the outside world. It is nothing more than finally being able to say that I am happy and I know what I want. That’s that and it deserves only acknowledgment and of course further pursuit.
