Stigmata and Anne Murray

Two miraculous things happened today.  Two things that in combination are so rare, it about as likely as me spontaneously developing stigmata.

The ocean turned beautiful. I don’t know if the currents shifted or some plastic-eating aliens landed on Bali really, really hungry, but the brown tinge in the water is gone and most of the crap is off the beach.  Oddly, they are replaced by the leftovers of offerings (banana leaves woven into baskets with flowers and rice and sometimes a Ritz cracker) that are biodegradable and really quite beautiful. 

The second thing was even more outrageous – Korean Airlines answered the phone.  And changed my flight to a week later.  For free.  I don’t know which deity is responsible for this, but I am a very grateful traveler.  I’ll just thank all 354,004 to be safe.

Walking along the almost pristine beach this morning, I stumbled on some pretty decent waves.  In full disclosure, although I grew up in Hawaii, I have never stood up on a surf board.  I have paddled on them, kneeled on them, made out on them, but never stood on them.  So I am not a surfer.  I am what they used to call a “Surf Betty” which means guys used to ask me on dates with the line, “want to watch me surf?”.  Yeah.  About as much as I want to watch you play Nintendo.  What a fucking blast.  Did I go?  You bet.  Because in public school in Hawaii, we are taught a few very important lessons.  Lesson 1 – learn how to make a bed.  You will likely work at a hotel one day.  If you are in the AP classes, you might even make Assistant Manager at the Hilton Hawaiian Village.  Lesson 2- learn Japanese.  You will need to sell them things – clothing, drinks, food – in order to survive.  Hai!  Lesson 3 – worship surfers.  It doesn’t matter if they are dumb or hideous or cruel, I have been genetically modified to be insanely attracted to surfers.   And guys in bands.  It is a recipe for disaster.  Please don’t ever let there be a two in one combo or I am screwed. 

I sat on the beach watching the surf (oh, OK, the surfERS) and noticed how different they were.  The Indonesians don’t duck like our guys under waves.  They don’t do the knee on the board, push the front down thing.  They turn their back to the waves instead of sitting on their boards looking straight out for the next set.  I only saw one guy bless his board, and he was wearing a fedora. No shit.  He ran into the water, board under his arm, wearing a fedora.  I didn’t know whether to applaud his giant balls or slap the hat off his head and take it for myself since he was going to lose it in about 20 seconds. 

I looked down at the sand and found the beach littered with press on plastic fingernails – like the kind you buy in high school before you can afford a fancy set of acrylics.  I imagined an entire container of Lee Press on Nails in Tropical Delight falling off a cargo ship near Singapore and the packages slowly breaking apart, their little pink plastic fingernails floating around the world until they landed on some beach, hopefully found by an undiscovered tribe.  Oops, my bad.  Those were shells.  Actual shells.  On the beach.  If you could have seen this place yesterday, you would have thought it was a miracle too. 

The other awesome thing about the sand is the sand crabs.  I love chasing sand crabs.  I love to pick them up and have them run around in my cupped hands like they are in a gerbil ball.  These guys are different though – when they dig their holes, they make little round sand balls like bunny poops.  If you were just to look down, you would think there were millions of very small bunnies pooping and then jumping down the Alice in Wonderland Rabbit Hole to have some mis-adventures.  The smallest ones leave patterns that are quite beautiful though.  They look like Spirographs (stuff we used for art before Photoshop), or constellations or little impressionistic drawings. 

Unfortunately, today was a return of the elderly in thongs.  I saw an entirely different couple than the one I saw a few days ago, but really people – I don’t even want to see attractive people in thongs.  I don’t really want to see anyone’s ass unless I am sleeping with them.  Even then, I think I want it covered most of the time.  They make underwear like that for devout Catholics, right? 

After the beach, I stopped at the grocery store to pick up some food.  If I am staying longer, I need to stop eating out although the average meal with a drink is around $8.  I found the Western grocery store and bought bread and cheese and fruit so I could make Velveeta sandwiches for breakfast and dinner and eat fruit for lunch.  Yum!  Cheese is rare in Asia.  One of my friends from Korea told me she thought cheese and milk products made white people smell funny.  Could be true.  All that I know is that Velveeta is practically as expensive as burrata here and about as rare as Tur and it is what I am having for dinner along with some papaya. 

As I was walking back, I checked out some of the stores.  Mostly it is the same stuff – sarongs, Bintang t shirts, fake Hawaiian wear (weird, weird, weird) – you know, tourist stuff.  One shop was selling bumper stickers.  They all had a similar message, “So and so is gay”.  Like it was an insult.  When I was growing up, we had keychains that translated Haole names into Hawaiian, so if you were John, you were now Kimo, etc., but proudly homophobic bumper stickers?  It wasn’t gay in the sense of “It is awesome, Pam came out as gay!” but more the school yard “you are a gaywad” kind of gay.  I am not sure this is the right time to fight for gay rights in Indonesia, but if I see a Westerner buying one of those things, I am going to punch them in the face.  The store did have one interesting bumper sticker though.   It said, “I fuck retardeds”.  I may need to put that on my car.

One of the weirder things about Indonesia is the music and store names.  I had two of the best meals of my life at Nomad in Ubud, but they were playing muzak Christmas carols over and over.  Really.  I had to stop eating there.  Right now, I am sitting down to dinner with Anne Murray.   Oh wait, “operator, can you help me make this call” just came on.  Shit!  Now it is Melissa Manchester!  The Australians at the next table are getting sentimental and if American Pie comes on, there is going to be a blinding.  I am locked in Montana or 1979.   So my choices are crappy diva trance or late 70’s Canadian ballads.  Kill me now. 

A lot of the store names are pretty pretentious too.  My favorite is Funky Princess.  It congers and image of a spoiled rich kid who is also insanely hip.  I picture a baby Paris Hilton with a designer dog in her purse, Manolo Blahniks and a tiara, dripping with shopping bags and saying, “but wait, I am also funky!”

“Hey guys!  I am a spoiled, vapid chick that is going to be hell to live with.  I will define high maintenance for you.  You will be ruined for all future girlfriends, but hey!  I am funky, so it is all good!”   Someday, the guy is going to freak out on his new girlfriend because she didn’t like the vacuum cleaner he got her for her birthday and it will all be because of Ms. Funky Princess.

Tonight I may brave the youngsters and go out dancing.  All the cool places have dress codes.  They have all the typical nightclub names – Rumors, Cocoon, Vamp, Posh, Pink.  One of the clubs has a giant sign outside advertising their dress code.  For women it says, “elegant, chick and stylish to impress”.  I am pretty sure I don’t qualify.  I wish there was a dive bar here with pool and darts and PBR. 

I dropped into the local warung for a cold drink and saw two of the cutest little puppies on earth (no offense to Ulysses or Evie).  They were playing and being puppies and I played with them and one started to eat  my shoe and I was like, “what are you, a monkey?”.  So me and the table of Koreans next to me sat around and had puppy time during the heat of the day.  Hilarity ensued and they tried to escape, tumbling over the wall, rolly polly, pokey little puppy style.  Aww.  One of the Korean ladies had her friend take pictures of her with them.  Hey, I am not judgin’.    I have a memorial to my dead cat tattooed on my arm.

Bad Monkey!

Baby Monkeys tm are bad, bad animals.  They take your stuff, they try to crawl into your bag and they try to eat your shoes.  While they are still on your feet.  Fuck baby monkeys.

I managed to survive Nyepi Day (the day of silence) without an arrest record or even a fine.  This is thanks to my villa mates.  I am staying in a compound with three little houses – one belongs to the landlord’s daughter, the villa is named for her; one is rented by an Australian couple who are awesome and make fun of their prime minster’s accent.  (Don’t worry, Aussies, I make fun of our guys all the time).  The landlord’s daughter’s friend tried to teach me Indonesian (terimah-kasih!) while I tried to undo my farmer’s tan.  Now, not only can I not speak a word of Indonesian, my thighs look like KFC’s original recipe. 

Plus, we all forgot to get any actual food, so we shared a massive bowl of ramen with canned sardines and lilikoi.  This is surprisingly delicious when everything is closed, you can’t turn your lights on, and if you leave your yard, you will have rocks thrown at you by the morals police.  I briefly looked into staying at a luxury hotel that night, but decided TV and room service wasn’t really worth an extra $600.

The chicken comment is actually important, because today I drove by a KFC that was also a coffee house and internet café. “Umm, I’ll have a small bucket of extra crispy, no white meat, two coleslaws, a double tall non fat vanilla latte and 90 minutes of wifi”.  This is how we roll in Denpasar. 

I have seen some fantastic signs over the past two days.  My favorites are:

The “Happy Meal” sign over the cow barn in Nusa Dua,

The “Free bear with meal” sign on the sailing brochure (do I have to carry that on or can I check it?)

“Loundry done here” I think it is more expensive if you make it sound British,

and the best:

“Happy endings” as the notification for desert on several restaurant menus. Now I don’t normally eat sweets, but the crème Brule is taking on a whole new meaning.

Indonesia is pretty rad except they constantly blast the kind of techno from bars and restaurants that makes people hate techno - diva trance.  Awesome if you are a 16 year old girl from Tacoma, barfy after age 18 in any circumstance unless you are at a circuit party in Orlando and then only OK after ingesting massive quantities of E. 

I know I have been knocking on Australians a bit, but only because they are everywhere.  In all honestly, they are like skinny Americans with better accents, so I am probably just jealous.  Americans traveling are even worse – they can tell we are Americans by the uniform – white tennis shoes, jeans, white t-shirts, gold cross around neck and baseball cap.  It is that obvious – I am going deep undercover in a black and white striped t-shirt and beret – everyone totally thinks I am French.  If it was 1965.  Or from Montreal. 

Australians have saved my life so many times this week; I am going to Perth to pay them homage.  Actually I am going to Perth because it is only $149 round trip from Denpasar, but I promise to be grateful when I am there.  Really, the Aussies have taken me under their collective wings and shown me how to travel, find things, not get ripped off, etc.  They rock. 

Australians are rad because they are shameless – I saw a giant heart in the beach carved out by a foot.  Aww!  Simon and Adrianna, in love forever! Nope.  It was a huge “I love Manchester United” symbol big enough to be seen from outer space.  I am going to Perth.  Everyone told me to go to Perth.  I keep thinking it sounds like “perch” with a lisp. “Mummy, I can’t wait to catch some delicious perth!”  “Jonathan!  Pronounce your words!  PERCH.” 

Today I hired a kid to take me to unusual beaches on his motorbike.  The tour guys kept asking, “don’t you want a car?”  Gross.  No.  I do not want to sit an air conditioned car and look at a place from behind safety glass.  I want to be perched on the back of a 16 year old's bike whose waist is smaller than my thigh zipping through traffic with a non-working helmet.  Yeah, that is blending.  I'm stealth.  Incognito.  Practically invisible.  Like Wonder Woman in her jet.

Our first stop was Uluwatu – a temple built on a cliff overlooking the Pacific.  With monkeys.  As I was walking around (this place is gorgeous – the temple is perched on a cliff a thousand feet from the ocean where waves have carved little caves into the rock – you can see some islands off the coast and it is simply breathtaking).  The thing that stuck me, other than the beauty of the place, was the trash.  There were tons of chip bags all over the ground.  Nothing else is around, so it must be from visitors to the temple.  It seemed like sacrilege to me – kind of like going to Notre Dame and opening a can of Pringles and popping open a PBR, but what do I know? 

On my way up the temple steps, I saw a number of monkeys playing.  “Awwww, cute!” you are thinking, as was I, until……monkeys attack!  One of the big guys ran over to me. I had put my camera away, taken off my jewelry, put my sunglasses away – everything.  He was big guy and made a bee line (monkey line?) for my flip flops.  He started to paw at my toes so I screamed, “check! Check!” which allegedly means, “go away” in Indonesian, as the monkeys are not bilingual.  He kept going, tearing at my shoes, finally putting his mouth around my zoris and tried to bite them off.  I kept a firm grip with my toes and he finally ran off.  All the other tourists were laughing and pointing.  Yeah, that was hilarious!  I am on a moped and just got a pedicure that is now covered with monkey spit and there are bite-sized holes missing from the tips of my shoes.  It looks like baby jaws was eating my surfboard. If my surfboard was a pair of flip flops.

Then we headed down to Uluwatu Beach.  I grew up in Hawaii and one of our favorite skate spots was called Uluwatus – now I know it was named after the surf spot in Indonesia.  This place was amazing – you had to crawl down a cliff, behind a rock formation, cross a wooden ladder, climb up more stairs to get to a place that looks like a double sided version of the toilet bowl (by Hanauma Bay for the uninitiated).

It was dangerous as hell to get there, the water even scarier because all of the rocks and great places you could easily get sucked out to sea, but the best part was the vendors.  Surfboard, sarong, t-shirt and cold drink vendors had carved out shops on the side of the cliff.  Capitalism stops for no man.  After about 45 minutes deciding whether or not I trusted myself to get to the end of the beach on the slimy horizontal ladder with Precious (my Nikon D60) I wussed out and took pictures from above. 

