Intersection of Travel and Class

The 8 dolla massage I received on arriving in Bali has oppressed me to no end.

It is, initially, quite lovely. The cresting and crash of waves just yards away, the single flower placed directly underneath the face rest, the ocean breeze...

the dry, incessant cough of your middle-aged masseur.

Despite the soporific effects of drink and jet lag, I tumble out of blissful stupor and into the grips of what Eric termed my "White Man's Guilt." Not being white, I think it may be more apt to consider it..."First World Guilt"? And complicated by, I think, the funny feeling that this woman might very well be my mother, that there, but for the grace of God go I--given the relative similarities in phenotype.

I become gregarious in my flurry of self-reproach. So, rather than wafting away on a sea of pleasure, I conversate.

She has two sons, one 17, the other 4. A husband who works hours at odds with hers. I joke about the lack of romantic prospects at this particular beach for me. She commiserates. She tells me that she wishes she had a daughter, because a daughter would understand her. I suppress the comment "don't count on it, lady," being an unfilial offspring myself. I chat for nearly an hour, and then tip so much it's likely vulgar.

It is here that I begin to see why the very wealthy cloister themselves away the way they do. I'm made ashamed by my relative ease, my ability to travel, my disposable income, the bottle of antidepressants in my bag. I can see why silence is a necessary trait of those who serve in the hospitality professions. I think we don't want to be reminded of our sameness; there, but for the grace of God...

I exit the room dimmed and diminished. Maybe humbled.

And even this, this remorseful navel-gazing, it's a luxury, isn't it?

Eric makes a perfectly valid argument about the benefits local folks gain from my tourist dollars, particularly when I patronize non-corporate businesses, how my masseur likely doesn't receive much business at this particularly locale, since it caters to gay men.

And to reach it's logical conclusion, it's ultimately more self-serving of me to not continue to get $8 massages simply because of the twinges of my conscience, but the next day, and the days that follow, when she comes and shakes my legs as I bask in the sun, asking me if I want another massage, I'll defer her, saying, brightly, "maybe later."

And then adorn that first layer of guilt with a fondant of worry that I've made her think that she's not a good masseur.

Neuroticism is definitely an affliction of the privileged, ain't it?

Indonesia: Bali (Day 3 Super-cont'd, Wednesday, 072909)

Travel buddy Eric's left me a business card scrawled with "I will be here waiting for you!"

So I dip into our room for a looksie, this room that Eric has, via email, assured me is much superior to the one we'd previously reserved.

It's dank and dreary, and sports a depressingly dim light, a fan, a burnt plate cum ashtray, and a slightly frightening looking bathroom.

I change out of my days-old outfit, into a bikini, tank, and shorts, switch the glasses for contacts, don my stunna shades, and make my way out to the main road, where I ask a European-looking man with family in tow whether there's a good place to hail a cab, since it's all single lane roads and it seems to me that one would not want to stop a taxi in the middle of this traffic; surely there's an area for stopping.

Oh, no. Not a problem. He tells me I can get a cab "anywhere," so, disconcerted, I raise my arm and quick as a wink, a taxi (along with all the cars and scooters behind him) rolls to a halt.

I tell the (new and nicer) cabbie to take me to Callego Massage and Warung on Petitenget Beach, Jl. Taman Ganesha/9, Kerobokan Kelod, Kuta.

The card informs me that they offer "Intensife Relaxing" and "Reflexologi," which is good, because I, funnily enough, am looking for some intensife relaxing.

The cabbie's name is Third, per Balinese naming practices, marking an affirmation of info found in both LP and that stupid book by that stupid woman, what is it called? Eat, Pray, Masturbate: One Woman's Inflated Sense of Entitlement Leading to a Book and Inevitably a Movie Starring Diane Lane?

Something like that.

He tells me, and this is more in keeping with the aforementioned cultural norm of openness I'd arrived in Indonesia expecting, that he lives far from his "bang" (which I can only infer means something along the lines of family home/complex), that he used to work in furniture with a Swedish guy, that he thought I was Jakartan until he heard me speak. Right on.

