Indonesia: Gilli Trawangan (Day 8 Super-cont'd, Monday, 080309)

Upon my arrival at Lightening (sp?) internet cafe, I'm addressed in Indonesian again, but they switch to English when I shake my head apologetically. I slip off my flip flops, then pad into a poorly-ventilated room to virtually interact with friends and my-one-family-member and bask in the lonely, blue glare of a computer screen.

Blah blah.

I'm reminded--again--of Indonesian economic realities. The 50,000 RP bill (around 5 USD) I try to use to pay for my 8,000 RP internet usage is deemed too big, and I have to scrounge around, finally identifying smaller denominations, all of them more worn than bigger bills, soft and wet-feeling in the hand.

Backtracking, I purchase two liters of water for 1,000 RP, and return to the bungalow by way of the beach, dangling my flips from the tips of my fingers. I'm avoiding Friendly Weed Guy because while there may not be any local law enforcement, I'm still in Southeast Asia, and frankly, I don't relish the thought of subsisting on Indonesian prison fare.

Because Indonesian food sucks already. So prison Indonesian food is probably like eating fermented leather sandals.

Maybe also because I'm a pussy.

Speaking of which, the strip is alive with them. Pussies, that is, felines. Tiny kitty cats pouncing in the gloaming, which of course puts me in a near-orgasmic frenzy, but Eric's warned me enough times to not touch strange animals, so I don't.



(Squee!)

But I want to. I really, really want to.

Moving right along. One of the highlights of my Indonesian Adventure is the following:



Okay, it's not exactly the most artfully composed shot, but it is what it is: an outdoor shower. Imagine that.

And then, imagine this: a night sky abloom with stars, warm, salty water, your skin goose-fleshing in the air, then tightening when the water evaporates.

I crawl into the mosquito-netted bed, dozing in and out of sleep, with call to prayer startling me--twice, I think--until Eric returns from diving to wrench me out of bed. I'm exhausted, but it is, apparently, only 8 pm, and we're off to dinner. What I have is an awful not-really-tandoori-tandoori-chicken (more curried than tandooried, and lacking the masala), and a soda water. The only saving grace the fact that we're recumbent on a beruga, a raised platform on stilts, making it very "exotic" and "authentic."

Or a tourist trap.

Back to the bungalow to play (lose at) rummy and continue list-making, top 10 people to bring back from the dead just so's you can smack 'em, top 10 favorite books, top 10 artists, etc.