I am staying on an out of the way spot, but I didn’t realize that I was in party town central.  I think my hardcore party days are pretty much behind me – I wake up at 5, go for a walk, check my email, eat some fruit, walk some more, go to the beach, read under a tree, grab a drink, go for a swim, take a shower, find some dinner and hit the bed by 9 to finish the crack that is “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo”.  Simple, right?

Last night, someone convinced me to hit THE hot spot for the young and wealthy, which is just a 15 minute walk from my villa and I should at least go look at them.  So, I put one some clean underwear (one never knows!) and headed to Ku-De-Ta.  Since the Bali bombings, security is tight – you get checked going into hotels, cars get searched, sometimes they run a wand over you.  It is like the TSA for a cocktail bar.

I walked into the bar around 7:30 and grabbed a menu.  Holy fucking shit!  The drinks were $25 each!  I have been sucking on cheap beer I got at the grocery store since it is only like $1 per can and I just can’t drink more than two beers without feeling mookie (I am going for the cheap holiday since I am unemployed).  There was no way I was going to pay $25 for a Smirnoff martini, no way in hell.  BTW, a bottle of Smirnoff is $60 USD here – for real – makes canned beer look real nice. 

The bar was beautiful and I met an older couple from Ontario, but the place was packed with 20 something Russians and Australians.  The kind of people that ruined the dance scene.  I felt like Margaret Meade walking around in there - observing the young and wealthy in their natural habitat.  It was kind of gross – I don’t like ostentatious displays of wealth.  Must everything be shiny?  Aye.  I bet they are the kind of people that iron their underwear.  I left after about 10 minutes feeling incredibly poor, paunchy and ugly.   

Tonight, I am going to grab a sandwich (yes, I am already burned on Indonesian food, sorry, Indonesia, I just really want a sandwich) and find the interweb connection.  I love it here, but I miss my friends so I will talk to them while they sleep tonight on Facebook.  And warn them about the monkeys.......

Goodbye cruel corporate world

My sixth day in Bali, I booked a trip on my own to go cycling through the countryside.  We started partway up a volcano, but it was only for momentum.  It was a workout and a half in 90 degree heat and blazing sun and I look like one of those drunk Australians that is always all red but you can't tell why.   It was a group tour, something I have never done in my life (groups).  I won't even take group spin classes at the gym, I will just ride my bike all by myself and think about things.  And stuff.  Only children are a bit weird that way.  I was picked up at my hotel at 6 a.m. with a van full of people.  There are some foreigners in Ubud, but not a ton.  Apparently this is not the tourist season and the only other people here are Russians and the ever-present drunk Australians (from whom I will catch major hell as I plan on tacking another week onto my trip and going there to see them in their native habitat).  I got into a van with two Japanese (kawaii, neh!), a German couple, and three single women my age.  One from Holland, one from the UK and one from Germany.  We started talking and found we had all quit our jobs to travel.  This was on top of the people I met the day before (men and women) who had done the same - all from pretty high pressure jobs.  It is like an entire class of professionals gave a collective "fuck you!" to being a wage slave.   We bonded immediately and set off on our trek which started at sunrise on the volcano.  We had breakfast (I can't believe the fruit here - snake fruit, rambutan, 64 kinds of bananas, pineapples, papaya, star fruit, bread fruit, durian - it is all I have eaten for days) and then headed on our bikes.  I love the countryside here more than the beaches or towns – it seems more real.  Cities are cities are cities, more or less.  Cities in the tropics are cities in the tropics, beaches have sand and water and smell like suntan oil – the countryside in Bali is amazing.  We snaked our way through snakes, rice paddies, villages, cows, mopeds, and hordes of children waiting to give us a high-five.  One of our group ate it hard on her bike being over zealous with the high-fiving.  On the way down, our guide told us about some interesting laws and customs.  I <3 labor law, but civil rights/social justice law is up there.  He told us about a friend that had just gotten MBA – married by accident.  Which, of course, means he knocked someone up.  Apparently if a guy gets a girl pregnant and refuses to marry her, they send him to jail for 3 years.  My inner/outer/arounder feminist says “fair share of the blame” but I do cringe a bit for the guys.   We stopped at a Coffee Luwak plantation (I now refer to it as “kitty coffee” and hope you will too) to watch the coffee being born.  The guide shook the civit’s cage (the one on display) to show it to us and said, “wake up, this is your job, no sleeping on the job”.  They are nocturnal.  Then a bunch of real kitties came out of the plantation.  The Japanese girls and I screamed “neko!” and lunged for them.  They saw we liked the cats and kept bringing us more until we literally had to put them on our backs so they could all be cuddled simultaneously.  I took a bunch of pictures of cats……..  Oh! And I got some coffee so I can throw my friends a kitty coffee party when I get back!  Helloooo kitty! We were able to stop a few places to meet local people – a village of mat weavers, a village of carvers, an ancient banyan tree where they were kind enough to grab a giant cane spider and allow us all to cop a feel.  They handed it to me and I said, “no thanks, I had those suckers living in my shower for four years in Hawaii, I am good”.  Later in the day, I met up with the other single travelers for dinner.  They were all headed off to exotic places like Lombok and the Gillies – places I have never heard of.  I thought I was adventurous, but these chicks were hard core.  I think they convinced me to add another week or so and check out Australia or New Zealand since I am already all the way over here. I went into town the next day to get something to read for Nyepi day which falls on Saturday (Friday for you) since the island is shut down.   In town, the means of greeting appears to be to say “taxi” or “transport”.  I am tempted to raise my hands to my lips in greeting, look them right in the eye and say “taxi” back, but that would be too smart-assey even for me. Aside from books, I spent most of yesterday looking for someway to transfer my photos from my camera to my computer.  I admit I am in a jungle down in a developing country and really shouldn’t expect to find a radio shack, but nothing works.  No cables, thumb drives, card readers – I am just going to have to wait until I get home or maybe to the tourist hub.  A Turkish woman and I sat at the internet café for about an hour and a half yesterday trying to do the same thing.  We were both baffled.  Again – jungle = no radio shack, but that doesn’t mean I can’t kvetch. On Saturday, the whole island will shut down – the ports, the airport, police roam the street arresting anyone who is outside or too loud or has too many lights on.  I even heard rumors they will shut off the power, but I don’t know if that is true.  Expect to see me running from the military at gunpoint on the front page of the Jakarta Times as this is the first time I will ever have shut up for more than 5 hours unless sleeping and even that is doubtful.  The next day, I headed to Seminyak to see them launch the effigies they will burn at sea to banish the evil spirits before the day of reflection.  I am staying in another villa by the beach and am looking forward to the launching of the demons.  I imagine it is some kind of anime army of Styrofoam (let us not think of the environmental impact here, nor the irony, of burning thousands of Styrofoam effigies to cleanse the world and harmonize with nature) floating out to do take our sins away.  Let’s just let it be.

