I am really good at going on holiday. It's one of my special skills I regret that I can't put on a CV. I know how and when to get the cheapest flight. What to pack, what not to pack. Flexibility of itinerary is paramount. Avoid this area, eat that, wear sunscreen, and no, you can't swim to the next beach along. It's always further than you think.
I arrive, impatient to hit the ground running, but God has other plans for me. There are a lot of things I need to break and struggle with and deportation to shirk.
Earlier, on a stopover, while rummaging in my overloaded bag for the nth time, I dislodge a bottle of perfume and it smashes spitefully to the floor. When I lived in Gotemba, I would only wear this at weekends, free from my small town constraints, adventuring around Tokyo in a heightened state of being, smothered in jasmine. But it is not to be taken with us, but left behind in a pool of broken black plastic and pink scent that always stained my skin. But I have made Kuala Lumpur airport smell beautiful.
In the quiet of the first unfamiliar morning, long divisive curtains marking the bunks and breeze between soft swinging linen, I shatter a powder compact into oblivion. Later, I will drop my tweezers, the only implement that stands between me and Groucho Marx, and blunt them. Flip flops that previously moulded themselves to my skin, and seemed to become part of my feet, rub and bleed and leave welts on my flesh. And that afternoon, as I rise out of the ocean, a small stray dog can be seen on the edge of the beach, marking its territory all over my dress and bag. It is still warm when I get to it, too late, and dark yellow. This will be hilarious in a week, surely.
And I am sulky, and dead inside, and tired and sad. Maybe I will just the waste the first week, I think, and maybe that will be OK. I have cheerful Canadians to carry me through. After tackling the beach, the three of us get Lebanese food and an ill-conceived strawberry shisha, then slip into the pool for a moonlight bathe. It is all too surreal for my confuddled heart to understand. I feel like I want to thank the boys for the pleasant day out I've had, but I really must be getting back to Japan now, to loiter in my apartment. There is washing up to be avoided and Gossip Girl to be watched in my pajamas. M to text on the phone I don't have anymore.
But it's had to ignore the scent of frangipans and the low swooping bats over our heads and the easy friendliness of my companions. Tomorrow will be better. Today was hardly awful.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Beginnings
Getting into Bali proves difficult. All it takes is a simple: "Can I see your exit ticket, please?" and all your carefully laid plans are undone. Or rather, the fact that you didn't carefully make any plans. That was half the charm.
"You don't know when you're going to be leaving Indonesia?" says Immigration Man incredulously. "Why didn't you know about this rule? Don't you have friends to tell you these things?" He's annoyed now, but it's the annoyance of a man who is going to let you in eventually, as long as you play your part, which in this case is meek, slightly startled, inoffensive woman. It's probably easier to do if you're not wearing a Ramones t-shirt.
As a solo traveller, the odds are almost never in your favour (certainly not financially - a single room for 90% the price of a double? Thanks). As a lone female you have to put up with even more. But there are occasions when, faced with some part of the bureaucratic process, the official will give you the once over, ask: "Is it just you? Oh... go on then," and wave you through, onto that plane you're stupidly late for, into that open bar on NYE and, on this occasion, through to Bali without an exit ticket. Or maybe Immigration Man just likes punk rock too.
I share the car to the hotel with the Canadian Graham and Geordie; one outgoing, bouncy friendliness, the latter quiet, brooding and beautiful. Men who travel in pairs on the road are often like this. It is as though there is not enough personality to go around and characteristics must be shared. G&G compliment each other beautifully, and I'm quite keen on their unit by the end of the ride.
G&G
Making friends on the road can be a delicate process. A day and a half without an English conversation renders you quite ill with verbal diarrhea, and thus seriously off putting to potential drinking partners. A certain amount of judgmentalness is called for, but not to Heathers proportions. Weigh up the other party quickly. If I go for drinks with this girl, is she going to spend the entire evening talking about her A level results? Do these people who want to have dinner with me have any idea of the value of the local currency? If I go to bed with that guy I just met, is the outcome going to be mutually beneficial? (You should have answered: Yes, No, and, obviously, No again.)
