While some of us rely on savings, windfalls, luck and/or a steady stream of odd jobs to maintain the traveler lifestyle, Elizabeth Gilbert managed to have her entire trip fronted by publisher Penguin books, in the hopes that it would lead to good material for a book.  Their gamble succeeded, as the book, entitled “Eat, Pray, Love,”spent 187 weeks on the New York Times bestsellers list, and if I sound jealous in any way, it is only because — like most other feckless travel bloggers out there, pinching every penny to jot out notes on our self-indulgent misadventures from around the world to a readership that scarcely extends beyond parents — I am.  Truly, madly and deeply jealous.

Gilbert’s premise was simple enough: Get over the heartbreak of a failed marriage by eating in Italy, praying in India and loving (or at least contemplating on how to love) in Indonesia.  None of her epiphanies are philosophically eye-opening and the book suffers (or perhaps profits from) an excessive amount of navel gazing.  But she has a compelling voice, pleasant enough attempts at wit and above all manages to write a book that follows enough of the conventions of best-selling “chick lit” to make a ubiquitous tome among female backpackers, while managing to tell a story that, at least theoretically, actually occurred.

For the purposes of this blog, there’s not much point to discussing Gilbert’s eating or  praying, so I’ll jump straight to her Indonesian love-fest, where the hapless Gilbert found herself in a mild form of indentured servitude with the yoda-like Ketut Liyer.  Living with the wizened figure, she documented all of his simple, salt-of-the-(Eastern)-earth style wisdom that had provided Gilbert with the existential material needed for her to have an epic breakthrough and find true and everlasting love.  Theoretically, at least; I wasn’t compelled enough to go out and grab the sequel to see just how well all that love worked out for her.

The interior area of Ketut's demesne. The man likes his birdhouses.

The Ketut of the book is a soft-spoken, patriarchal no-nonsense figure who simultaneously seems to view the world as though in on some sort of private joke.  None of his fortune-cookie-like words of wisdom truly seemed epiphany-inspiring enough to me that I would pointedly track the man down, but upon hearing that the now-famous guru lives just minutes from our hotel in Ubud, Laurie and I are both too compelled to pass on a quick visit to his humble estate.  With each passing year, I’ve gradually accepted that I will never meet Yoda, but perhaps getting some profound words from a man who is now both the most famous and the most shriveled tourist attraction in Bali will be a close second.

A handful of black and white drawings hang along the single wall of the otherwise open air waiting room, where we lounge in silence as Ketut tends to the steady queue of visiting pilgrims that all tend to be of the same basic demographic: white, female, mid-30s to early 50s, presumably single, presumably not always so.  His current seeker sits cross-legged next to him on a small platform, peering into his eyes so deeply it seems she’s attempting to use them to extract a part of his soul, and she rides every slow word that wisps inaudibly at her from his dark, cracked lips. Intermittently shifting his gaze between her eyes and her right palm which he grips with one of his small, dry hands, Ketut mumbles to her with an urgency that she clearly grants an exaggerated poignancy.

Turning my eyes back to the artwork on the wall, I’m reminded of the psychedelic scrawlings of shifty parking lot artists at Grateful Dead concerts, peddling their wares for gas money.  The mixture of Balinese spirituality with repetitive patterns that surely “look sick when you’re tripping” permeates most of his efforts, and there’s a clear display of at least basic talent on his part, but none of the pieces are compelling enough to request a price.  Glimpsing back at the ancient figure, I ponder on the artistic truism that an artist’s works always skyrocket in value upon their demise, but even as I morbidly size up Ketut’s mortality, I’m not compelled enough to shell out any extra cash on a sketch of a three-headed Balinese demon goddess floating within a circle of curvy totems that could either be surreal earrings, surrealistic breasts or both.

We’re waved forward as the woman currently on the dais with Ketut slowly pushes herself upwards into a hunched over stance, still shaking his hand vigorously in gracious praise of his divine acumen.  It’s a good sign.  My casual public cynicism may make it clear to anyone glancing over at me that I expect little from this meeting, but deep down inside, why wouldn’t I be hoping for the same enlightening, life-changing pearl of wisdom that all of his pre-menopausal visitors with biological clocks ticking so ominously that they might be connected to large blocks of C4 hope for?  How different am I from these grimacing, doubt-filled near-matrons, floating about the world with little direction or purpose?  Clearly this mystical little brown spiritual ninja will slice through all the subterfuge and see that I’m at least as worthy of life-altering advice as Elizabeth fucking Gilbert.  Right?  Is it so much to ask for that he provide me with just a handful of solid one-liners that both change my life and sound really witty if you add “in bed” to the end of any of them?