Breakin' the law

My fourth day in Indonesia, I was incommunicado from my friends in Seattle and San Francisco.  I mean, it isn't like I just jumped on the back of a motor bike with some random stranger and zipped through the rice paddies to evade the police or anything.  I mean, I did, but it wasn't entirely like that.

I had finally picked up my suitcase at the airport after attending a Barong Dance on the advice of my guide.  It is basically a play about the pull between good and evil.  There is no end - you get to decide if you will follow good or evil.  I love the amoral stance in Asian theater and cinema.  The play is put on by farmers who take a break from tending their fields to come in, play an instrument or act for tourists, then have lunch and go back to their fields to work.  They are pretty amazing people.  Get up at 3 am, start working in the fields, come into town, play a rock concert/opera, eat some lunch, go back to the field, have dinner, make some exquisite handicraft, go to bed, lather, rinse, repeat.  I will NEVER complain about my job again.

The play was very elaborate, but I had no idea what they were saying.  I was constantly the only person alone at any event I attend, so people either tended to talk to me or look away like I have a bad rash.  Which I actually do now. 

I sat next to a family of Indonesian Muslims during the play and there was a really racy part where they killed the demon, but he had a GIANT erection.  It was pretty funny and I wanted to crack up but I didn't want to piss them off.  I don't know why I was worried, they aren't Puritans.  The grandmother was slapping her thigh and screaming with laughter.  I relaxed and let the dick jokes roll.  The best part?  It is a working temple and a kitty ran down the stairs onto the stage in the middle of the play.  A kitty!  

And the Tony Award goes go Kitty #48!  Her acceptance speech was predictable, “meow, meow, meow, meow.  Meow meow.  Meow meow meow meow.” 

The driver took me to the airport to pick up my bag (won't you even call me in the morning, Korean Airlines?) and I literally jumped for joy as the lost and found guys looked bewildered.  I tried to pantomime "5 days in the same pants!" but it didn't translate.  I went to change in the bathroom, but it was packed with millions of Russians so I just changed by the sink in front of everyone and hoped I wouldn't see any of them ever again.  

More importantly than clean underwear, however, was my camera.  My beautiful camera.  I looooove you.  I looooooovvvee you!  I do!  Whose a widdle camera?  You! That is who!   

I want to marry my Nikon.

My guide had an athletic day planned for me and next took me up to see the volcano. Normally when I go on "vacation" I am up at 4, running around, planning a nice relaxing 16 hour day. I was almost dead by noon – this guy kicked my ass.  

On the way, he insisted I try durian.  I am scared of eggplant, but I acquiesced and we stopped by the side of the road to have this woman chop the thing open with a giant, dirty machete.  In Indonesia, you eat with your right hand, so I reached in and scooped out a piece.  It wasn't the worst thing I ever ate, but I wasn't going to have more than one or two bites - it tasted like weird cheese on a pit.  It is clearly a delicacy for the Balinese and I think they like having tourists gross out on it so they can finish the basketball size chunk of fruit themselves.  Fine with me!  I like rambutan better anyway.  

We stopped at some of the craft villages outside of Ubud which are just giant salesrooms out in the country, but it is cool and they do amazing work, so I helped enrich the local economy.  Then we stopped at the water temple to cleanse in holy water.  I am not a very "woo woo" person, but this place was clearly sacred.  You could feel it physically walking in.  The temple is over 1000 years old and built around a spring that comes out of the rocks.  There is a giant grotto growing behind it. I cleansed myself as my guide, Mike, showed me without actually falling in the water and we walked back to the car.  It was the strangest thing - the second we left the temple, I was so tired, I could barely stand.  There was this soul tiredness that just took over.  Like the last 10 months of insomnia finally hit me.  I fell asleep at 7 p.m. not waking until 7 a.m. without sleeping pills and with an overwhelming acceptance of insects.  Which is good because I was in bug heaven.  

Since I finally had my camera, I decided to go back to the Monkey Forest to take some pictures.  I got some great ones of baby monkeys eating bananas, baby monkeys playing, baby monkeys getting it on.  Really.  Baby monkeys were al Marvin Gaye "let's get it on" or is that Barry White?  Anyway, baby monkeys are horny like suckers.  There are banana peels all over the monkey forest too - I kept thinking I would slip on one like I was in an old Elvis Costello movie.  Elvis and Costello?  Meh. 

I got some great shots and wanted to upload my photos onto Flickr.  I had tried to attach the USB cable between my computer and camera the night before but I brought the wrong port, so I decided to look for one in Ubud, the city near which I was staying.  I kept asking around and someone finally told me about a computer shop outside of town.  I was going to walk, but had been walking all morning trying to get my bearings and had probably put 5 miles on my flip flops in 90 degree heat so when one of the never ending offers of "taxi?" "taxi?" came my way, I went for it.  

It was a 19 year old kid, trying to earn some extra cash.  I didn't really mind as I grew up in a tourist town and made my own supplemental income scamming tourists out of free parking spaces.  He charged me $3 for a trip on the back of his motorcycle to the store.  We didn't have helmets which is illegal, so we zipped around tour busses, alleys, in the middle of mini villages, past his friends like 800 times (if you really want to say you banged a chunky 40 year old woman, kid, go nuts!) and finally came to the shop which was closed.  We tried another store and another, but they were all closed.  Finally, we just took a joy ride around town.  It was the most fun I have had in years.  Bugs in my teeth, skirt flying everywhere, sweating profusely, laughing my ass off – no dignity whatsoever.  

Since I wasn’t getting anywhere with technology, I wound up walking naked into a total stranger's room off the street for a massage.  She was a massage lady and it had a sign and all, soI wasn't really worried – it is an integral part of Balinese healing.  Plus, she had her 3 little kids in there and they kept pulling my hair, trying to go through my bag and getting into screaming fits while she worked and tried to calm them down while jumping up and down my back.  It was awesome and I tipped her extra for the kids.

Everywhere you go every place in the world that attracts tourists, you get scammed.  Growing up in Hawaii, our favorite past time was to get to the popular beaches really early, go for a swim, then sit on the hood of our cars smoking cigarettes until some tourist or military group came up and asked if we were leaving.  "For $10," we would say.  So I don't really mind when people try to sell me crap or want to take my picture with a parrot or offer me something for money that is actually free.  When we were kids, we did it for sport.  Here they do it for survival.  

I headed back to the villa (it is only $40 per night, but it is a real live villa), then I headed off to get some dinner, fall asleep, and wake up cuddling my favorite insects.  Nite nite.

