No one fucks, and I mean no one fucks with the Balinese ability to earn an income from it’s tourist industry.

The  two are so entwined that if a tourist is killed, it’s the same as killing a family member for the Balinese.

There was an absence of Malaysian tourists.

I really had to think about that one.

It was making sense.

The new unofficial policy is to kill any suspected terrorists.

It never makes the news. It’s a couple of bullets in the head at the station and a wonderful deterrent. The policy is from above. I’m softening towards the President, I really am.

A free visa too.

The long line was long, too fucking long for my liking.

I did what any respectable tourist would do and just walked past the long line and jumped in the front of the queue. The worse they could do is give me a cavity search. The best they could do is say welcome to Bali, adding we aren’t barbarians like the customs officers  in Medan, and we won’t give you a bum inspection.

When the iron is hot, stoke it some more.

Two in one, can do. Another quicky after that. She says she is Balinese but my driver informs me she’s a Javanese. He means she’s good for a short fuck.

The Balinese love nothing more than tourists having a good fuck, especially if the whores we are fucking are are Javanese. It’s the Balinese way of saying we don’t like being governed by Jakarta.

There’s always pay offs here and there.

‘We don’t call  Bali the Island of the Long Javanese Fuck for nothing.’

Crude as it sounds, it’s pretty accurate.

Apparently my head was about to explode.

‘It was fucking red,’ said the Mad Hindu. I said if I have a cardiac arrest, ‘try and get me to the hospital.’

‘Of course, of course.’ Driver’s aren’t just drivers in Bali, they are your life support unit.

The bottle of Jack on the plane eased the way. The captain said get to know your stewardesses, ‘they are really nice girls.’ It was how he said it. Was I fucking tripping or was there  an innuendo floating around?

‘It was his birthday yesterday,’ said the Aussie flight attendant. ‘And he always gets us to our destination safe for beer o’clock.’

What the captain  didn’t tell us, confided the flight attendant, was that he had to  add another hour on the flight by avoiding two cyclones that were  forming over Indonesian waters.

Bang, and fucking bang, the landing was rough as guts.

I guess the Bintang was calling.

The night progressed well. Me and my passport parted ways and were reunited a good 24 hours later. It was in the glove box of my driver’s car. The chicken farms were either closed down or cut right down to size.

But if it’s debauchery you want, it’s always one taxi ride away.

‘Aquarium, very good fuck, clean girls.’

See what I mean, and man, he wasn’t half wrong.

‘And tomorrow we go visit Mt.  Agung.’

He wants to take me into the  red zone, a 14 kilometer radius that’s very much off limits.   The Balinese don’t listen to Jakarta directed policies, and when it’s time to make an offering to their gods, they’ll do  just that.

But there are reservations about taking this trip. My driver is shit scared.

‘Over 10 000 dead in 1963 eruption, official count was 1400, so we are always cautious about the power of Mt. Agung.’

Mud and  lava slides, falling rock from the constant earthquakes- – there were 500  tremors  last month in one day – and damaged roads from the moving ground, are all  alluring factors  to visiting Mt. Agung tomorrow.

And of course going into the exclusion zone.

He says half  of his village group will go up on motorbikes tomorrow.

‘If road break, or lava erupt, have better chance to escape.’

But he’s driving up in the car and wants me to tag along.

At least we’ll be protected from falling ash. But we’ll most likely be consumed by the lava and the rude sulphuric gases.

It’s always a gamble in Bali, but sometimes it just pays off.

I had to admit, I was feeling a bit rough after letting  off some steam.

Apparently I took on the form of the Balinese Barong, according to my driver, that hairy ogre like Hindu god that shakes away any bad spirits with it’s formidable scariness.

‘You’re face was red,’ my driver reminded me, as if he was in awe of  me,  ‘and you said it was time to show some charity, in the tradition of our Hindu god.’

I do remember saying that money was god around here. And if that’s what the Barong wanted, well I was more than happy to oblige.





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  1. Pingback: UNE BONNE JOURNEE ~ A GOOD DAY / Far Side Travel – Happy Writer

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