Capek deh & Kuta... (Indonesian slang & Kuta)

It's hard to leave sleepy, small Amed...and my fabulous-fun-time scooter rides. Bags are packed up once more. We say our goodbyes (and at their request, take final pictures to make our pretend "husbands" at home jealous...;) to our exceptionally flirty Balinese hosts, who - even in their tireless quest for female attentions -- are just as devout in their religious duties; visiting the temples until late in the day, dropping off breakfast with jokes and fanfare only to return later to say quiet prayers as they seriously pile fresh offerings on our room's shrine...much to my genuine surprise.

We pile into the van of friend of one of the Bali boys. He apologizes as he quickly stops 30 minutes later, to swing by a friend's house on our way. Tidak apa apa! (It's no problem) we laugh and sit back for a long drive south. Despite surviving Bali driving as a passenger and a driver for the last three weeks, this guy puts all our nerves to the test.

We race between scooters and truck caravans. Careening through stop lights and passing on corners, uphill, and repeatedly coming within inches of destruction, all while he laughs and signs off-key to Indonesian punk-rock.When we both spot the "Rancid" sweatshirt, we laugh. We practice Indonesian -- he teaches us slang. He teaches us to say "Capek deh" (sounds like chop-it deh) to taxi requests and just general frustration in general but it's difficult to get an exact translation on what it means exactly. When traffic slows to a halt, he shouts, Capek deh!

In the increasing hot day and I start to doze in the front seat. We lazily start a "from the moving car" bad-photos-for-the-heck-of-it shoot of streetside randomness of driving three hours across the island. We leave the parched, desert-like east and head through lush, rice fields and mountains again. Cars, trucks piled high, moto-bikes speeding by, and people working, carrying massive loads stream by. Driving is a colorful collage, constantly changing. I can feel the trip winding down in my aching head and muscles. I'm tired, honestly, thoroughly tired. I've learned a new language, made new friends, I've traveled, worked, written, photographed. I've celebrated, eaten, laughed, cried. I've swam, driven, walked, dived. In every instance of every moment, I have tried my best to push myself a little further to new levels. The last few weeks have been infinitely beautiful, challenging and I've learned some unforgettable things about myself, others, and this lovely world. I laugh at myself. Maybe it's ok to just be tired now. Maybe it's ok to not push for a little while. I close my eyes and free my body to sway in time with the crazy, speeding van. Indonesian punk rock changes, surprisingly, to a worn Cold Play tape?! I guiltily force myself to admit as cheezy as I think they are, I like the words to the song, in fact it somewhat fits the dramatic scenery, the vibrant people flying by, the thoughts in my head, the day's journey:

Give me time, give me space Give me real, don't give me fake Give me strength, reserve, control Give me heart and give me soul .............. Open up your eyes But give me love over this

Kuta was the last minute, we-just-need-somewhere-easy-to-stay-close-to-the-airport-before-flying-out-because-we're-too-tired-to-think-or-make-any-other-decisions kind of decision. Despite numerous warnings to not stay in Kuta, whatever you do, don't stay in Kuta...we do it anyway. It's just easy. But when we arrive to a polluted beach town, streets and walkways choked with noisy traffic and hoards of pale tourists sporting bad tans and worse silicon enhancements with equally bad manners -- after the peaceful, beach days in Amed we are all shocked and a little sad. The only redeeming factor here is our air conditioned hotel room and the swimming pool. At the pool, after I've had enough of the kids splashing, I run and cannonball into the deep end (that'll show them!). When I come up for air, I get a "Good on ya" from Rich, the tanned, buff Aussie surfer lounging in the corner. We chat about surfing and Indonesia. He's been to Indonesia 8 times. I'm impressed. I ask where he's been, in between gulps of water that I immaturely spit out, impersonating a fountain.

He waves his hand around the pool, Kuta. Oh and I've been up to Semiyak. He adds.

I choke on a gulp of water as I laugh and have to dive underwater to save face.

Oh....Really?! (Semiyak is a few miles north of drunken, flashy Kuta. The guide book condescends to describe it as even MORE fake and MORE plastic than the parade of tanned, silicon, made-up throngs of Kuta party-goers). When I recount the story to Christine and Jo later, we get a good laugh. I'm a little relieved it's not just Americans who live sheltered travel lives.

Later we run into Rich and his friend Luke, surfboards in tow. I hang on their every word about the surf, but after watching a few power close-outs on the beach I'm so desperately tired (in every possible dimension) already that I make no effort to surf myself despite the huge desire. The guys think I'm crazy. But it's just not been that kind of trip...and I've had plenty of gorgeous surf trips to gloat over in my past. So I keep telling myself, I'll come back to Indonesia later, check out the other islands and surf, Christine and Jo and I have this idea of renting real motorcycles and touring the other islands next time.

As Rich and Luke talk, they're joined by two young looking girls, beautiful smiles but shy Indonesians who speak halting English. It gives me sick little stomach chills. Seeing these two everyday guys sporting what seems like an obvious third-world booty call. The girls are seem super sweet and kind. Ugh. I'm intensely intrigued by the whole interaction. Rich's self-absorbed and utter lack of personal interest in the girls--aside from the sexual--when he asks me for some of the slang I'd jokingly used to flip him off, earlier. I won't tell him. Instead, I greet them with Salamat Malam and we're off, making small talk in Indonesian. After growing comfortable with the really basic phrases and words in the past weeks, it's funny to think how foreign it sounds to the unfamiliar. But I think I see this register on Luke's face as his jaw drops lower and lower when both guys are forced into uncomprehending, awed silence.

Over dinner at a crowded, loud bar that plays comically tragic American hip hop (some refrain about "she was a white girl with a booooooty!") to drunk and smoking Australians--Christine, Jo and I laugh at the Aussies, the perpetual night-life parade that is Kuta lives up to every bad review we'd heard before arriving. Then we try to make the best of it. I realize I forgot my Indonesian dictionary and run back, through the chaotic Kuta night, to get it.As I watch the dizzying display of Aussie's gone wild against the backdrop of assimilated Indonesians -- I realize this too is part of the adventure. This too is part of what I need to experience, for some reason. I think about what it might be, what I want it to be.(This is the bad to balance out all the amazing good I've been handed this last month. Time to pay your dues, Hoya! I laugh even as I'm repulsed by the whole scene.) I realize that all of this is making me appreciate Amed and Ubud, my Indonesian lessons, midnight ceremonies, walks with Anni and Oka, silk sarongs, far off temples, smiles from strangers, spicy fish, front porch afternoons, joking with children, sharing new food and words with adults. I realize that I've been able to experience something many of these people will never know or see...maybe even never want to know or see. It's a little sad, but also makes it that much more special to me.

Over dinner we decide to make the most of it. At my request, Jo starts teaching me "Australian" as I work on my accent for the next day -- to the utter amusement of everyone listening, including our next door Aussie neighbor who tells me I sound a bit "pommy" (ie. British, which is bad...) when I ask him to "Git me a glass of watah, mate". By the end of the day--in between practicing Indonesian with increasingly impressed hotel staff--we have the pool-side Aussies stopping by to give us more slang, tips and words to practice. Christine and Jo's last 24 hours in Bali tick down to a stop as we swim, talk and drink the final mango juice cocktails of our trip together. I watch them leave and feel little pangs of sadness. But we all feel like we'll be traveling together again, it's just a matter of when. Not if.

I try to distract myself with work or writing. But I'm too tired to do either. So I walk through the sweaty-hot streets of Kuta, snapping shots and thinking a bit on things, life, and such.