Oh silent ogre

My bad.  I found the beach.  There is one.  And a town.  With stuff to do.  And a club.  With house music.  I didn’t go dancing last night, but I might tomorrow. 

The beach is still kind of icky – there is trash everywhere and the water is murky.  People just kind of chuck their trash into these brilliantly distributed waterways and they all make their way to the ocean.  It is too bad, these little canals run in front of every house so people have a place to bathe and do laundry.  But then they also use them as mobile trash units, wash their motorbikes in them, etc.  Anyway, I wouldn’t walk on the beach barefoot and probably won’t swim because I have a few cuts on my feet.   Plus the shore break is choppy and there are “danger!” signs everywhere.  Danger!  You could be attacked by millions of plastic water bottles! 

I walked a few miles down the beach toward civilization and found all the usual Balinese beach sights – people getting beach massage, hawkers trying to sell me everything from hats to kites to little beach restaurants.  I was digging the beach restaurant shacks quite a bit.  I stopped in one to have a drink and watch the people.  As I was sitting there, I saw a couple in their late 70s, skin tanned to purse leather, overweight, wearing thongs walking up the beach.  Now, I would never even subject the general public to myself in a bikini, much less a thong.  Should I ever be lucky enough to make it to 75 without the benefit of extreme plastic surgery, I promise to only wear mu’u mu’us.  Of course the couple is walking to the same beach shack I am in.  Of course they get the table right in front of me.  Of course they gratiutiously bend over repeatedly to arrange their towels.  Ick.  Then they order French fries.   With mayo. 

As much as I love to talk smack about my hometown (because it is my hometown and therefore worthy of the occasional smack talk), we do things right in Hawaii.   The beaches are still clean and beautiful, we keep our tourist torture confined to Waikiki so people can easily escape, we educate all tourists about the environment and our customs.  I am proud we have used smartish development and not just let things run amok.  Many Native Hawaiians would likely disagree and they would be correct, but compared to what has happened to Bali, Hawaii has done a hell of a good job.   Probably all of those brilliant Kaiser High School graduates…….

Last night was ogre-ogre – the night before New Years Day or the Hindu Day of Silence.  All over the island, villages have been building these incredibly beautiful statues of demons to take on parade and then burn.  Most of the work is done by the village children (teens mostly) and the artistry is amazing.  Demons with light up eyes, a huge pack of angry demon dogs, mythical figures and political parodies.  Last night was kind of like the Fremont Solstice Parade in the dark and led by children.   There are tons of parades going everywhere and anywhere – you couldn’t walk down the street without running into one.  My only regret was that every one of them didn’t have a gamelon band behind them.  I am really starting to love this music.  The parades usually started by a small group of little kids carrying an effigy, then a band of adults with torches, then dancers and finally the demons – carried by groups of boys on bamboo pallets doing dances lifting the statues up and down.  It was pretty impressive. 

There were tons of tourists out and for some reason, every Russian teenager I saw was dressed as a pirate with a striped shirt and fake stitches on her face.  “Why are the Russians dressed as pirates?” I wondered over and over again.  Many of the demons had these gigantic scary tits as well.  I am not sure if it means something or if it was just teenaged boys that designed them and thought, “let’s put some tits on this one, and make them really big!”  That is probably more likely.  I also saw a huge number of people with Iron Maiden shirts on – I high fived them all.  Even in the villages, I saw old Maiden posters.  OK, so Indonesians are REALLY into Maiden in the way that Chileans are REALLY into Morrissey.  Right on.

It started to get late and I needed to head back.  I was on foot but decided to take a cab to where the main action was, but I couldn’t get stuck outside after midnight or could get arrested, so I started trying to find a cab.  I found one and the guy totally jacked me – claimed not to have a meter, over quoted me, pretended not to have change and left me 3 miles from my destination in the pitch black.  Thanks, fucker.  Today is karma day – good luck on that. 

I tried to find my way back in the dark by myself – there aren’t a lot of street signs in Bali or street lights, so it was a pretty stressful little walk.  Luckily there were security folks all over who helped my piece my way back.  When I arrived on our lane, the landlord had turned off all the lights.  It was only 10:30 and things didn’t have to be off until midnight.  It kind of pissed me off – she had a motorbike with a giant light on it, I was fumbling in the dark trying to use the light of my cell to see if I was at the right gate and cramming my key into the lock hoping not to stab one of my gecko friends in the eye. 

I heard a rumor that their might be wifi access in the big house in the compound if one kind of hangs onto the side of the roof with one hand – I may try that.  I have been pretty contemplative already and the landlord has invited some of her friends over for the day, so we are kind of having a giant pool party anyway.  But a quiet one.  They are going to teach me Indonesian.  

Monsoon

It was my second day in Delhi.  I had traveled there for work and was constantly amazed by the differences in culture.  I grew up in a pretty diverse place – Hawaii – but India blew me away.  Our neighborhood in Honolulu is Japanese, Chinese, Hawaiian, Filipino and Haole (and of course the mandatory Hawaiian/Chinese/Haole mix).  

I woke up to the sound of the muezzin making the call to prayer for the first time in my life.  It was hauntingly beautiful and although I am not a particularly religious person, I understood the call to prayer completely.  I heard it as “be grateful, be kind to people, take care of the earth and the animals” and then kind of a la la la la because I had no idea what they were saying.  I am an early riser (which is why I used to be able to show up at raves at 5 a.m. and convince everyone that I was there the whole time), so I went out for my morning walk at 6 (this time with our country director.  His wife won't let him leave me unescorted since the fondling episode at the market, which is silly because many times I have gone out in an effort to be fondled and been unsuccessful, although not generally dressed as a Pashtun. 

We decided to walk through the neighborhoods behind the main street - they were beautiful and filled with big, mildewey mansions.  I have a thing for mildew stained houses as an island girl from the mauka side, so it was very comforting.  We found a little park in the middle of the neighborhood and followed it for a mile or so.  It was the cleanest place I have seen so far and it was deserted except for a group of men in their early 60s doing yoga.  It was drizzling and had cooled off, so was only about 90 degrees and I felt like I needed a sweater.  We headed back to the main street and walked along a huge open garbage pit - it kind of blew my mind.  I had gotten used to the piles of stones and trash all over Delhi.  Nearly every block has a designated stone pile for some reason.  It is kind of the like the "have a penny, leave one, need a penny, take one" sign at the convenience store except this was “have a bunch of random construction material, leave some, need some, leave more of it here anyway”.

This trash heap was exceptional.  The thing was a block long and in front of a Catholic Church and had people and animals living in it, gathering trash.  The smell was kind of overwhelming and although I didn't want to look like a wussy tourist, I had to put a scarf over my face. 

