Have a 3:45 wake-up, so we can make it to Denpesar Airport for our 6:10 flight. This is slightly easier for me, as Eric was "busy" last night at a chalet.
We shuffle down an empty side street to the main drag. Still no vehicles.
Finally, a private car slows, and I approach it to ask for a ride to the airport when a cab finally swings past. My civilian driver, moments from earning a fare, noting, "oh, taxi," waves me on.
People so nice here.
At Lion Air, they scan our baggage, but do neither a liquids check, nor do they...even check my ID. I think you have to be carrying a cannonball with a lit fuse and screaming "72 virgins" in order to attract the notice of security.
It’s a short hop from the Jogya airport (it looks like the name’s not been standardized, and I spot three different spellings) to our hotel, the Peti Mas. We marvel at the stupendous air conditioning, its intensity, the pure pleasure of it after days of humidity, and the quantity of toilet paper in the bathroom. It looks like the hording I’ve been doing (the roll I brought from home, as well as the half-finished rolls I’ve been pilfering from our multitudinous lodgings, were quite unwarranted.
David, Eric’s friend currently residing in Singapore and making a living as a Bikram yoga instructor, has arrived already and when he returns, we set out to gather some intelligence about the area.
There's a nearby mall with amazing...donuts, sez David. And so we're off to feast on all manner of J.CO's wee donuts with flavors ranging from chocolate, tiramisu, green tea, mango with...cheesy cream (?) to savory cheese, to an absolutely foul pizza flavor called "Mona Pisa" and described as a "striking rosy beauty with tomato-cheese spread and chopped chicken sausages."
A stroll down Malioboro Jalan generates an onslaught of haranguing, mostly from becak, or pedicab, drivers. We walk in the endless heat, maneuvering our way through incessant traffic (Times Square ain’t got nothin’ on this shit), past colonial (Dutch) era structures bright white in the noonday sun, and I’m about to collapse from the effort of keeping up with tall men with long strides while wearing flip flops.
My resolution to eat durian in Indonesia is ultimately fruitless; this is the closest I get to eating the stanky stank:
We pause to gawk at some fashion show nightmare, something more tawdry pageant--rhinestones! satin! too much eyeshadow!--than fashion, and David goes to town with his SLR, click-clicking away, his shutter fluttering...
There are a bunch of buskers--I dunno what the name is for folks who aren't performing, just scamming--suffice it to say, everyone wants to show us something. One dude tells us that the Palace is closed--it’s not--and wants to take us somewhere to “show us something.” Another informs us that he’ll take us to the Palace and that he lived near Barack Obama, whose residence he’ll show us if we want, which is funny because Obama lived in...Jakarta, on the Western end of the island. Lies, all of it, though it’s probably something I would’ve fallen for had I not been accompanied by two travel-hardened souls. Everyone’s trying to earn a commission from guiding tourists to batik shops, silver shops, even to the easily accessible bird market (teeming with maggots and crickets, and no doubt, avian flu).
The Sultan Palace is unimpressive and Eric and David snark the entire time. I, on the other hand, decide to take the high road and indulge in simpler pleasures, such as photographing the display of MSG, as well as cackling like a 12 year old boy about homographs.
After the bird market--
bad smells! crawly bugs! captured birds!--we break for lunch, stopping first at Legian Restaurant (which looks completely unappetizing) before moving on to "New Superman's."
Look, how delicious! Indonesian pizza!
[head, desk]
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