‘We must protect our woman from the infidels.’

Did you hear that shit?

Bernie heard it well. He was goggling again.

I  said that was the latest from the Islam Against Exploitation of their Woman Folk Front.

‘What?’ asked Bernhard, ‘they don’t  want us paying hard cash to fuck their tits.’

Something like that.

Bernie paid up.

We didn’t pay much attention to the waitresses at Hooters. We didn’t want to be stung again.

‘I only tip when I get something out of it,’ said Benhard, ‘I just don’t see the point of handing over hard  cold cash and not even getting a blow kiss.’

He said put my skates on, ‘we are going volcano hunting.’

Fucked if I wanted to walk up Iejin again.

‘We are going to fly up, but no Ijien, I think a trip over Mt Agung might be more hairy.’

Through his contact, he had  hired a helicopter.

‘What fucking contacts?’ I asked.

‘You should know me,’ he said, and left it that as he was handed the keys to a helicopter at a military base on the outskirts of  town.

‘You fucking wannabe writers will write anything to sound sensational,’ he said, as he took the bird to the skies.

It was actually a hang glider.

Up up and away and we were gliding.

‘You and your fucking helicopters,’ he huffs, ‘stay off the tramadol for once in your life.

We glided over Bali, riding the thermals and over the back bone of the volcanic island.

‘Aren’t you going to write about how we were towed by a plane to get airborne.’

I can’t be fucked.

‘And are you going to write how we skimmed the rim of an active volcano and were chased out by the Indonesian air force’s shit heap the Mig 41, and how we glided safely back to  Hooters in Java where  talking the usual same old shit.’

I thought we parachuted in, instead I said,  Nah, can’t be fucked repeating myself.

Javina entered. Our tongues just dropped to the floor. She was the goddess we met at the beach, earlier today. She was Adul and Fitri’s auntie, and her two nieces were the waitresses at Hooters restaurant here in Banyuwangi, the most easterly town in Java.

‘Hi boys,’ she  said, ‘still drooling again?’

Only at you, I said. That was all I could come up with.

What wasn’t she wearing?

‘Same old blue bikini with a deep sunset pattern on my sarong that is barely covering my curves which I’m shamelessly flogging.’

This Java goddess had a way of disarming the lame, crippled and desperate.




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