Some people just never learn. Others are directed by a greater providence into making the same mistakes. Then there are people who enjoy bouts of self-loathing and actively seek to increase their own torment. And finally there are those among us who derive pleasure from lovely tropical holidays. All these people (and more) can be found within the tourist district of Kuta on the island of Bali in the country of Indonesia.
Sweet, sweet Swedes.
Well Yes! The ladies are out in force today. There are four of them, all friends from Sweden on a study break through South-East Asia.
“This is Bali! This is our last stop too! Before we go home – BORING! So this is it!” they are all peace signs and Hello Kitty!
Yeah right.
Most patrons are stirring about by the hyper-chlorinated pool; its late afternoon and preparations have begun for the evening. The girls had a good day. Plenty of sun, the hangovers broke into that glorious urge for another small glass and those clingers from last night’s foray into the Kuta scrum have been gotten rid of. Poor clingy men who shuffle along awkward mornings after - they go on existing as flippant thoughts for those femmes in the graying years to come.
And now in eighties colours and Balinese lace they languidly lounge on deck chairs and indiscreetly peer at others. Supposing they are all attractive. What good does that really do? Okay, yes. I cannot really concentrate on this thick, over wordy novel and my hawked cornered eyes stray over their geography – you could roly-poly across the lot of them! In tiny shorts, all loner boner.
Pull it together man.
Like you, they are nothing extraordinary in this grand scheme – Kuta is a European Quarter with every new moon. BUT! They never claimed to be intellectual property, nor anything deeper than what they advertise. To be children of fun and drink and sultry eyes is all that Kuta asks of them. Good luck sweet, sweet Swedes!
We giggle and then set eyes on an elderly Garfunklian chap strolling by. He has a young local lady quietly entrapped under his arm.
Introducing Mr. and Mrs. Tom Quatermain.
Never lucky in love they said. Who’s a lucky boy then!
“There goes Tom Quartermain – the town’s loneliest man”. And he believed those quiet intentional whispers. At the diner, through the drug store aisles, waiting at the gas station – A ‘weirdo’ they said. God knows he tried to get a good woman – the love of a good woman.
Tom’s home town is small, he is the local undertaker and he still has a questionably close relationship with his aging mother. The odds are stacked against him finding a partner to share in life’s joys and hardships. BUT! To Bali Tom went, to Kutaville what’s more. Straight into the lap of everlasting love and a wifey – one to take home all his own. The attention and adoring eyes are what this town is about, on the condition that the price is right and plentiful. Hats off to you Mr. Quartermain. Bid farewell to lonely nights and frantic searching days. And congratulations to you to Mrs. Quartermain. Say goodbye to “Bali-Bali” and to all that is familiar. Which acerbic dog or meditative angel could pass judgement on this most ultimate capitalist adventure of the heart? Probably none and nobody – the rainy season in Kuta washes all streets clean and the smell is both sweet and sour that rises from the turbulent pavement. So if that can be cleansed and beautiful, then why not a small, bought love that is pitched against old moral codes.
The new couple, who stand at despairingly opposing heights, begin the long walk between security gates, and at the other end – at Arrivals – Murphy the Surfy strides back into his constant adolescence.
Murphy the Surfy – the dangerous patriot.
The taxi rank outside Denpasar International Airport is often busy at this time of the evening. The workers hustle on the fence, some sit down on the curb and there are those that have acquired a fare and move off to their transport. Murphy walks over the crowd with an air of complete ease; this is his ninth surfing holiday to Bali and he knows what those Indo’s are like.
Waiting for Murphy at the tail of the crowd is Tin-Winch and Delfrat - the three grew up together in the Coffs Harbour region of Australia and are long time friends. Into the hired jeep they climb, with the luggage loaded, Delfrat begins to drive into Kuta.
Along the busy red brick bordered roads they hurriedly consume Bintang, Arak and speed. Murphy the Surfy is all back slaps, prostitutes and Euro-chicks, he also asks Tin-Winch about the surf conditions.
“Cobba, cobba, cobba – Mate!” pleads the ever colloquial Tin-Winch, with a tongue in his old friend’s cheek, “Let’s just worry about waves when we have to. Tonight all about the T and A!”
Delfrat follows in complete harmony, “The T and The A!”
The same old night waits for them, after Murphy is settled into his room and the fan winds up with a constant circling tick, it is time to venture forth and reignite the seasonal dance.
Roaring down the streets are the lads with no tops, they sink in and out of light spots and stimulations with pupils swelling. They begin to lose the way – which way was that anyhow? There is no point in looking for celestial guidance, for that Southern Cross will not be found, in all the orange glow above The City of Yes & The City of No.
Never fear and be feared! Murphy begins to growl – our bodies are the maps, we can follow the constellation on our backs, our shoulders and our arms! Follow the mighty Australian Southern Cross! This is real Australia and we are the real Australians!
Bewitched the trio round the monument to Islamic extremism and everything it took away and this will stay with them in a drugged memory. The swaying pause they make, guarded in by naked flagpoles, will give birth to their own radical ideals. Many under the gaze of post-destruction feel only grief for the whole world. Then there are the confused and the afraid, who take these thoughts home to their children. It is they who will bare witness to this petrified moment of ignorant loathing.