The open air bed that one assumes Ketut sleeps in. Apparently severe nighttime rainstorms aren't a major issue here.

Ketut signals for Laurie to advance toward his platform first, as I am guided over to a small stone step next to one of the many birdcages pervading his sacred compound.  The large white bird contained within, like most of the Balinese people I’ve come in contact with, seems neither perturbed nor excited by my presence, despite my apathetic attempts at befriending it.  It’s uncertain to me whether the guru is even aware that I am the next in line; I’ve heard that many men apparently come along on this excursion solely as supportive partners, surely hoping the entire time that Ketut doesn’t complicate their relationship with a dismissive thumbs-down when the topic of romance comes up.

As Laurie sits, the diminutive man greets her with a nearly toothless grin and takes her hand warmly. “Welcome!  Oh, your lips look so sweet!  Please, welcome, sit.  He–” Ketut says, pointing at the male guide that brought us here, “–explain that the reading is [equivalent of $25], yes?”  To give this value perspective, most meals are around five dollars; an hour-long massage at a nice spa is upwards of ten; a night at our bed and breakfast is just under twenty.  She nods and he continues.

“I am sorry but my nephew is in the hospital right now and it is so expensive and so I must charge this.  You know — E-liz-a-beth Gil-bert?” he asks rhetorically, putting extra emphasis on each syllable of her name.  ”She stayed here with me and wrote a book Eat-Pray-Love.  You know this book?  Yes?  And this man there,” he says, pointing at me, “is your… boyfriend?”  Laurie quickly explains that I am not.  ”Oh,” he says, looking mildly befuddled by this unexpected news.  It must always be perplexing for fortune tellers when they discover that they have no idea what is going on.  He passes her a brown, hardcover book.

“E-liz-a-beth Gil-bert give me the book Eat-Pray-Love and many people in the world love this book.  But I do not know what it says because I can not read this!  Will you read please?”

“You want me to read it to you?” she asks.

“Yes.  Please.”  He stares at her, nodding toward the ratty tome, which appears to be close to a hundred years old, despite a publication date from 2006.  She picks a passage seemingly at random, though it’s possible that the section had been marked in advance for intrepid visitors that they might get a refresher as to why they came to visit Ketut in the first place.  She reads softly to him for a few moments — no more than two paragraphs — while he stares out into space loftily with the occasional solemn nod, as though receiving a sacred benediction.

“Ah.  Yes,” he says with a smile, closing the book as he eases the book from her hands.  ”I do not know what she is talking about, but I remember E-liz-a-beth Gil-bert and she stayed with me for many days and I am happy for her that the book Eat-Pray-Love is so popular and I hope she is very happy.  Now–” he says, suddenly returning to the business at hand, “–you would like for me to do a palm reading, yes?  Good.  And I must ask you first, this man with you is your boyfriend?” he says, gesturing again toward me.  Laurie laughs confusedly and expresses that I am still not her boyfriend. “Hmm,” he ponders, confused by this reiteration.

“I look first at your beauty line and you are so pretty and I see that you will be beautiful for all of your life.  And your life line is also very long so you will live to be very very old!” he smiles warmly, as though caught off guard by this splendid news.  ”Very good, yes.  And here, I see, is your line for romance.”  He says the last word excitedly, as though several months of regular practice has keyed him into what the money point is among his typical guests.  ”You came here with this man, I am correct?” he points over to me.

Ketut, discovering new and riveting things from the surface of my palm.

“Yes,” she says, “but he–”

“And,” he cuts her off excitedly, “he is your boyfriend, I think!”

“No, really, he’s just a friend!”

“Hmm,” he ponders, “but you have a boyfriend, yes?”

“Yes.  Back at home.  Not him.”

“Not me!” I quietly assure him from my spot next to the disinterested white bird.