We heard music and followed the sound down to the end of the street.  We walked into a chill room right out of Earth Dance.  Dear ex ravers, it was exactly like a Seeley Court chill tent with rope lights, carpets, nag champa, some Tuvan throat singing sitar player and it was 6:30 a.m.  Apparently, it was the dregs of a wedding the night before.  At least they didn't hire Goa Gil for the wedding - that guy is sketchy.  I wanted to stay and dance, but our country director insinuated it might cause an international incident.

During my work trip to India, I only had about two days for sight seeing, so on this day, we hired a car.  Unfortunately, as soon as we got in the car, the monsoon started - hard.  The streets were flooded and the water was 2 feet deep after about 20 minutes.  They are not messing around with rain here.  We decided to press on and visit the red fort.  It is a several mile long fort that contains a number of palaces, administrative buildings, barracks, mosques and an old harem.  The harem is pretty rad and I would seriously consider living in this one. 

As I was getting out of the car, a group of about 20 aggressive kids surrounded me and tried to sell me an umbrella.  I live in Seattle and don't DO umbrellas, so I said no.  Ten minutes later, I ran back and paid 300 rupees for an umbrella because we don't have monsoons in Seattle.  It was bad, cars were stranded, stuff from the slum dweller's homes were literally floating away and people just kept zooming by - dad on the front of a motorcycle with a helmet on, toddler balanced off the hip of his wife (no helmets on either) who was inevitably perched delicately on the side of the bike so as not to be unladylike, zipping through 2 feet of standing water. 

The fort was the seat of power for the Mughals.  The palaces were amazing - all of the art is a combination of Roman, Islamic, Hindu, Italian (don't ask) and Turkish.  You can literally see the styles change wall to wall.  Indians are very proud to be a multi-cultural people and talk about it all the time, which I really like. There was a beautiful hand built mosque and hammam that we got to walk through - it was a powerful reminder of the strength and cultural history of India.  Apparently, the throne that sat in one of the main buildings now resides in Tehran where the government charges people 5 Euros to sit in it - the Shah of Iran was the last one in possession of this throne before the overthrow of the government in 1979.  Now it is a tourist attraction, which is better than an Imperial Lazy boy. 

After walking around the fort, we hit the underground bazaar to get some gifts and take in the vibe.  The vendors were all very aggressive and kept trying to sell me Gucci or Pucci purses or whatever - I was 39, unkempt, wearing a backpack and Keens- I don't think I am a purse girl. 

One shop I found some Pashminas for the women on my list and our country director was giving me advice on price and haggling.  When we finished, one of the shopkeepers asked the CD if I was his wife, the CD looked at him strangely and said "no".  The guy high-fived him and patted him on the back.  I was kind of offended - they openly celebrated the fact that he wasn't dumb enough to be married to me.  I love the CD, he is one of my favorite people at work, but he is a 60 year old Mennonite missionary and not really my type.  Plus, his wife would kill me at the mere thought.  I had conflicting feelings - I thought I might be good enough.  Maybe it was that slutty salwar kameez I was sporting again that gave me false confidence. The CD told me later they assumed I was his mistress.  Yeah, whatever. Don't try to make me feel better. 

While we were in the bazaar, an alleged terrorist attack took place outside in an area we had just passed by outside of a mosque.  Two tourists were shot and a red alert was issued.  So we went to have lunch a few blocks away because I am hanging out with some hard-core people.  Indian fast food is awesome.  You can get the equivalent of a happy meal that comes with masala dosa (fries), sambar (big mac?) and pickle and raita (special sauce) and chai (coke) for $2. 

The CD thought we should hit the Baha'i temple on the way back to town after driving through the diplomatic district, Parliament and India Gate.  We walked down a long path and had to take off our shoes for the final 1/4 mile to the temple.  It was gorgeous and had finally stopped raining and we entered the temple with a few hundred Indians.  Baha'i faith accepts all religions as one, so there was an impressive group of people represented in the temple.  It is a little like a Quaker gathering, you just sit and contemplate.  It was beautiful and we walked down to the reflecting pools to bless ourselves with holy water that came out of a garden hose.  I’ll take my holy water in whatever form – rain, ocean, river, temple, cathedral or garden hose.  It is all good. 

We decided to take a break from Indian for dinner because the CD really wanted a beer.  I figured after he had to spend all day with me as his mistress, he had probably earned one so we went to what we thought was an upscale pub.  Inside, we found mid 90's modern Italian decor, Indians dressed like Westerners (I was the most ethnically dressed person there) and the music was non stop, loud, new American Country.  Like Kenny Chesney.  And no, I don't know who that is, I had to ask the waiter in the Wranglers with the cowboy boots who gave me his complete discography. 

Although it took 9 hits of valium, two handlers, a service otter and a very understanding nurse to get me all the vaccines I needed for India, I am really glad I took all that stuff because I stood in some pretty gross standing water and I kept thinking I was walking in liquid Cholera or Typhoid.  Yes, I know they are different diseases, but I wanted to impress you with my knowledge of obscure infectious diseases that might also be bands like Dengue Fever. 

Pink Elephant

I arrived in Hyderabad for work early in September at about 9 a.m.  It is a beautiful city – well, the area around the airport is very beautiful.  Some employees from our office picked me up and gave me some history about the state.  Andra Pradesh, the state in which Hyderabad resides, is currently considering splitting into two states based on the coastal people’s desire for an autonomous state.  The issue is being decided by a panel of people from outside of AP that know nothing about AP so they won’t be biased.  Just in case you didn’t know, that is how they drew the line for partition of India and Pakistan – they hired some map guy that knew nothing about India to do it in a “scientific” manner.  He split entire villages, the Punjab, Kashmir – English logic at it’s best.  There are also so many Muslims in Hyderabad they wanted to join Pakistan and be an autonomous region in the south.  There are women in burkas everywhere – they make me feel hot and sweaty. 

Driving around the city, you get a feel for a place that the English never touched – winding streets, bazaars and temples at every corner – it is the most beautiful and fascinating place I have ever been.  There are pink rocky outcrops all over town like in Sedona.  The architecture spans ultra modern to traditional white washed block style houses to entire hills covered with slum houses (tarp on a few sticks). 

Today is Ganesh Immersion Day.  I know what you are thinking, but the reality is there are giant pink elephants on every corner lit up with rope lights.  There will be a parade of Ganesh’s today, and then they will float hundreds of thousands of statues lit by candles in the lake and the people will party in the streets all day.  It seems like my only opportunity to dance in the streets of India, but I am headed off to Bangalore in an hour, so will miss the madness.  It is surreal to have giant pink elephants on every corner.  My friends at the New Bardo Hotel and Conference Center would find it pretty damn funny as we have an annual Pink Elephant Party.  I am just happy to pass 20 foot high pink elephant by 20 foot high pink elephant, knowing that J would be insanely jealous at all the pink elephantey goodness that awaits him in India.  The pink elephants are also fitting because of the 50 million hour flights and constant mini flights, my ankles have swollen to the size of elephant legs.  I am unable to escape the modern traveler’s curse – fat ankles. 

