Dear Sonny,
I’m sorry how things turned out I couldn’t stay and face the draft. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep up my side of things. I guess a lot of people are a little more than disappointed in me.
Now I’ve got a lot of learning to do. And Bali’s a good place to do it.
In any case, I’m not the guy you once knew. I am stripping everything down to the basics and starting all over.
Love, Nicholas
PS. Please destroy this letter after you’ve read it. I’d hate the draft board to know where I am.
In the morning, we are up early. We can’t wait to explore the market in Denpasar—Bali’s main city.
The light is exquisite as we pass the rice fields.
“Oh man, is this ever great,” Eddie says and swings his suntanned body outside the back of the bemo.
He shouts and sings Handel’s Messiah with absolute joy. I love that about Eddie; he doesn’t hold back. He motions to me to join him, and I hang out the other side and snap some pictures. The other passenger (an old farmer with a bale of cane) doesn’t know what to make of us.
A truckload of young soldiers passes us. They look down from the truck and glare at us. They wear green uniforms about two sizes too small and carry old rifles. I wonder if Vietnamese soldiers look like that? Very intense. Even scary. I wouldn’t want to mess with them.
The muffler-less bemo sounds like a chain saw ruining the tranquility of the countryside. Talking is pointless. White exhaust fumes curl up and around the back of the bemo, forcing us to sit down and cover our faces. The roads are filled with potholes after the rains.
Bam! Bam! Kabam! If there were ever any shocks on the bemo they’re certainly gone by now.
We are green with nausea by the time we arrive twenty minutes later. We get out. Eddie sticks his fingers down his throat and throws up his banana pancakes.
“Try it, you’ll feel better.”
He’s right. The cold clammy feeling passes, and I feel great. Great to be in Bali.
We walk around Denpasar to get the lay of the land. The city is terribly congested. Bali is just as crowded as Java, with about 2 million people crammed onto an island the size of Delaware. We can’t wait to visit the three towering volcanoes in the middle of the island and to walk across the fertile green rice fields.
Today is market day. Push or be pushed, we make our way through the crowded market. Village women display jackfruit, durian, oranges, mangos, papaya, bananas (a dozen varieties), coconuts, lemons, and pomegranates. Eddie walks through the market surreptitiously squeezing the fruit and eyeing the women. We are hot and sweaty from the heat.
There are heaps of herbal concoctions that boggle the imagination. A polluted river next to the market sends up an unbelievable stench. Several women stand at the side of the river, pull back their sarongs, and relieve themselves. Jeez! We’re talking funky. Packs of semi-wild Bali dogs scavenge and fight over the remains.
I want to get a sarong. We buy several but we’re not sure how to tie them. A market hag with red, betel-nut-stained teeth cackles as she carefully folds then ties mine. Looks pretty good.
Eddie buys some kreteks, Indonesian clove cigarettes. We each light one up.
“These aren’t real cigarettes, more like candy cigarettes,” justifies Eddie, who doesn’t really smoke. They give off a wonderful scent which permeates your clothes all day.
Denpasar has gone cosmopolitan. The government workers prefer white shirts and black trousers, which they think give them a modern look and the right to look down on sarongclad farmers, craftsmen, and food vendors. We strut along in our purple and orange sarongs. Power to the people.
We come to a large open field, a square in the middle of town. On the other side is the Denpasar museum. We enter through a large gate. Inside are two large, masked ritual creatures. One is a very frightening woman with bulbous eyes, fangs, long fingernails, and a long red tongue. She’s covered in hair. The other is a kind of lion creature like those you’d see at Chinese New Year.
A guide comes smiling, “Salamat pagi, darimana tuan?”
“Salamat pagi. Saya dari Salt Lake City,” replies Eddie confidently.
The guide speaks no English but we come to understand the two creatures are Rangda and Barong. Lining the walls of the museum are displays of shadow puppets and magic kris (daggers). I wonder whether this stuff is old or still used in Balinese ceremonies.
We stop at a warung (tea stand) in the street for some high octane kopi susu, which is essentially raw coffee grounds in a glass of milky hot water. I’ve learned that if you let the grounds settle to the bottom of the glass before drinking, you won’t have to spend the rest of the day picking coffee grounds from between your teeth. It’s pretty powerful stuff. My stomach starts to gurgle. I look around for a toilet, but there’s nothing in sight.
A crowd starts to gather around us. Knowing he is being studied, Eddie pulls out his cigarette-rolling machine, and begins a performance. With every move, the audience grows bigger. Concentrating intensely, Eddie begins by opening the tobacco pouch and religiously rations out its contents into the machine. He delicately takes the white rolling paper from its package and gently lays it in the slit in the roller. Next he exercises his fingers until they are ready to twist the machine, which eventually births a cigarette. Continuing, he then slowly raises it to his lips, lights it and savors the taste before exhaling the smoke. The audience coos with every move and cheers on the exhalation. Eddie loves making a spectacle.
When we are ready to leave, a mob follows us.
“Hey, man,” I say, “this is kinda scary. Now I know how the Beatles must feel.”
Eddie and I walk faster and faster. The crowd follows. Kids shout, “Minta wang, minta wang.” (Give me money). We start running. Several dozen crazed young men chase us. It’s getting out of hand. We’re sprinting now. We duck into a funky tourist restaurant. A toilet at last! The crowd disperses.
I look at Eddie. “That was close.”
He is sweating like crazy and he’s out of breath. So am I.
“What do you think they would have done with us,?” he asks between pants. He makes a face and we can’t hold back the laughter.
We tuck in our shirts and smooth back our hair. The smell of chicken saté gets Eddie’s attention. We look around and see we are at The Three Sisters. A sign shows it’s famous for its magic mushroom omelets. Three vivacious siblings run back and forth taking orders and delivering food.
We order nasi goreng (fried rice) and mie goreng (fried noodles and vegetables), saté, and more coffee.
This is obviously a popular hangout; between the flirting and socializing, it’s the place to be. There’s not much to it: cobalt blue tables with benches, a coffee-tin can stuffed with dirty forks, and paper napkins. There’s a seedy, but necessary pit stop like this in every Asian city where unofficial information is shared between travelers.—where to stay (cheap, cheapest, free), buy dope and/or sex, extend your visa, or learn what’s happening in Thailand or India. I like to go to these places for a day or two, compile information, and then get off the beaten path.
Eddie isn’t comfortable here with the other foreigners. Bali is his discovery. Everyone else can buzz off. Period.
Eddie is still hungry and orders second, then third portions of everything and eats with a ravenous appetite. He can really put it away.
Several teenage boys are hanging around the table marvelling at how much Eddie can eat.
As