“I see your romance line is very long.  The man you are with now is the right man for you.”

“My boyfriend back at home?”

“What?  Yes, you and your boyfriend.  You will be married and both of you will live for a long time.”  He smiles knowingly.  Cynically, I feel the strong urge to point out that he doesn’t technically have her boyfriend’s palm available, and thus cannot make such a proclamation.  But then the cynic in me remembers that we are here getting our palms read from a near-toothless Indonesian man which already renders all further skepticism redundant.

“Also,” he says, tacking one last piece of inspired wisdom to a reading already rife with visionary prescience, “your flower — is a geranium!”

“Oh,” she responds.  ”Thank you.”

“Very good for you.  You must come back and visit me some time.”  Elizabeth Gilbert ran into the fortune teller some time before beginning work on her book, and was inspired to return after he generously requested that she come back to him some day.  Hearing this closing line, it’s possible she might’ve read a little too much into his closing shtick.

I replace Laurie on the dais, while she steps aside to keep the insouciant white bird company.  Ketut is exactly as warm and friendly with me as he is with her, though thankfully the line about my having sweet lips is omitted.  He queries me about my relationship with Laurie, and his eyes widen as he shares the good news about my successful business dealings, my long life (presumably with the girl sitting behind me) and a great love who will be with me until the end of my days (“that girl that is with you, I think,” pointing again at Laurie, and said with a smile and wide eyes that seem to get more and more glazed with every proclamation).  Proving that he finds me every bit as charming as both Elizabeth Gilbert and my presumed girlfriend, I, too am invited to come and visit the next time I am in Ubud.  As it is unlikely that I will be returning in his lifetime, I swear in all earnest that I will.

My future now laid bare with surprising clarity and depth, I rise to take my leave but Ketut reaches out for my hand portentously and, after a brief, thoughtful pause, suddenly shares something with me that is for once entirely different from what he had passed on to Laurie:

“Your flower — is the orchid!”

Sadly, only one of these two figures is a learned jedi master.

A map of Bali. Ubud and Kuta Beach (sadly the only two spots on the island I was able to explore) are circled in red.

Over a week in Indonesia, and only one goddamned page of notes, mostly from a short excursion I’ll not be writing about here (see next post).  Expect this one to be short on the verbal meat, and a bit long on pictures, as Bali‘s reputation for one of the most gorgeous and relaxing of the popular hot spots on the planet is well earned.  And sad to say, I only scratched the surface of the mecca (no pun intended) of Indonesian Hinduism amidst the near endless sea of Muslim islands (Indonesia hosts the largest Muslim population by far of any country in the world).  Despite terrorist bombings in 2002 and 2005, the island still maintains a solid reputation as a veritable paradise on earth, and despite there being 17,000 islands in Indonesia, 80% of all foreign visitors only make a point of visiting Bali.

First glimpses at Bali, from just outside Denpasar International Airport

I timed the trip carefully to coincide with a ten day yoga retreat taking place in the impossibly serene town of Ubud, located basically in both Bali’s spiritual and physical center.  The ways of the Downward Facing Dog or the Sun Salutation are mostly unknown to me, as a decade spent slouched by a computer monitor are about as far from the physical finesses invoked by yoga as one might attain in life.  Even the bulk of those gathered for the retreat don’t fall within my typical strata of social connections.  The women are Californians both in name and in spirit, all in their 40′s and 50′s; the lone male, of about the same age, possesses a particularly grating sense of humor and an unstoppable urge to talk in poorly executed ethnic impersonations for no discernible reason anyone present seems able to comprehend.

“Can you please pass the salt?” I ask him at one point over a group meal.

“Now we ain’t got no salt he-ah, man,” he responds with ebonic swagger.  “All we done got is a lotta peppa!”

Who the fuck are you, Fred Sanford?  “Oh, I thought both were in front of you there.”

“Nah, man, just messin’ witchu.  Some salt for mah man,” he says, passing over the salt.  Laurie’s eyes meet mine with a quick, burning glare clearly meant for the grating half of an Amos and Andy act in the process of painfully bombing across the table from us.

We pass this large statue on a man-made island on the way from Denpasar to Ubud. The snake plays a major role in Balinese creation mythology, though I wasn't able to track down who this character is online. I just think he's kind of badass.