In the dorm, I take off my Proper Shoes and put them in the bin. Tights, which seemed quite the thing in Tokyo, suddenly lose their appeal in 36oC heat. I peel them off, almost snow-blinded by my white wintered flesh, and hit the strip with the boys. Sadly, it leads to the infamous Kuta district, which is the Costa del Sol of choice for the less discerning Australian chav. Huge lobster-pink men, either shirtless or mercifully covered with a singlet, line the streets swigging bottles of Bintang, the local brew. Hawkers force henna tattoos, fake Ray Bans and massage fliers on us. They touch you as you go by. Dry fingers trail down my sweating neck, tracing the line where their necklace or earrings will hang. Techno trance blares from empty superclubs. We fall onto the beach and pay to sit in chairs in the full strength of the midday sun and drink warm Bintang. For Hindus, Bali is the "Island of the Gods." I stare out at the rough sea and try to switch my brain to Holiday Mode. I'm not there yet.
Night falls as hemlines rise in Kuta
"You don't know when you're going to be leaving Indonesia?" says Immigration Man incredulously. "Why didn't you know about this rule? Don't you have friends to tell you these things?" He's annoyed now, but it's the annoyance of a man who is going to let you in eventually, as long as you play your part, which in this case is meek, slightly startled, inoffensive woman. It's probably easier to do if you're not wearing a Ramones t-shirt.
As a solo traveller, the odds are almost never in your favour (certainly not financially - a single room for 90% the price of a double? Thanks). As a lone female you have to put up with even more. But there are occasions when, faced with some part of the bureaucratic process, the official will give you the once over, ask: "Is it just you? Oh... go on then," and wave you through, onto that plane you're stupidly late for, into that open bar on NYE and, on this occasion, through to Bali without an exit ticket. Or maybe Immigration Man just likes punk rock too.
I share the car to the hotel with the Canadian Graham and Geordie; one outgoing, bouncy friendliness, the latter quiet, brooding and beautiful. Men who travel in pairs on the road are often like this. It is as though there is not enough personality to go around and characteristics must be shared. G&G compliment each other beautifully, and I'm quite keen on their unit by the end of the ride.
G&G
Making friends on the road can be a delicate process. A day and a half without an English conversation renders you quite ill with verbal diarrhea, and thus seriously off putting to potential drinking partners. A certain amount of judgmentalness is called for, but not to Heathers proportions. Weigh up the other party quickly. If I go for drinks with this girl, is she going to spend the entire evening talking about her A level results? Do these people who want to have dinner with me have any idea of the value of the local currency? If I go to bed with that guy I just met, is the outcome going to be mutually beneficial? (You should have answered: Yes, No, and, obviously, No again.)
In the dorm, I take off my Proper Shoes and put them in the bin. Tights, which seemed quite the thing in Tokyo, suddenly lose their appeal in 36oC heat. I peel them off, almost snow-blinded by my white wintered flesh, and hit the strip with the boys. Sadly, it leads to the infamous Kuta district, which is the Costa del Sol of choice for the less discerning Australian chav. Huge lobster-pink men, either shirtless or mercifully covered with a singlet, line the streets swigging bottles of Bintang, the local brew. Hawkers force henna tattoos, fake Ray Bans and massage fliers on us. They touch you as you go by. Dry fingers trail down my sweating neck, tracing the line where their necklace or earrings will hang. Techno trance blares from empty superclubs. We fall onto the beach and pay to sit in chairs in the full strength of the midday sun and drink warm Bintang. For Hindus, Bali is the "Island of the Gods." I stare out at the rough sea and try to switch my brain to Holiday Mode. I'm not there yet.
Night falls as hemlines rise in Kuta
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