Indonesia: Gilli Trawangan (Day 8 Cont'd, Monday, 080309)

The "BlueWater Express" slows to a halt at Lebongan, and I perch precariously, just the slightest bit o' ass keeping me aboard, over the edge of the boat to dip my toes in the green-blue.

Then we're off and away again, and I'm almost disappointed when I realize we're nearing Trawangan; there's something in me that craves the ineffable combination of speed and ocean water, and rarely the twain shall meet in my day-job as an urban, high school English teacher.

I'm neatly consoled by the sight of boats bobbing in the even clearer, even more vivid water surrounding Gilli Trawangan.



(We disembark directly into the water, sloshing ashore with our bags.)

And even more so after Eric deposits me, bags and all, at a restaurant--mere yards from the water--called the "Snapper Bungalow," where I order a guava juice and a basket of fries that turn out to be The World's Best Post-Speedboat-Ride Fries.



I polish off the fries and slouch insouciantly in the plastic chair, as befits a jet-setting world traveler, trying to disguise the fact that I'm about to break open with excitement. I can feel the sand sifting through my toes, and I keep scanning the road for Eric's return.

When he does, we haul our bags onto a cidomo, small, horse-drawn buggies--there are no motorized vehicles on the Gillis--and I experience a few pangs about the fact that the horse is lifted several inches off the ground by our collective weight, and the driver has to quiet the poor thing by clicking his tongue.



We're lucky Eric has found a room for something like 45 USD a night (split between the two of us). It's a one-room bungalow with a wee porch and an outdoor bathroom (a ticket to Bali? $1,400. Showering under the stars: priceless.). And the inn-keeper's name? Ding Dong. Ding, motherfuckin' Dong.



Jetting back to the beach (again, yards away), we lay out in the sun, dozing, catatonic, which, for me, is interrupted by a few twinges of "sand is whiter on the other side" because we can see the next island over, Gilli Meno, which looks largely empty and thus, fuck-my-life, more beguiling to my Blue Lagoon-y (minus the teen sex), Swiss Family Robinson (minus the family), Robinson Crusoe (minus the cannibals and breadfruit) sensibilities.

Whatevers. We return to the room and Eric naps while I putter, then we walk out, stopping for ice-cream (I have a swirled popsicle of indeterminate flavor/origin, wrapper characterized by the lion from Madagascar--is that copyright infringement?), so that Eric can join his diving group, and I can explore and search for the internets and water.

I'm traipsing in the dimming, crepuscular light. A local kicks a soccer ball to me, I return it (awkwardly), he kicks it back again, and I acquit myself more decently the second time 'round. Another local accosts me and holds onto my hand long after I've released his (I think they are more touchy here), trying to convince me to sit with him, to smoke weed with him, telling me that I look Indonesian. I decline for the moment and promise to return.

I don't.

Cuz I'm a cunt.

But I shoulda.