Indonesia: Gilli Trawangan (Day 11, Thursday, 080609)

It’s our last day on Trawangan. Breakfast = fried egg, tomato, and shallot (???) on toast and a papaya, orange smoothie. And the remaining mangosteen. We leave to confirm our flight from Denpesar to Yogyakarta (pronounced Joe-jia, not Yo-jia), but are foiled again, and return to the room to pack, and convince a trio of white European chicks to take the room for 450,000 RP a night (45 bucks). They’re unconvinced, and we’re off to await the BlueWater Express.

Mm, fake Pringles.


I’m sitting astride starboard again—-the same side I sat coming-—in a vain and ill-conceived attempt to catch some rays. Eric insists I’ll fall off, so I slide back onto the seats, lie down, and proceed to pass the fuck out. Next thing I know, I’m filled to the brim with piss (and vinegar?) from the watermelon juice we had while waiting on the BWE. (Incidentally, I saw them adding simple syrup to the blender while making my juice, and saw therein all my illusions of “fruit is sweeter than usual because it’s a tropical country and closer to nature and thus creates superior harvest”…dashed.)

It’s a slightly less charming speedboat ride this time around, partly because going towards azure waters is typically better than leaving it, and mostly because I’m sitting in the shady, chilly side while still getting doused in spray.

We cab back from the dock in Benoa and return to Seminyak, and our home away from home, Inada Losmen, drop our bags, and head immediately for Callego Beach, where we bake pleasantly for a few hours, and Eric consumes his fish in garlic, butter sauce with mushroom and spinach, and I make an ill-fated decision to have the…chicken Cordon Bleu. With fries.

Adi’s back again—-the dude from the jungle—-and we’re invited to a party, an invitation to which I promptly send my regrets (in my mind). Adi’s “darlings” and his kiss-kissing, it’s not grating per se, there’s just something so affected about it. Colonialism? I don’t know.

And then we’re off again, with me still feeling guilty for not getting a massage and making the lady’s day. Eric showers, and we take a brief stroll around town, scrutinizing the goods on display, mostly slutty dresses for foreigners.

Eric and I split up, he to his party, and I to continue my stroll.

There comes a time, I think, when there’s little that makes you feel simultaneously “grown-up” and as though there are infinite possibilities still in store. Walking around another country by myself is one of those few things for me, and it’s pleasant.

Stopping by a K-mart (no relation), I’m spoken to in Indonesian by the clerk as I’m checking out, so I give, again, my apologetic smile, a shake of the head, and squint at the display for the price of my water. The refrain: “Where are you from?” And again, my hesitating response, where I try to choose from four options: US? California? Oakland? New York?

“You look like an Indonesian,” he says, gesturing to his face. I smile; it’s good, if only for the purposes of my ongoing tanning venture.

The Bali and Lombok LP gets packed away tonight. It's Indonesia LP from here on out.