“I think I’m about ready to slap him if he does another shitty Chinese or black accent every time he opens his mouth,” she swore to me earlier.  “Last night at dinner, he was talking in a bad Indian accent to the waiter.  Here.  In Indonesia.”  She’s amusingly fuming, but accurate, as well as my reason for being involved with the retreat in the first place.  An old friend from New York, it’d come to both of our attention that we’d be in the area around the same time it felt a travesty not to meet up.  Doubly fortuitous for me, their whole crew was arriving around within an hour of my flight, providing me with a free ride from the airport (past a McDonalds proclaiming “beef prosperity,” by the way) and a pseudo-guide in the form of Patrick.

An American expat who’s lived in Bali now for years, Patrick’s living expenses are too low for him to ever consider living elsewhere by now, and at least on the surface he seems to be living a dream life of sorts with his Japanese girlfriend here on the island.  Costs of living are beyond affordable here, with occasional work like the organization of these sporadic yoga retreats taking care of most of his basic expenses.  The cottages where those attending the retreat will be staying are fully booked, but Patrick has a friend with an open room across the street that’s almost as nice for just ten dollars a night.  Laurie’s cottage, located on immaculately maintained gardens replete with a wide assortment of statues of Balinese gods peering about serenely, is still only twenty dollars a night and includes breakfast and swimming pool access.

For an assortment of valid and fearsome arguments she was quick to provide, Laurie has no interest in riding on the back of the motor scooter that, for reasons unknown, the friendly Patrick has also provided for me free of charge.  From occasional comments made by the generally thrifty Laurie, I know the yoga retreat doesn’t come cheap, so it’s bizarre that the one freeloader — myself — seems to be getting the most perks from their guide; I do not complain.  I scour the rice-covered hillsides on the back of the small bike — a toy compared to the Minsk I’d just been living on in Vietnam — while Laurie meets for yoga, and then in her off-time, we stumble about through the quiet streets and shops, basking in the spirituality that just oozes through every brick, stone and grain of rice in town.

On the back of my scooter, somewhere in Bali...

Fierce and benevolent gods peer out at us from every corner; they watch down on us from the rafters and rooftops, and guard entryways and temples.  They stand prominently in the center of temple complexes, and they silently peer out almost invisibly amidst seas of dense trees and bushes where only the most searching eyes would take note.  Each evening, the massive figure of Ganesh, multi-armed elephant god of intellect and wisdom (I like him so much, I pick a large, iron Ganesh up at one of the many craft shops, despite the future difficulty that traveling with such a massive idol might cause me), greets us upon our return to the small boutique hotel.  In the mornings, he sends us off covered in garlands of fresh flowers with a newly made canang sari placed at his feet.

Literally “essence basket,” the canang sari are placed at the feet of the gods and goddesses every morning by soft-spoken women mostly wearing the same matching peach-colored sarongs.  Made of coconut leaves and filled with a variety of flowers, leaves and berries, the offerings are similarly left at the doorstep of every home, stand, temple and business in town.  During the afternoons, the same serene girls sit behind their respective counters at the shops where they work, quietly braiding the small leaf-entwined baskets for the next day’s offerings and filling them in between sales of strange Balinese masks, vividly colored pottery and a profusion of wooden penis statues (and similarly shaped bottle openers) that for some reason can be found in every store in town.

The center of town hosts a complex of temples more intricately adorned and spectacular than anywhere else in the city (or perhaps the entire island).  Outside of one, a large statue of a baby glances down at us gleefully, its waist respectfully wrapped with a large, clean sarong.  We stop for lunch under the thatched roof of a building located on an island in the center of a large rectangular pond.  Only thin walkways over the water to the north and south provide access to the scenic restaurant, where we lounge out on pillows while a large Balinese temple reflects across the water nearly to the edge of where we sit.  The food, like the view, is amazing, though the finest dining experience in Ubud requires a bit more effort from its patrons.

Fresh coconut milk for all upon arrival at the hotel.

The portly and solemn Ganesh, guarding the way back to the cottages.

Bebek Betutu for dinner. Balinese roast duck roasted underground in leaves for twelve hours. Understandably succulent.

