Indonesia: Ubud to Gilli Trawangan (Day 8, Monday, 080309)

We're just sitting down to breakfast on our balcony when the manager comes up to inform us that our transport to Benoa's International Marina, where we need to catch a speedboat to the Gillis, has already arrived.

We were told that the shuttle would arrive at 8:30, but it's 8:05 and Eric hasn't finished packing. He shits a mini-brick and returns to packing while I scarf breakfast down, a panini sort of thing, but essentially just bread cookie-cuttered around an egg. It's dee-ricious, and I wrap Eric's in a napkin for the road. Later, I find out this Indonesian Hot Pocket sort of thang is called a "jaffle."



When we finally climb into the van, we apologize to the driver for making him wait, telling him that we'd expected him at 8:30, and he responds by shrugging it off, explaining that in Bali, 8:30 could also mean 9, 10, or 11 o'clock. He ain't trippin'.

I make my grand reveal--showing Eric the jaffle I saved from certain death, and he's cranky and not very interested until I insist he take at least a bite. He's not quite as impressed by it as I am, so I polish off the rest.

When we arrive at the dock, the guards out front check the van for bombs with a mirror welded to a metal pole, passing the mirror slowly under the...er...undercarriage. The trip'll be two and a half hours, with a pit stop at Lebongan before we arrive on Gilli Trawangan (gilli simply means island, so what many tourists say--"Gilli Islands"--is a redundancy).

It is, apparently, lunch-ish time when we arrive in Benoa, so we hunker down in the marina restaurant, and since we're both a little mie gorenged out, Eric orders a tuna sandwich, and I have a BLT (which comes without mayo, and is thus a crime against humanity).

When we're told to board, Eric cautions me to sit in the rear of the boat so as to avoid seasickness, and though I'm usually ill-inclined to prudence, I defer to his greater experience. This trip, I've learned a number of things, that 1) drinking excessively disagrees with me, 2) I am capable of burning, especially under the equatorial sun, and 3) Eric knows a shit-ton about travel.

I don't get sea-sick. There's no way of telling whether it's because I simply don't, or because of the motion-sickness tablet that Eric made me take that morning, or because I'm sitting in the stern.

Shortly after we leave port, one of the crewmen crawls over the engines and performs a subdued ritual, dropping flowers off the stern and murmuring a prayer. I don't think it was for our benefit, but rather, a real custom. (INSOFAR AS RITUALS ARE REAL AS OPPOSED TO SIMPLY EXISTING WITHIN THE REALM OF A LACANIAN SYMBOLIC--AAHH!)



I am, as usual, seduced by the boat-ride, every moment before this, the two and a half day flight to get to Bali, the miserable night spent listening to elevator music while trying to sleep on the carpeted floor of Singapore's Changi Airport, the room-spinning hangover of my first evening here, all of it transubstantiated into a vacation Eucharist.

[grin]

Melodramatic, much?

Whatever; I lerve it.

Sitting astride the port, one leg curled around the railing, one hand gripping the pole, I trail my left foot in the spray, periodically getting walloped with a particular strong surge. The crew grins at me as they monkey up and down from the top deck, stepping over me each time, and comment on the fact that I'm enjoying the ride. I alternate between this exhilaration (a name of a brand at Target, btw), and falling back into the cushions, letting my hand drift in the wind, letting it float in the updraft, reveling in what feels like exquisite happiness.

Arriving at Lebongan: