Today, after nearly two weeks in Bali, I decided to head to that fabled land – Kuta Beach. It is the Orlando of Bali, the Waikiki, the Times Square, The Alamo – you know what I mean. Vendors hawking the same shit the world over. “Come look in my shop! I give you good price.” It never ends. What makes it worse is that it is the slow season, so locals outnumber tourists a good 3 to 1. I saw a few of them circling me and thought they were going in for the kill, but I jumped off the sidewalk into traffic and narrowly escaped.
I went to Kuta to see the famed beach and do some shopping. I had seen a number of tourists wearing these really cute fluffy ruffley dresses and decided to try and find one. Plus, I needed a new backpack. Mine was literally shredded on the way here and is not fixable. A raver without a backpack is a very sad thing indeed. Even if the raver no longer raves, it can never be separated from it’s backpack. It could die. It is kind of funny and cruel like pouring salt on a slug. Take away a raver’s backpack and they start squirming and writhing all over the ground praying to Sasha and Digweed.
I took a cab into Kuta (I finally figured out how to not get jacked) and walked on the beach for an hour. I watched the surfERS and noticed that a few of them did duck correctly and one kid even ran on the beach all surfer posture – chest out, arms back, head slightly forward – it was nice to see the young people observing the traditions! I saw this guy dressed head to toe in black on the beach with a sweet camera and thought, “here is one of my people”. He kind of looked like the Flight of the Concords guy that was in Eagle vs. Shark. I am calling that my celebrity spotting of the trip. Someone call US Magazine and tell them I have an exclusive. Might not be the right publication, people who read US probably don’t know about Flight of the Concords. Or the alphabet.
I stopped into one of the cute dress stores and tried on one of the fluffy dresses. They are made for women with little boobs and skinny thighs and I have the opposite problem. I figured it was going to make me look like a waffle. This was confirmed when I came out of the dressing room to see how it looked and the saleswoman spontaneously grabbed a bottle of Mrs. Butterworth’s and started squirting it on me.
It is too bad because I have been losing weight here. It is too hot to eat and I think I have intestinal parasites (IP). I am thinking of starting my own weight loss company when I get back to the US. The testimonials will be great.
“Hi, I’m Peggy from Terre Haute Indiana and I lost 65 pounds with IP! I could eat anything I wanted and I still lost weight!”
“I’m Chuck from Fayetteville. Me and my wife Marlene lost 135 pounds together with IP!”
“Diets don’t work, exercise is hard and plastic surgery is out of reach for most Americans. Try my revolutionary new weight loss tool free for 30 days. If you don’t lose at least 15 pounds, I will give you your money back. Guaranteed. I’m Jennifer from Seattle and I am not just the owner of the company, I am a client.”
So I didn’t buy the dress. As I was walking around, I saw many more strange items for sale – more offensive bumper stickers “Tip over cunt”. What the hell does that even mean? Sarongs like they are going out of style (don’t worry, friends, none of you are getting sarongs, I’m not Oprah). And the best – giant penis key chains. Well, you certainly won’t misplace your keys with a giant wooden dildo hanging off the end, will you? It would also make it awkward for the kids to want to borrow the car. No one would walk off with them in gas station bathrooms. Maybe there is a market for these!
A bit further down the street, I was offered long pink press on nails and a manicure! Press on nails! With little tropical scenes painted on each one! I briefly considered asking the woman to put them on my toes, but realized I would probably trip on them and hurt myself.
As I was walking, I kept hearing horns honking at me. Damn! I must be looking fine today! Oh wait, that is the incessant call of the taxi from within the car. Do I look so out of shape that I can’t walk 5 feet without being offered a ride? Are my nails so bad I would want to pay someone to glue plastic things onto them? I realize my nails do look like shit and there are giant gaping holes in the sidewalk that open to a barely covered sewer, but I like to walk. I wanted to think they were all honking at me because they thought I was pretty, but if I am so pretty why aren’t a trophy wife by now?
I finally broke down and went to get some lunch. I have tried to eat Indonesian, but I am just not crazy about the food. It is the overabundance of fish sauce, I think. It is just too pungent for me. And I am starting to smell like fish sauce and I don’t care for fish. I admit it, I got a burger and fries. A tofu burger, but still. Eating fries in another country is a sin. I will deal with it at my next confession. “Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been 40 years since my last confession. I ate French fries in Indonesia.” Rather than giving me 90 Hail Marys, he would exclaim, “French fries in Indonesia! What the hell is wrong with you? Why don’t you just show up in Saudi Arabia wrapped in bacon? Or put cheese on your pizza in Japan? Stupid American.”
It is hot and muggy and I am headed to the beach for a swim. Worst case scenario, I offered three taxi rides during the 5 minute walk, someone throws a waffle dress over my head and I find my keychain to have a large, carved dildo spontaneously attached to it.
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