A temporary statue being erected in a park near the center of town for an upcoming festival of some sort. It's unclear who the statue will be, but it's safe to say she's got great... pulchritude.

A road through the middle of town. Note the intricate detail even in the street design.

Note the plethora of canang sari around the statue, as well as the fresh sarongs keeping the short little fellow warm and stylish. No one can accuse the Balinese of not giving their sculptures enough love...

Our lunchtime view from atop a cafe sitting on a concrete island in the center of this quiet, lily pad-infested pond. Not a bad spot.

Laurie and I at lunch, at aforementioned cafe

The pool, back at our hotel. Most of the hotels I looked at in Ubud seemed similarly priced, and almost all of them either had or had access to a swimming pool like this.

A baby cried for much of the flight from Singapore to Jakarta that I had taken just days before. It was not nearly as cool (nor as well dressed) as this baby.

Balinese penis souvenirs. Oddly ubiquitous across the island.

A cluster of canang sari, with freshly lit incense on top (Ubud in the mornings is an incredibly pleasant smelling town), outside one of the storefronts.

At close to twenty dollars for an hour-long massage, it's one of the most expensive in Asia, though there's no question that they create the best possible environments here for getting serviced...

The Trek to Sari Organic

My interest in the Sari Organic Cafe is middling at best; the skies are overcast and hint of rain, and the most common caveat with every recommendation for the restaurant is that it requires a bit of a journey to find the elusive vegetarian restaurant.  Not being a vegetarian myself, the compulsion to roam the countryside in search of the popular cafe is not particularly high for me.  But Laurie’s interest in the place is too piqued to be denied, and despite a hand-drawn map to the cafe with less clarity than most ancient cave art, we take off down the main street, turning onto a narrow muddy road with overgrown grass to either side that eventually gives over to seemingly endless rice paddies.

A shot taken during light rainfall as we fecklessly make our way through the countryside in search of the hidden gem of a cafe

Clouds darken and what had been a soft mist in the air thickens to an uncomfortable downpour, leading us to seek shelter in one of the lone buildings along the empty dirt track.  A not particularly riveting art gallery, the building also doubles as a restaurant by night and offers cooking lessons as well; I’m vaguely curious, though the prices are significantly higher than any of the other attraction we’ve sampled in town.  As the rain subsides, we make our way back out and follow the widening track until it intersects with one of the main streets through Ubud, closer to the center.  Only the chance glimpse at paper advertisement for Sari Organic on the side of a telephone pole points us in the right direction.

Again detouring from the main road, we go against instinct and follow the sign’s directions around a small, empty garage as the sidewalk gives way to a thin dirt track just wide enough for a single motorbike.  The track stretches along for a few kilometers, with nothing but terraced rice fields and the occasional farm house to either side of the increasingly narrow path.  The last marking that signified in any way that this was the right way to Sari Organic was also the first, with no signs of life or activity since then.

Our first (of several) glimpse of Sari Organic, as we come around the bend from a small cluster of trees.

And suddenly a cluster of open-air buildings, most of them little more than thatch-roofed shacks, rise out from behind a cluster of trees and vegetation.  In place of rice paddies are several rectangular gardens offering a wide variety of different herbs and vegetables.  Most items — salads in particular — are thrown together from items hand-picked by the chefs just moments before from these gardens.  Creative guests are even given the option of picking through the plants by themselves to make part or all of their own meals.

A Canadian, about my age, plays at at guitar for a time at the table behind us.  That he’s brought the instrument this far out into the Indonesian countryside implies either that he’s been here before or that he was a lot more trusting than I was about the restaurant’s reputation.  While I dine on cream of pumpkin soup and a green pancake replete with chunks of mango and pineapple, a wizened dark-skinned guru with a long, white beard and a look of profound enlightenment in his eyes speaks to a group of Americans in their fifties and sixties who all look as though they might’ve hung out with Ben and Jerry (or Jerry Garcia) in their youth.  Nearly horizontal on a long, soft cushion, I stare out over the moist rice paddies stretching into the distance as a prismatic sky of blues, pinks, oranges and purples is reflected into countless patchwork puddles on the damp ground below.  It might be the most perfect location for a restaurant ever, if only one doesn’t mind a bit of a hike.