I spent a few hours in our office and gave a presentation.  That office is full of attorneys and they wanted to debate everything, which I love.  I finally came into contact with my first non-western bathroom.  There is a bucket, a scoop and a water supply next to the toilet.  I literally didn’t know what to do and still don’t and certainly didn’t want anyone to have to explain it to me.  Luckily, I just had to pee. 

Our state director, S, invited me to his home for dinner, which was an incredible honor.  He has a fantastic literature collection and his wife is a judge.  As the guest, I had to just sit there and be served.  That was hard for me to do as a natural helper (I am helping, right?).  I got to meet his father, a retired politician who was home recovering from a serious illness and see his extensive collection of Noam Chomsky books.  Noam is a national hero.  He is the Justin Beiber of India. It is amazing. 

I got a call from some of my team members in Orissa - there was a Cholera and Dengue Fever outbreak in Bhubaneswar where I am headed tomorrow and 3 staff members are sick with Cholera.  One said, “it is fine as long as you don’t get dehydrated.  I get this all the time, you just need a bunch of Gatorade”.  I hang with some tough chicks at work.  Don’t cross an aid worker, they will shank you. 

Gecko pong and warm woolen mittens

Somehow when I asked people for remote places to stay on Bali, they thought I was serious.  I did come here to unwind and recharge, but I didn’t think they would put me so far out in the boonies that I could buy petrol in old Absolut bottles.  Thank God someone told me it was petrol – I love vodka!   

I left my villa in the mountains outside of Ubud this morning completely exhausted.  It seems eating nothing but fresh fruit from the side of the road might be a little too cleansing – spiritually and physically.  The driver chirped at me as we drove down from the mountains to the beach.  Tomorrow is the day they party in the streets and burn the statues, so it is mad rad out there.  Lines of thousands of people marching, chanting, playing music, holding golden cows, burning incense; teenagers putting the finishing touches on their demons.  Dinosaurs are very big this year.  It seems odd as hell to have a dinosaur next to a Barong or some other mythical Hindu bad guy, but they are into them.  Dinos they are called. 

I checked into my second villa (a baby house in a compound with an open air bathroom – but very pleasant) to find the most surly Balinese in the history of the world.  My friend Rena told me about this place and said it was great because this woman would bring you fresh fruit salad from the market every morning for $2, there was a driver for $5, it was right by the beach.  I asked SB (surly Balinese) where I could find a grocery store, town, the internets, the beach and a driver (you just don’t drive here) and she kind of motioned that the beach and town were “that away”.  Those of you that have driven in a car with me before and are familiar with my flipper like instructions on how to get places (hand/arm motion thatawayish) will appreciate it that the tables were turned.   She stomped off and I was on my own.

I started off in the general direction of “town” and it was kind of a pit.  This is supposed to be a high end tourist area, but there is trash and dust everywhere and no town to speak of.  Just some roadside stands that claim to have pizza but are closed. Mmm, pizza. 

I walked a few miles jumping in and out of traffic (people park just anywhere so roads are often reduced to one lane intermittently and inadvertently) and off and on the sidewalk (where available).    I stopped for a juice and water and asked the waitress where the beach was.  She pointed to the beach.  “But you can’t go swimming”.  Oh?  Why not?  “It is holy Hindu ground and too dangerous – you have to go to Denpasar”.  Denpasar is easily 30 minutes away and I don’t have a way to get there.  There is also no public transport on the island – I may wind up just renting a scooter and hoping for the best.  So I am in this guest compound with a surly hostess, no food, no restaurants, no beach.  Oh poor me, I am in Bali, yeah, I know, but still.  I like to purchase what was advertised. 

The villa is down a dusty road covered with mangy dogs and zipping motor scooters and everyone thinks I am a hooker.  I am fairly certain of this.  It could be the wrapped yoga pants or the discreet t shirts, but no one gives me this much attention in Seattle.  I could walk around in a thong screaming, “come and get some boys!” and everyone would run away and start playing Nintendo in their mom’s basement.  Wait, why do I live in Seattle again?   Oh yeah, the weather.

So I am walking down the road getting cat called despite my farmer tan (farmer burn) when I see a bunch of expats zooming down the street towards me wearing woolen ski caps.   My first thought is, “what weird helmets!”  Then I start getting bitchy.  The beach is inaccessible, what I can see of it is gross and dirty, I am in the middle of nowhere without internet access with no one to talk to and a digestive problem.  I finally start screaming, “are you wearing that fucking hat to keep your brains in, you God damn morons?”  They are also wearing Uggs.  I am not lying to you.  I am not even wearing lipstick because it melts off me like fake blood in The Hunger, and these bastards are dressed for Aspen. 

They can’t hear me but he Balinese can.  They think it is pretty funny and ask me if I am from Australia.  “Yeah, sure, that is why I am all red like this”.  I have given up on explaining the America thing because it inevitably leads to a bunch of anti 911 talk and I am kind of over that.  I think we learned some valuable lessons about foreign policy and security and racism and religious intolerance all the way around.  I am not a gung ho pro war yank.  But I don’t explain this.  I merely say, “g’day mate” and hope they leave me alone.  Plus, this way,  I don’t have to tip. 

I get back right before the rain hits.  When it rains in Indonesia, it rains hard.  Hard hard hard.  I am tired and can only manage to read o the lanai.  I even get too tired to read so I watch two geckos stick on the wall while a colony of ants bump into them going pointlessly up and down the wall like the geckos are the little pong paddles and the ants are millions of tiny balls.  It is kind of cute.  I like this game.  It suits my mental state. 

Ugly American

I had been in India about two weeks when I had a sudden realization about food.  I love Indian food, but I needed a sandwich. Or a salad, but I can't eat food without a peel without contracting an exotic disease and they didn't appear to have sandwiches. There is no non Indian food, not even British food.  Pratha and sambal for breakfast with papaya, naan and daal for lunch, thali with pickle for dinner. 

I used to love Indian food very much, but we may need to take a little break from each other, see other people, just try to be ourselves for a bit, you know?  Try to figure out who we really ARE without the other one always there, being salty and sweet and overly cuminy.  You know what I mean?  Is that cold?  I mean, we have been together for 25 years, but I think I may need more variety like maybe we could have an open relationship with Vietnamese or something.  Or even go nuts and have French night once a week.  This is so typical - pushing up against 40 and then you just throw away that perfectly good relationship you had with Indian food and blow it all in a one night stand with Moroccan and then where are you?  Sitting with a plain pratha and no chutney, that is where you are. 