BUT! The night is getting old and the lads are on tour and morbidity is the bedfellow of boredom. And boredom don’t get you roots – so thinks Delfrat. Charging of into the infamous Kuta strips, the true Australians rebel yell goes up! Too bad if you don’t like us we own this town and this time. The brazen talk drops off as the boys head into a building of sound, sweat and coloured flashing.
Murphy leaves a Circle K on his weary way home. Exiting through the push/pull glass doors, he shoulders “some little bearded poof”.
Bearded Russian Cynic seeks answers.
“Thanks!” I say’s to my Australian brother, after he bumps me aside. Shuddering to realise that myself and this Dinky-Dye equal have committed a very serious crime, “Lord – I think we really killed the whole damn place.”
With regained footing the tide of guilt arrives and I want to go and hide in my shitty room until the sun lights up the land.
Another day and I am sitting in closed and closer quarters with the Russian acquaintance. Yesterday or the night before (I cannot recall exactly which it was) it seemed to be going fine – we understood each other. Today – maybe no. Andy Solzhe has a far greater intellect than mine. This I assumed, before we even met, would not be so much an obstacle to our relations. How foolish I was to believe that he would want to swing with a proletariat type of smarts. Eventually, it was realised that he was growing bored of me, regardless of my earnest attempts to fathom what was preached. Sitting on the edge of the chlorine flesh pit the Russian turned page after page of socialist theories, then counter acted these with all measure of retorts – I was struggling to keep up and wanted to hang on every word.
The tourist girls became livid at our inconsiderate behaviour, whilst they lay voluptuously parallel and bled sweat, airy looks and not much else. Add Solzhe’s twirling whirl of Russian Cold War prison woes (indebted to a sinister Kuta just outside the walls) and you had a fantastically garbled mix!
The ripples on top of the pool switched direction, soes I slapped Andy on the back and said, “I’m off to the beach, Ol’ Boy”.
Walking away to the stairwell he grumbled about bed and “temptations of the eye and not the soul”.
“Good Oh!” I called back, turning out into the silly streets for more punishment in pseudo-paradise.
Beep! Boisterous-Idiot, Beep! I sway between scooters and hope that Russian is okay, he’d get eaten alive out here – no worries. Hell, I will be eaten before too long. The incense, gutter water, spoiled satay sauce and the rest have become overbearing. This was home to a subtle people, but the tourists (they were once humane too) disturbed the soul’s geography and now everyone has gone to seed. Pushing on to the main beach I am expecting maybe something exciting to eventuate.
White crumbles way out on the mustard sea, but it is the foreground which pulls focus. And what is wrong with staring into a vast distance? There is as much definite detail out there as in here. People in the foreground hassle each other, they wish to know your business because business is money. Yes. Okay and leave me be - is the stare given to surrounding hawkers.
Another big pack of Orstrayhans ogle and goggle at females lolling in the sand (but not as crudely as the Brasoes whom I sat next to later that day). What a monkey gallery! This is good Kuta Beach though; all cultures of the world can unite for this common cause. Ogler, Goggeler – Show us your tits! It is interesting, as repulsed and revolted as one can be by a situation; there is still an invisible and unswerving beam of curious attraction which draws the investigator deeper.
Jeez! I guess I was visibly lonely or probably more bored, so bored of it all. That is until…The lone child staring out at sea is approached by an effeminate man and a manly female. Powers of deduction underway! Yes. Harris from Jakarta is gay and the other person is a transvestite.
The same sun as all over the big round world begins setting and two old white maggots rip a broken kite earthward.
Harris the queer is nice enough and we talk about beards, and Sarah (who is a man) shows me his driver identification. Every last person in this place has a story to tell in hell. Me included. Then Harris gets a little intense and talks of flying back to Jakarta together and I hang there maybe a little too long. So lonely Mr. Harris! Hey, not that lonely.
“Oh! Oh! Mr. George, you shave your beard-en you look much more cuter” says the grabbing Mr. Harris.
Signs of intent flare upward. Woo! Woah! No! See you later Mr. Harris and Mr. Sarah. And now I feel like Dalouz or Cassidy, those fellows were heterosexual and used to run from queers and jeer at queers from slinking box cars – yet only to attract them the whole while.
Ah, but whatever happens – happens, and we are all some ones children and so on. Everybody has a motive or something to sell in Kutaville.
The sun is gone and the salesmen and women are losing energy and the will for this day – “Thank a Lord” I say, please go get rested – tomorrow will be just the same.
This place is in a state of devolution. From a mature island culture to an immature tourist trap that has sprung shut. What joy could humanity siphon from the sad old crossbow salesman? I felt mad for a moment and ready to talk with Solzhe again. We should go out with our beards combed on this very night and preach to those bastards. Those bastard idiots bumping into other bastard idiots like broken tug boats in the dark. I wave goodnight to Sarah and Mr. Harris from across Jalan Legian.
The only action left now is to skip the uneven pavements, return to the hotel and wake up that solemn Russian with a scheme and a cold drink.
:: Words & Pictures - George Harold Foulds