The relaxing environment and almost hypnotically bucolic countryside lulls us into a peaceful complacence that causes us to neglect the difficulties in returning to Ubud after the sun has set.  Stumbling through the darkness with only the light from my camera for guidance, we’re trailed for a while by a shadow about the size of a medium-sized dog.  We walk in a state of mild paranoia until reaching a building with a sloppily painted-on depiction of the lion-faced demon god Barong glaring outward at us.  Perhaps it was enough to scare the animal off, as there’s no further sign of its presence for the rest of the walk.

Over drinks later that night, an American couple speak to us of their work on the island: They’ve come to assist with the massive outbreak of rabies amongst feral dogs in Bali.  Apparently, the disease — especially here in the center of the island — is quite rampant…

A large building in the distance we pass while walking through the rice fields. I'm not sure if it's a farm, hotel or private residence, but I liked the look of it.

The extremely narrow cement path to Sari Organic. At some point, the cement gives way to an even more narrow dirt track.

Soggy, terraced rice paddies

Laurie and I at Sari Organic

A glance up at the inside of the rooftop

Fresh cream of pumpkin soup

Green pancake with mango and pineapple. Why is it green? Because it was made by hippies. Still tasted good, though...

One of Sari's gardens. Throughout our time there, we'd watch as kitchen staff from below would run out to the gardens for fresh food. We were told that visitors could pluck their own salads as well, though I didn't see any of the customers ever take them up on this offer.

Sunset over Sari Organic

The Monkey Temple

In town the next morning, we venture downhill to the base of the large hill our cottages are built into to scope out the Monkey Temple.  It’s an appropriate name.  Here, the woods are at their most dense, choking out the sky under a massive green canopy.  Already a handful of monkeys chase after tourists bearing bags of bread crumbs, industriously sold by locals across the street where for some reason the monkeys don’t dare to tread.

Feeding time, across the street from the entrance (costs a nominal fee to go in) to the "Monkey Forest". Despite no gates or barriers of any discernible kind, the monkey do mostly stay confined to the borders of their "forest"

Against Laurie’s wishes, I pick up a back of the crumbs to take into the park; she’s understandably timid around the obnoxious little bastards, and this timidity only grows each time an occasional alpha male asserts itself a bit too strongly while seeking out snacks from clueless tourists like myself.  The animals are far more friendly than their cousins in Vietnam, but still aggressive enough to make one maintain a safe distance.  For every monkey willing to dance about playfully on the ground for a few crumbs, there’s another with no compunctions about climbing up a human’s leg and angrily grabbing the entire bag with a soft hiss.

In the center of a long series of winding trails sits the temple itself, a monument to the animals that appear to claim dominance over this section of Ubud.  No less intricately carved out than any other temple in the city, busts and statues of Ganesh, Setesuyara and Kala are all replaced by various monkeys in a variety of positions, innocently mocked at all times by the living specimens that’ve made this place their home.  A cluster of infant monkeys come tripping over to me greedily upon spotting the remainder of my bag of snacks and I dump it quickly on the ground for them before any large males can swing by.  One assertively does, of course, but not before a few of the pups at least manage to sneak off with a few morsels.

At the Monkey Temple, with monkeys both living and carved out of stone

The Monkey Forest. See if you can spot the monkeys! (Note: monkeys may not actually be in this picture)

Kuta Beach

With two days left in my Balinese adventure (the lucky Laurie getting to stay on for a few more days for further exploration), we debate between treks to dormant volcanoes and sloppy beach adventures, eventually opting for the latter.  Calm, relaxing beaches can be found in all the cardinal directions, with some exciting island hopping in the southeast and a few popular beaches famous for their black sands in the north.  But after a few days of Ubud’s pleasantly lull-inducing air, the liveliness of Kuta Beach in the south seems the ideal choice.

Laurie, presenting our vast, open, unpopulated piece of Kuta

Notoriously taken over by young and wild Australians almost year round, it would appear we showed up on an off night.  By day we swim and tan on nearly empty beaches, so happily unmolested by locals (when’s the last time locals at a beach haven’t at least approached to beg or sell something?) and then wander about the fairly modern city streets through the afternoon.  There are people here, but not in any abundance.  The most people show up for a sunset worthy of even more than those that arrived, but even still it’s no Koh Phangan in terms of population or wild behavior.

