an island, see what’s going on out there. There are so many kinds of beaches in Bali. We
hang out one day along the long southern California–style groovy white sand surf of Kuta,
then head up to the sinister black rocky beauty of the west coast, then we pass that invisible
Balinese dividing line over which regular tourists never seem to go, up to the wild beaches of
the north coast where only the surfers dare to tread (and only the crazy ones, at that). We sit
on the beach and watch the dangerous waves, watch the lean brown and white Indonesian
and Western surf-cats slice across the water like zippers ripping open the backs of the
ocean’s blue party dress. We watch the surfers wipe out with bone-breaking hubris against
the coral and rocks, only to go back out again to surf another wave, and we gasp and say,
“Dude, that is totally MESSED UP.”
Just as intended, we forget for long hours (purely for Yudhi’s benefit) that we are in In-
donesia at all as we tool around in this rented car, eating junk food and singing American
songs, having pizza everywhere we can find it. When we are overcome by evidence of the
Bali-ness of our surroundings, we try to ignore it and pretend we’re back in America. I’ll ask,
“What’s the best route to get past this volcano?” and Yudhi will say, “I think we should take I-
95,” and I’ll counter, “But that’ll take us right through Boston in the middle of rush-hour traffic.
. .” It’s just a game, but it sort of works.
Sometimes we discover calm stretches of blue ocean and we swim all day, permitting
each other to start drinking beer at 10:00 AM (“Dude—it’s medicinal”). We make friends with
everyone we encounter. Yudhi is the kind of guy who—when he’s walking down the beach
and he sees a man building a boat—will stop and say, “Wow! Are you building a boat?” And
his curiosity is so perfectly winning that the next thing you know we’ve been invited to come
live with the boat-builder’s family for a year.
Weird things happen in the evenings. We stumble on mysterious temple rituals in the
middle of nowhere, let ourselves get hypnotized by the chorus of voices, drums and gamelan.
We find one small seaside town where all the locals have gathered in a darkened street for a
birthday ceremony; Yudhi and I are both pulled out of the crowd (honored strangers) and in-
vited to dance with the prettiest girl in the village. (She’s enveloped in gold and jewels and in-
cense and Egyptian-looking makeup; she’s probably thirteen years old but moves her hips
with the soft, sensual faith of a creature who knows she could seduce any god she wanted.)
The next day we find a strange family restaurant in the same village where the Balinese pro-
prietor announces that he’s a great chef of Thai food, which he decidedly is not, but we spend
the whole day there anyhow, drinking icy Cokes and eating greasy pad thai and playing Milton
Bradley board games with the owner’s elegantly effeminate teenage son. (It occurs to us only
later that this pretty teenage boy could well have been the beautiful female dancer from the
night before; the Balinese are masters of ritual transvestism.)