Indonesia: Gilli Trawangan (Day 9, Tuesday, 080409)

Wake to find Eric's left to dive again. There's five minutes left to breakfast hour, but I don't want to be a pushy tourist, so I satisfy myself with the mangosteens bought two days ago in Ubud.

When Eric returns, we return to Snapper Bungalow for more guava juice and a fried fish platter.



Not exactly sampling much of the regional delicacies, but pleasant enough, except for a trio of Spaniards arguing with a scuba/snorkeling provider. The men are all "puta mascara" and calling the local a "payaso" and foam-flecked lips because there's some disagreement about the non-return of a snorkeling mask or somesuch. The woman, of course, is relatively more conciliatory and makes some propitiating gesture of cash money.

Relax, people.

I wonder how it is that only Americans have earned the reputation as assholes abroad.

We break for the beach--Eric's off shortly for another dive--and I set up camp a short distance from a group of Brits.



There’s a particular breed of Brit that travels here, poncy and posh, drawling in round and elongated Oxbridgian tones, none of the clip and garble of the Mancunian, or residents of other industrial revolution type towns.

The Poncy Posse keep creeping forward, shifting their lounge chairs, following the movement of the sun, and I endure their plummy voices and cigarette smoke until I start feeling grateful for the American Revolution and finally decide to flee.

When Eric returns, we grab a quick snack at the suggestively named "Horizontal," shrimp skewers, bad onion rings, and papaya juice. Rummy.

Then a nap before...uh...real dinner on the southern end of the strip. An Australian owned restaurant at Scallawag's, plastered with cheeky signage boasting the quality of the place's food. We've met up with two older French tourists, Philippe and Joelle, whom Eric met while diving. The three of them wax eloquent about the far-flung locales they've traveled to, comparing notes and such, while I feed a pair of strays my fish of unknown provenance.

Philippe and Joelle are both teachers, but Joelle's currently teaching in Barcelona, while Philippe works in Rouen, Normandy. They regale us with stories of...cleaning (human) bones for cremation with a kris dagger while on Bali, and Philippe keeps waggling his fingers and making sound effects of mock horror and disgust.

I expect him at any moment to let out a "ZOINK," at which point I will fall over in a paroxysm of giggling.