At night we wander through mostly empty bars and clubs, walking back and forth in anticipation of the large crowds that never quite arrive.  Outside, some local men stand around in a huddle looking bored.

“Want any drugs, my friend?”

“Nah, not really.  Do you know how much a cab back to Ubud would be?”

In liu of excitement and adventure, and perhaps realizing we’re too old to spend a day at the beach and then sit out in the clubs until midnight waiting on the hint of a party to start, we opt for the casual familiarity of another night in Ubud.  It’s no raging all-nighter, but there’s a decent Reggae band here in Ubud and the beers are cheap.  Sometimes, pleasant adequacy after a long day at the beach is more than enough.

We're not exactly sure what this structure was. We snuck up to the side of it and there was a podium elevated in its center with maybe 10-20 seats around it. Maybe a super-exotic convention center for very, very small conventions?

The only noteworthily unpleasant thing about Kuta that I spotted: lots of these small, dead fish grouped in various places throughout the beach

The most crowded point of the day (that we'd seen at least) was here, right before sunset

Sunset at Kuta Beach

The legendary island destination of Bali is, if not the place to be in Indonesia (I know people who’ve traveled around Java and swear that it’s the most interesting place on earth), the place I most want to be right now.  Gorgeous beaches.  Tropical (and thankfully dormant) volcanoes.  Lush, verdant inlands that just pulse with eastern spirituality.

In the midst of a massive collection of crowded islands — 17,508, to be precise — containing the largest Muslim population on earth, the relatively small (compared to sister islands Java and Lombok) Bali practices a unique form of Hinduism appropriately called “Balinese.”  It features a perfect blend of wild, frolicsome coastlines, and ultra-serene meditative environments within the island’s heart, making the whole package an ideal tourist destination.  Hell, it accounted for one third of Elizabeth Gilbert‘s Eat, Pray, Love (and 100% of the “Love”).  Only the terrorist bombings of 2002 and 2005 mar its reputation, though the US removed its dire travel warnings as of 2008.

Into Jakarta

Unfortunately, the discount flights I chose required overnight layovers both heading to and away from Bali in Indonesia’s populace capital city of Jakarta.  Two non-consecutive nights in a city isn’t nearly enough time to pass judgement upon a place, but Jakarta is probably the least pleasant city I have ever passed through.  My first visit in Jakarta, upon entering the country, was made infinitely better by a brief visit with my friends Jim and Liz; I’d met them the year prior in Patagonia, and they’d since taken up residency as teachers at a high-end American school here.  One of the finest things about long-term traveling is ever growing list of amazing people around the world to catch up with in their homeland (or in this case, adopted homeland).

Muslim women in dark burqas line the dimly streets, crying as we drive by, their arms locked in place reaching out like crooked tree branches, wordlessly begging for money.  It’s explained to me later that they are unmarried, and likely too old or undesirable to  find a husband now, though they’re simultaneously incapable of self-sufficience.  The streets aren’t lit nearly enough as we drive by suspicious characters standing in place in the shadows, peering into my cab.  A McDonald’s, seemingly out of place in this part of Jakarta, casts a golden glow on the area and proclaims “beef prosperity” on its exterior sign.  And suddenly, we pull through two large gates — double security — and it feels as though the car has mythically crossed the border into an entirely different reality.

Here, houses unmarred by graffiti have green, well-manicured lawns with flowers and the occasional piece of lawn furniture.  Windows lack thick metal bars over them, so common on buildings outside the gates.  Are those tennis courts?  The school where Jim and Liz teach is prestigious, and safety is clearly a primary concern for their foreign teachers.  I’m among the first to find out big news that had arrived almost concurrently with me: Liz is officially pregnant.  We toast to their good luck and share travel and life stories from the time spent since last we saw each other.

My stay is short, unfortunately.  They’ve got a nice house, complete with a local husband and wife team that live in a room adjacent to their garage and serve as their cook and housekeeper — another boon of working at their school.  It’s almost enticing enough to encourage me to get a Masters in education.  They leave before I wake but, consummate hosts that they are, arrangements were made with both their chef and their driver for my convenience.  After a large breakfast of pancakes and fresh fruit, I’m taken directly to the airport.  I may not get the best vibe from this city, but it certainly has its  pockets of comfort.

