The first leg, from Bali to Jakarta, I sat next to Mario, a logistics officer who was in Bali for business.

He said at first he was from Java, but when I mentioned Medan in the conversation, he came clean and said he was a Christian Batak. Today he wasn’t going to play the Javanese card on me.

I woke up early, still feeling burnt all over from a swim in the hotel  pool. I had no idea the tropical sun was so powerful. It was a cloudy day but the rays toasted me to a golden brown. All I needed was the butter and jam.

The early rise came with a great idea. I  pondered how long would it take to pack my one bag. I then put it into action, saying I could always unpack it and go for a swim. But once the bag was packed, I was ready to vamenos. I could hail a taxi outside and be at the airport in twenty minutes. I could meet the sexy sales rep of Lion Air, eye up her smile and sweet braces and she’d ask where I want to go, and I’d point at a map of the globe and say how about there, and then ask how much, and she’d tell me, then I’d say can I pay with my credit card, she’d give me another sweet smile, and I’d oblige, and before I knew it, I was moving again. I had escaped the gravity of the Balinese gods and the sales rep would give me an even sweeter smile and say that I should visit Sulawesi, where she is from, after I do Borneo.  Man, I’d love to do Borneo, then her, I thought.

I listened to my inner god of self preservation, Get the fuck out of here.

The Balinese taxi driver on the first night  caught me when I was vulnerable, and drunk and horny. He wasn’t going to let me forget that I said I wanted him to take me everywhere. The island is dead quite and thought he had found his super retirement fund.

So did the whores. I put a stop to it all. Maybe Borneo would offer reasonable prices.  Remember, we aren’t in the West so I don’t see why the prices for whores should  be in that category.

Mind you Batam, south of Singapore, is  bold  in it’s demanding of higher prices.

No tourists on island but higher whores prices, I told Mario, my new Batak friend. The Batak  a group of people  who inhabit the  Lake Toba area in Sumatra, where open air meat markets offer up prime pork cuts.

‘We like our pork,’ said Mario, who was listening attentively to my rant that extended the duration of the flight to Jakarta.  His English was superb.

And I was feeling on top of this travelling game. An hour later, I’d get a connecting flight to Borneo and would arrive around 5 pm with an   extra hour up my sleeve from time zone hopping.



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