In Kolkata, I did have one of the most fantastic meals of my life, though.  We had a training for 12 new hires from all over India and took them sight seeing and to dinner at this Bengali foodie place.  It is kind of the Herb Garden of Calcutta.  I had never had Indian food like this - it was sweet and floral and we started with roasted lime mango juice with chile and cumin.  It doesn't sound good, but it was amazing - in a Mexican lemon aid kind of way.  Then little bites of some kind of sour picked vegetable in yogurt, tons of little dishes of veggies and for dessert, a yogurt creme brulee and paan.  OMG.  It was served in this cute little pot with a little wooden paddle spoon like you used to get with the cheap ice cream at elementary school lunch.  Paan is sweet masala, lime (like quick lime/phosphorus not lime like lemons and limes), some crunchy things, betel nut and a bit of tobacco all rolled up in a leaf.  I didn't get that far with it because I don’t think it is attractive to have red spittle coming out of my mouth, but it was an interesting sensation.

I am an early riser and work up nearly every morning at 5:00 a.m. every morning to walk and explore.  The most important thing was that I found the holy grail of tacky merchandise.  I found the bedazzled Che Guevera t shirt stand. 

It took hours of dodging around the open garbage pits, guys peeing on the street at all hours of the day and night (stealing a quote here, but I haven't seen this many hands on dicks since the Eminem show), jumping out of the way of lopsided and dangerously loaded public transit vehicles before they hit me going the wrong way down a one way street, scaling down walls to get into the crazy bazaars under the subway tracks - I am not kidding.  But I managed to secure two shirts - these are more valuable than tickets to the Justin Beiber show.

Some totally awesomely random things happened in Kolkata.  I was talking to one of my colleagues outside the conference room we were meeting in and this drunk guy walked out of the bar and started taking off his pants outside of the elevator.  Then he put them back on, took them part way off, shuffled his shirt around, stopped, turned and walked into the kitchen.  I don't know what that was about, but since I live in Seattle’s University District, it felt just so much like home, you know? 

I knew it was bound to happen eventually – I was going to have a melt down.  Hopping a plane every morning at 7 am, sitting in an office until 7 p.m. listening to people complain about stuff that happened 2 years ago (that is my job!) in gross travel clothes in 90 degree 99% humidity, ankles swollen to the size of baby cows, eating dinner until 10 p.m., falling asleep at midnight, waking up at 3, doing US work emails....lather, rinse, repeat. 

I saw absolutely nothing of Hyderabad or Bangalore except the airport, some hotel and an office, it was a full on marathon travel blitz through 5 states of India.

I know the team was trying to be helpful, but I couldn't get a second alone.  I am an only child and need my space.  They would consider it a lack of their hosting duties if I didn’t want them to come into the bathroom with me.  One night I wanted to walk around the city by myself, hopefully taking some pictures.  But the State Director insisted I go out with the team.  Since the fondling incident in the market in Delhi (I was not the fondler), I haven't been left alone for a minute.  I am sorry I ever said anything at all.  I should have just let the perv get away with it and I wouldn't be under 24 hour supervision because a Burka can't hide my hotness.  I gave in, exhausted and cranky and probably making a horrible impression.   For this curse of the passive aggressive politeness that made me agree to this scheme, Seattle, I say fuck you and fuck you hard. 

The team was awesome, but they kind of got my demographic wrong.  They took me shopping to a place for tourists from New Jersey.  There was all this shiny sparkly carved elephant wall covering stuff that I couldn’t even look at without wanting to watch Dynasty and take a ton of valium.  The sales guys are asking me to touch stuff and I was like, “mom, I just want a Pepsi”.  Actually, I just wanted to walk because I had been sitting for like 98 hours, but they kept ordering the driver to take me to emporium after emporium in Telagu and I was just trying to claw my way out of the car.  I was being a total bitch to the sales guys who kept shoving this weird wood carving stuff at me "smell!  it will make your house smell so good without Glade".  How about I just clean the cat box and call it good? 

So I finally escape after about 10 gypsy emporiums (remember, I am from a tourist town and I have an aversion to that stuff) and go do my work from Seattle from my hotel.  I had to hop another plane at 8 am to Bhubuneshwar after sleeping maybe 3 hours and was turning into a total bitch very quickly.  To quote Airplane “I sure picked a hell of a time to quit drinking”. 

Before jumping on the plane, I did have time for a quick walk through Banngalore.  I found a little park about a half mile from my hotel and saw all of these square wrappers on the ground around a park bench.  I can’t tell if they are condoms or condiments or little packages of incense or maybe all three, so I have this little fantasy about what went down the night before. 

Sahara “Let’s get some incense and celebrate Ganesh!”
Sitansu “OK”

Sitansu “I’m kind of hungry, do you want some fries?”
Sahara “Totally!  I even have several to-go packets of ketchup!”

Sitansu “Damn, girl!  You look good licking ketchup off your fingers by all this incense.  Want to screw?”
Sahara “OK”

Sitannsu “Do you have any more ketchup?”

Anyway, I get to Bhubuheshwar and check into my hotel after a straight shot to the office and another 6 hours of the complaint gong show. 

There is serious underemployment in India, so I should be more tolerant.  Tonight, I am not.  I get up to my room and try the wireless to do my 30 hours or work from Seattle in 4 hours, but it requires a code.  I call the front desk for the code.  They inform me they will send someone up.  I explain I don’t need technical support, I need the code. They say they are sending someone up. A guy shows up.  I show him the set up.  He calls the front desk for the code. They put me on the phone and explain it will be 200 rupees, fine, can I have the code?  No, we have to send someone up with it.  Guy 1 leaves, guy 2 shows up with the bill.  I sign it.  Can I have the code?  No, someone else brings the code.  Guy 3 shows up and gives me the code.  I put in the code, it doesn’t work – it is obviously yesterday’s code.  I call the front desk, ask for the new code.  They can’t give it to me, they have to call IT.  I don’t fucking need IT, I need the code. I was on Usenet before you fuckers were born.  I changed my tire on the way to prom, I don’t need anything other than a code.  Guys 4 and 5 show up, look at the computer, call down for the code.  Oh, the CODE.  Oh, so sorry, we gave you the wrong code.  We will send someone up with the code.  

By this time, I am violently angry.  If anyone is stupid enough to enter my hotel room, they will be thrown across the room and probably stabbed to death with my cell phone.  I go down and get the code then head to the gym and work it out on the floor.