Indonesia: Ubud (Day 7, Sunday, 080209)

I wake up at 10:30, for once getting a decent night's sleep. Breakfast of crepes with palm sugar syrup and a fruit salad of the usual papaya, banana, etc.



Today's Eric's big shopping day, and he's hustling in and out of this curio shop and that while I make only the feeblest attempts to buy a sarong, and identify something for Andy, a co-worker who's insisted that I bring him back something from Indonesia. (I am unsuccessful.)

The problem is twofold: 1) something reasonably priced and 2) something that is "authentically" Balinese.

But how does an ignorant Westerner recognize authenticity? And then I'm bothered by what I recognize as my drive to purchase something to, in however small a sense, encapsulate, reify a culture.

I'm overwhelmed, and the Indonesian spices perfuming the air are making my stomach lurch. We stop by a cafe, and I have a glass of iced tea. By the time we're done, Eric's starving again, so we head towards Ibu Oka.

Despite all my assertions that I'm to subsist on suckling pig while in Ubud, my body's not having it. Was it the Balinese chunchullo? I've no idea. I can only jealously watch Eric savor his lunch. In a reversal of R. Kelly's "Bump n Grind," my mind is telling me "yes," but my body, my body is telling me "no."

The only thing I relish right now are the mangosteens, an aubergine-colored, rindy fruit that you have to gouge open with your fingernails to expose the white, fibrous edible inside. It's a persimmony in texture, pulpy with that snappy kernel. It tastes of...tangerine, but better. A tang. (Interestingly enough, the tangerine's name doesn't come from "tang," but rather "Tangier.")



(There's an apocryphal story of how Queen Victoria promised riches to whomever could bring her an edible mangosteen. (Whoever?))

I suggest going to the market located kitty-corner to Ibu Oka, and we pause at the entrance where a woman is selling fruit. She offers us a taste of salak, a fruit recognizable by it's snake-skin exterior.



It's dry, with a texture like an old potato, and, at least for the piece we try, tasteless. We take a pass on it, and opt to buy a bag of mangosteens that I promptly toss in my bag.

Eric and I lose each other in the market. I spend a few moments caressing a sarong or two, but am unable to make a decision, and soon, I'm just trying to navigate the maze of tourists, vendors, and tchotchkes without knocking anything over or melting into a hysterical heap from confronting, head-on, the paradox of choice. I endeavor to amuse myself, to give Eric, wherever he is, a reasonable amount of time to shop, while simultaneously not offering merchants false hope about my intentions.

When I come to the end of my rope, I make for the entrance and encamp next to a lovely pile of litter. I watch tourists come and go.