Out of Jakarta

Cut to one week later and I’m back in Jakarta, relaxed and somehow even tanner than before, with less than twelve hours to go before my flight returns me to the life of a mild-mannered software professor in Chongqing.  Dirty and exhausted, and now with a bulky, extra duffel bag purchased just to carry all of the knickknacks I’d picked up along this trip, it’s imperative that I find a place to stay.  But where?  The overpriced (even for Indonesia) airport hotel is filled to capacity.  Hopping in a cab, we have no luck at two other spots before finding a third that’s willing to take me in.

An employee takes me up the stairs — the elevator is broken, and I feel quite certain that it has always been so — to a small room on the fourth floor.  He opens the door for me and immediately flips the light switch, which proves to be a futile gesture as the room stays cloaked in darkness.  Shrugging it off, he crosses the room and turns on a more effective table lamp on the other side of the bed, illuminating a mammoth-sized cockroach that sits, antennae gyrating wildly, on my pillow of all places.  It must be a comfortable pillow.

“Ahhhhh!” I exclaim.  He can’t understand English anyway, so it’s not like a more descript explanation would’ve served any purpose.

“Ahh?” he asks.  I know you see the cockroach, fucker.  Don’t play dumb.

“Roach there!” I say, pointing.  ”Monster fucking roach!”

“Oh!” he says, suddenly aware of what is causing my discomfort.  He swoops in and swats the mouse-sized insect toward the doorway, where it rebounds off of the door, dazed, and flops gracelessly onto a spot on the floor just barely within the confines of my room.  Stepping forward swiftly, he kicks it with his right foot, which again sends it bouncing up against the open door before following up with his left foot as though tracking a soccer ball, knocking it safely into the hallway.  He looks up at me with a large, satisfied grin upon his face.  All done.

“Good enough, I guess…” I say, shrugging off the pyrrhic victory.  After he leaves, I grab the pillow and consider removing its casing before I notice the sickly yellow mass that resides within it.  With no other options, I flip the pillow over and collapse down onto the coarse, fetid pallet in exhaustion.

I wake and it’s still dark out, with only the softest, ash-gray hint of dawn brightening the lone window, filling the room with soft shadows and hard silhouettes.  Now significantly into my thirties, I have apparently reached a point, physiologically, where it is impossible for my bladder to make it through an entire night.  This personal detail is only important as a lead-in to explain why I am awake in time to discover a small cat, glowing eyes forever burnt into my memory as fodder for a legion of future nightmares, perched upon my bundle of belongings in the corner, mere feet — it’s a very small room — from where I sleep.

Wait.  Not a cat.

“Ahhhhh!” I repeat again, groggier this time but possibly conveying a greater sense of revulsion.

My exclamation sends the rat running into the bathroom, but I remain in bed, frozen and nauseated, for several moments before building up enough drive to switch the bedside lamp on.  Shivering with revulsion, I slowly creep off the bed, checking first carefully under the bed to make sure no other distinctly unwelcome guests (snakes?  spiders?  OJ Simpson?) are currently residing in my room.

I lean into the bathroom, keeping my feet firmly entrenched outside of it as I turn the light on and stretch my head inside.  It’s a small bathroom, and I can immediately see both that the rat is gone, and what was most likely his escape route.  Shuddering, I reach back into the main room for my duffel bag of souvenirs and drag it into the bathroom, pressing it flat against the wall to block a single small hole where the floor and wall meet.  I close the door to the bathroom and lay back down before grimacing as my bladder reminds me why I woke up in the first place.

Cautiously opening the bathroom door, I return to the scene of the crime, though my bag is thus far succeeding in separating me from Jakarta’s lively animal kingdom.  Back in bed, I close my eyes and pretend to sleep, but I fool no one.  Least of all, myself.

Seven AM, and I’m waiting outside on the front step for the shuttle to take me out of here, never to return.  I will not say with assurance that Jakarta does not have its charms; simply that I was unable to discover them during my short stay.  I’m too tired to be startled as a rat — my roommate? — nonchalantly darts out from under the steps right between my legs, making his way into a cluster of large bushes growing next to the hotel.

No, I don’t think I like Jakarta very much.