The ride totals 16,300 RP. Less than 2 bucks.

Arrive at Callego (hard "g" sound, not, as I keep attempting to say it, with a Spanish-y "h"), and, as I scan the area for Eric, I realize that Callego is a gay beach.

Of course.

You don't just share a flight with Elton John for no reason.

I bop Eric upside the head as he lies there in all his suntanned glory, and betwixt our gasps and gurgles, he's ordered me a Mai Thai and a massage.

I meet two locals, Ismael and Ryan (a 19 year old stripper, go go dancer, and McDonald's employee), Francois and Carlos, a couple from Sydney, and a random creepy guy who I'm pretty sure is a PLU, and yet has his hands all over me. I submit to his groping because 1) I presume here's merely being friendly and 2) I'm monstrously jetlagged and on my way to drunk.

The Mai Thai's followed by two Bali Sunrises, the last of which I inhale in one long draw, and which prevents me, as Eric recounts, from rising from the beach chair to gaze at my first Bali sunset (this, I do not recall until he reminds me the next day).

The last thing I remember of the evening is strapping on a helmut (Eric's very considerately brought two in anticipation of my arrival), clinging carelessly to Eric as he maneuvers us back to Seminyak, and loopily wondering at the palm-leaf trays of flower blossoms, rice, and incense placed on the roads.

Offerings placed on the ground are for the demons.

Indonesia: Bali (Day 3 Cont'd, Wednesday, 072909)

$65 for a last minute Garuda Airlines flight from Surabaya, Java, Indonesia to Denpasar, Bali.

(Interesting factoid: Garuda is the mythical bird that Vishnu rides, found in Hindu and Buddhist cosmology.)

I think I'm scammed out of 5 USD on my way to my gate, when a guy tells me I have to pay for "flight health insurance." He's sitting in a booth with another uniformed dude, but I'm less than convinced when I don't get any form/ticket/slip documenting this exchange of money; my flight's in final boarding, so I hand it over.

The boxed lunch/snack includes one of those Asian jelly/gel/jello food-like substances with small cubes of "coconut" (wow, it actually is coconut, specifically nata de coco), which I, using the tiny and unwieldy plastic spoon provided with it, slurp down messily and clumsily as I sit between 1) overweight, sweaty, sleeping Indonesian dude to my left and 2) slim, hairless, nervous at having to sit next to wide-eyed, bat-shit crazy English-speaking Chinese girl, Indonesian dude to my right. He helpfully tells the stewardess to give me an English-language newspaper when she offers me an Indonesian one.

This, after I ineffectually attempt to ask him how long it'll take to get to Bali. Speak English, goddamnit! I am in your country and you should be able to communicate with me. Memememememe.

(When it comes to the jello snack, I can probably down the thing in a single gulp, but I eat it decorously with the utensil so as not to be perceived to be the unseemly slut of an American whore that I am.)

It's 65,000 Rupiah for a ride from the airport to Seminyak.

Conversion is about 10,000 RP to the dollar, and, should you have any interest in going to Indonesia, they 1) give you a better rate for large American bills, but 2) frequently seem unable to make change for bills larger than 20,000 RP (2 bucks).

I've a distinct feeling that the cabbie does not like me. The LP about Indonesia, while not always accurate, is usually pretty on the mark with regards to describing cultural norms, and the Balinese are supposed to be super talkative and friendly.

The majority of our conversation focuses on my protesting that I'm just a poor public school teacher and his observing that while I am able to visit his country, he cannot do the same with mine. Touche.

So the cabbie is oppressed by me, and I'm oppressed by his oppression. And he doesn't know where Inada Losmen, #9, Gang Bima (cryptoanalysis: Losmen = family-owned, home-stay style accomodations, usually very cheap, Gang = street, Inada because family/owners are Japanese) is located, and says we'll have to call.

I ask him if he has a cell phone, and he responds that I'll have to pay extra.

[sigh]

Somehow, it doesn't seem too farfetched to expect that a cabbie should be able to locate a destination without the passenger having to pay additional for a phone call to find said destination that he should be able to locate, but whatever.

