My Flickr account is currently in need of an upgrade, the picks I took weren’t super spectacular, and I couldn’t get the underwater turtle shots I wanted anyway, so I’ll try and paint this post with words.

For actual Christmas day I was here on Bali. While there are some lights and things around, it didn’t feel like Christmas at all: 82 degrees and raining. I went to an overpriced Xmas dinner at Alley Cats, Skyped my family in the States and turned in. The next morning I was packed and up, heading to Padang Bai by 9 AM. I was able to board the ferry quickly but we had to wait about an hour to depart. During that time, an Australian traveller, Michelle, showed up and introduced herself. The conversation made the four hour journey go more quickly and hopefully she’ll set me up with some tips when I get down there next month. She works for an NGO on Lombok building water tanks for small rural villages.

There was a light drizzle when we arrived at Lembar, so I did up my raincoat, fueled up and headed for the mountains. I turned East more quickly than I’d intended and was soon on the road to Praya, far south of where I wanted to be, so I cut North toward Mt. Rinjani which I could get glimpses of now and again through the clouds. As the road gradually climed, I was in beautiful rice field country, Lombok’s grain belt as it were. My “map” was a photocopy out of a Lonely Planet which lost ink in the creases and was slightly dampened each time I pulled it out. The town I was heading for, south of the mountain, was in the shadowed crease of the book anyway, negative space on a photocopy. But after stopping to ask a few times, I pulled into Tetebatu just before dusk, the rain having ceased and the sunset shooting some color into the think clouds.

Tetebatu was sleepy. I actually couldn’t buy beer in any of the stores and had to pay too much from the restaurants. Intending to save some money on dinner, I ate in a family’s home behind a small store. When I asked if they had Nasi Campur, they said yes, asked me in, rolled out a mat on the floor and I was left with the basic English of the teenage son while they fired up the stove to make a dinner for one. It was in retrospect a store, not a restaurant, but the enterprising owner saw a chance to make a profit and improvised. In the end it was too much, but under the circumstances I didn’t bitch. They also had cable Tv, which they turned to an English channel and I saw a bit of a Canadian production of Patrick Stewart in some sort of smallpox movie. Back at the room I had a few beers and listened to Selected Shorts.

Now, I am used to the pre-dawn call to prayer. On Bali, I live close to a Muslim neighborhood, and there is a large Hindu temple as well. So depending on the day, I might get morning serenades of both variaties. I’ve learned to sleep through, or to only be minorly anoyed by the sounds, then drift back off. At times I’ve actually found it soothing. But tiny Tetebatu seemed to have six mosques, all with amazing sound systems, and blasted the town not only with competeing calls to prayer echoing off the mountain, but also angry sounding speeches that went on and on. I eventually got back to sleep and woke up around 8. After breakfast and strong kopi Lombok, I headed out.

Michelle had warned me about getting over the mountain pass to the North side on my automatic bike, claiming I’d need a manual, as I definitely did on Flores. Rinjani is among the ten highest mountains in Indonesia. But locals I asked seemed to think my Vario would be OK. Just to watch out, as it was the rainy season. I’d intended to try, also to see some cool valley towns on the way, but with my pathetic map and poor signage, I soon realized I could see the sea and decided to just zip around on the coastal road. I’d loose some time, burn some more cheap fuel, but it would certainly be easy on the bike. Halfway around, I passed a few guesthouses Michelle had mentioned and considered staying, the plan being to hire a boat that would take me to some small mangrove islands on the East coast which are fish hatcheries. But it wasn’t even yet noon and I kept going. I ate some lunch and turned south a bit later. Now the raod was steeply climbing, I knew I was close to Sanaru. But I wasn’t. Seeing a buleh on the side of the road, I stopped to ask where I was and he confessed he didn’t know, as he’d been hiking in the Rinjani wilderness. But he assured me he we weren’t in Sanaru, because he was just about to get a ride there. A local looked at my pathetic, deteriorating photocopy and I realized I’d turned left too soon and was now on the mountain pass road I’d missed before, only now heading south. So I just followed Canadian Tad and his driver Mr. Morris back the way I’d come, a bit more on the coastal road, then turned onto the proper road south to Sanaru. They’d got ahead of me when I refueled, and it was raining again as I pulled into town, so I stopped at one of the first few places I saw and got a room.
It turned out to not be the best choice. But after a nap I felt OK. I headed out to explore the “town” really one long road up to the mountain, eventually ending in an area that became hiking only.

