Laki-Laki and Amed (Boys and Amed)

A whirlwind of activity, bags are packed, last minute errands, we watch a man shimmy up a tall coconut tree trunk outside the villa to cut down coconuts -- only rough ropes tied around his feed to keep tension for the climb -- and we leave the villa. It's bittersweet. I'm craving freedom and look forward to new travel and adventure with my girls. But after three weeks, it's sad to say goodbye to Anni and Oka -- they've shown me so much.

At my request, Christine smuggled in an REI travel clock (for Anni) and a headlamp (for Oka). I give Anni and Oka final payment and a tip. I give Oka a pile of colorful pencils I'd brought over from the states, just in case, for his kids (anak) if they could use them? He grins and imitates their excitement. I also give Anni a pile of "small money" (anything under 10,000 rupiah, I'd been saving for two weeks after seeing Anni give her spare change to those she deemed worthy) and tell her it's for her to give away to the good people of Ubud, because I want her to save her tip for herself.

It's a three hour drive north-east to Amed, a tiny beach town, where we have no reservations. Instead Christine and I join Jo and thinking positive thoughts about finding a really great, cheap, beach room, next to the sea. We head over mountains, and tiny towns, along the turquoise coastlines. The scenery changes from lush and tropical to dry and deserty. Only two brief showers in the last 6 months, giant palms become sparse and withered. Dark volcanic mountainsides are terranced with dried rice fields and feels something like a cemetery. Tiny shacks made from palm fronds and corrugated metal line the streets. Brown cows stand idle. People bathe from street gutters as scooters stream by.

We step out of the car to oppressive heat. We check with three hotels. Tired, we settle on the cheapest run by three mid-twenties, T-shirtless Balinese boys (the word for boy is laki-laki and is right up there on my growing list of double-words I like: hati-hati, cupu-cupu, cudong-cudong, jalan-jalan, pulong-pulong...) who are quite obvious flirts used to getting female attention. We use it to our advantage and get a private bungalow ten steps to the beach for $10 each/night for the next two nights. I hug Anni and Oka, thanking them over and over and wishing them well...

That night I taste my first fresh barracuda sauted in garlic. We trade piles of fresh mango for glasses of fresh mango juice (an amazing $.80 each). We practice Indonesian with pleased locals. We walk on the beach and watch the sunset over the enormous, surreal volcano. It's too beautiful for words.

The only downside is the lack of internet. My internet solution doesn't get a signal like I was told it would (Frustration!). Christine and Jo head out on scooters for the day. I am determined to work. Until I get fed up with paying by the minute at the hotel next door. It's time for "Plan B", walk around asking for the location of the only wireless signal and offer them money to use it.

I set out with my camera and start asking, in Indonesian, for the Amed Dive Shop (the name on the wireless signal I found). I'm told it's maybe 2KM west, so I head west down a remote road through dusty fields and sea-salt production plants (ie. coconut trunks cut in half and left baking in the Amed sun until only crystals remain), talking to locals who curiously peek heads out of doors and windows. When they realize the tall white girl speaks Indonesian, I draw tiny crowds. They eagerly point west to the dive shop and as I walk the distance grows steadily less. Until one man, scratches his head and points back in the direction I'd come from: 2KM.

The Indonesian art of never really saying no gets me. An afternoon lost as the sun starts to set and I stand in the nearly deserted road ready to laugh because I finally give up. There will be no internet and there will be very little work. I don't know what else to do but let go.

I turn around and start the walk back. Strangers on my walk out, most now greet me like old friends on my walk in. I'm invited to ceremonies and dinners. I'm invited to sit and drink iced tea. I'm invited by a man on a scooter to check out the temple with a 1,000 steps. It's on the top of the giant mountain, not far (on a scooter from here): Lempuyang Lehur. Amazing view. I thank him and remember to tell the girls when I get back. I turn down his advances to get a ride with him and keep walking.

There are three of them, about 20 or so, a concrete wall in the middle of a field hides their naked bodies from chest down. One boy tosses buckets of cold water to the other two, laughing and showering, boys. As I pass by, a murmur spreads through the ramshackle huts and the boys spot me. I laugh and wave and greet them in Indonesian. I keep the Indonesian tradition of never saying no and instead say "Nanti! Nanti!" as I keep walking

But they call back and wave at me. They want me to join them. They don't stop. The chorus rises from the houses around the shower -- as locals watch and cheer from front porches. I laugh it off. But they keep at it. The boys wave wildly and call "Hayyy Babbay!" in English.

What else is there to do - I reach for the tourist girl's only line of defense. I point the camera at them just as their ringleader thrusts himself up on the shower wall, over the fence. The houses, the boys, I erupt with laughter. I hear applause. I hear shrieks.

I lower my camera and he falls back behind the wall. It settles and I call out in Indonesian, to more neighborhood cheers:
"Tidak teri mi kasi!" (No thank you!)