We make it, and he asks for 15,000 RP, and I give him 20. It's the first time he smiles.

Yes, I will pay you to like me, comparatively much more-oppressed person.

Indonesia: Singapore, Changi Airport, En Route (Day 3, Wednesday, 072909)

Despite Elton John's reassuring presence on my flight (it seems to me statistically unlikely that a plane could, would, should plummet into a fiery ball of jagged metal with Elton John on it), I haven't slept for most of the gajillion hour flight over the Pacific to Seoul, and now to Singapore's Changi Airport.

In fact, I've watched the following highly lauded and critically acclaimed films:

He's Just Not That Into You
Bride Wars
Push

It's about 1 a.m., my connecting flight to Surabaya, Indonesia isn't 'til 7:50, where I'll have to purchase a ticket to Denpasar, Bali, and I'm feeling like I've been bitch-slapped with a wrench.

Fortunately, a Lego exhibition, and what should greet me but the following:



There's this thing, it starts with a "d" and ends with an "-estiny," and it's exerting a powerful force on me, and will manifest itself throughout my trip.

After ineffectually contorting myself on a row of seats outside my gate, I curl up on the carpeted floor behind a pillar to eke out an hour and forty-five minutes of sleep--until the unrelenting whine of airport/elevator music inevitably bores its way deep into my brainpan, and forces me awake.

I do not smell good, and I'm starving.

I'm fundamentally opposed to eating at the Starbucks and the soup and sandwich place, so I find myself at this weird little coffee shop serving presumably Singaporean meals, but as it's 4:30, 5 a.m., none of the meals are available.

What are available are: chicken pies and curry puffs.

I opt for the curry puffs, because it sounds slightly more adventurous, and a tiny bottle of water.



Bad decision. This curry puff is like the retroactive catalyst of distaste for all the disgusting airplane food I'm devoured on the flight(s) over here. It's greasy and cold and lardy and off.

In my nearly three decades of life, I've convinced myself that all food (including airplane food, particularly if it's ethnic-inspired as is Singapore Air fare) is good, and this is my reckoning.

My phagomania and liberomanical desire to be open to all experiences has led me to this point, and oh, how I shall pay on this trip.

Returning to my gate, I drop in the bathroom to check on my hair, which I'm convinced is an oil slick, and come across an airport employee gobbling down a snack.

It brings new light to the aphorism "don't shit where you eat," and I say "hi," like it ain't no thing, and bounce out of there. I don't judge, cuz it's either that 1) the trickle-down policies of fascist-democracy Singapore has led to extremely limited break and meal times for employees, or 2) lady's on some other kind of kick.

And who am I to nitpick? I just et a curry-flavored Shit Pocket.

Indonesia: SFO, En Route (Day 1, Monday, 072709)

I watch a man gliding down the escalator with a mini entourage (a hippy-ish woman with her long, gray hair in a ponytail, an older gentleman in a cowboy hat).

The Important Personage is wearing: a loose-fitting black suit, shiny, red (and possibly glittery) trainers, a wide tie printed with piano keys, and rose-colored glasses. In his left ear dangles an earring of an inverted cross.

He floats up and down the escalator a couple of times, and I become increasingly agitated. Is it like Michael Jackson impersonators? I mean, surely his wardrobe is too stereotypically him and contrary to the Incognito Celeb.

And could I be the only one who recognizes him? There's not even a flicker of recognition on the part of the other bystanders.

But we are at the International Terminal of SFO, after all, and everyone here is Asian and thus, obligatorily ignorant of the identity of this man.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, it's Elton John.

After consulting Tony over the phone, I stalk over and ask his cowboy henchman if he is "who I think he is." Cowboy Henchman coyly smiles and says, "maybe." I ask if he would mind taking a photo with me, because I'm polite like that, and Cowboy Henchman shakes his head in the negative.

We conversate briefly, I asking Elton if he's headed to Bali, he responding with, no, Kathmandu. A google search confirms it: his AIDS Foundation.



(He touched my back!)

This is the best vacation ever. I may as well get back on the BART and head home.