Later I found Tad again and we drank beer and fooled around on his computer at the one place in town that had wifi. I ended up moving in there the next day as it was a better room at a lower price. The next morning, I went to see a local waterfall before the afternoon rain started. There is a common scam in all of these places where locals will try and convince you a guide is needed to see the better waterfall. I turned down their offer, content to just walk the easy route to the first for only the small entrance fee. I could see from photos on the displays that the second really did seem to be better. A bunch of teenagers showed up, possibly a school outing, the girls in headscarves shooting photos of one another on their handphones, which were most likely instantly uploaded to facebook. I don’t know why it seemed weird: Muslims are not Omish. But somehow the conservatism links them in my mind. They were for the most part happy, chaste, goofy kids much like any in the west, only wearing headscarves, much as a Christian kid might wear a cross. Not a big deal.

I could see where a trail ran off, obviously to the second waterfall. I didn’t intend to go the entire way, but headed down for a bit. Soon I came to a very steep concrete stairway that rose up to an aquaduct crossing the narrow valley. I climbed up and saw where the water went into the side of the mountain, and across the way it had come. A small stream crossing a narrow concrete span, the water visible through partitions in the structure thicker than railroad ties but occuring with the same frequency. This was the way forward. I wasn’t worried about the width of the walkway, every other step having to balance to the next thick area, or the height of the drop off to the right to the valley floor. But I wondered about the strength of the entire thing. It seemed a bit like those impossible stone spans in Mordor ever disintigrating as the monsters close in. So I only went out part way and turned back. I did shoot some video perhaps I’ll post later to see if my description does justice. Back at the main path I posed for some photos with still more teenagers (this is common here, “Have your photo taken with the Buleh you will never see again…”) then followed the waterway a bit in the other direction. It cut back into the mountain side again, with hollows dug out every 3 meters or so I assumed to be able to get in and clear obstructions when they clogged the flow. I saw some monkeys while heading back to the entrance. Macaws seem to be in any mountainous region of Indonesia, though it feels more like forest than jungle to me. Back at the start, I described the aquaduct to the gate guy and he sheepishly told me I was only about 5 minutes from the second waterfall. But I didn’t feel like turning back, it was getting hot and might rain any minute, though by chance it held off most of that day. So I guess the 100k guide fee was just for a local to stand there and say “be careful” as you make the perilous crossing. Or maybe he’ll go get help to haul your broken ass out if you fall…

I chilled out reading until Tad showed up again and we had the same routine, he Skyping folks back home, me checking a bit of mail, until it was timne to begin with the drink. I’d found some cheaper beers down the hill in “town” and we ended up splitting a bottle of rice wine as well. He told tales of Canadian tree planting in Alberta and his current job for a tour company working as a guide in Thailand. As a lone wolf, it’s not the way I’d choose to travel, but it seems like a hell of a job.

The next morning I was ready to head out for Bangsal and catch the boat to first Gili Air to pick up weed, then Gili Meno where I would stay. But I saw Mr. Morris who was going to give Tad a ride, so I waited a bit and rode with them, stressed I would miss the early boat out. But there turned out to be several. Tad and I parted ways there, he heading for Gili T (the party island) to meet friends and I on my own mission. On G. Air I turned down one offer, to seek out the guy I’d scored from before. I was pleased to learn his son had been born healthily since last I’d seen him six weeks ago. He was sick and I gave him some cold medicine. But he still wanted a bit more for what turned out to be around the same amount of weed as before. Well it’s hard to tell without a scale, so many stems and seeds. I was cleaning it in the restaurant, behind the counter, nervous as hell already, when he came over to quickly through a bunch of stems away when some older guys approached. They didn’t have uniforms exactly but matching shirts. I turned out they were the tax men, and he just laughed as I nervously shoved it all into baggies and got the fuck out of there. “It’s Ok brother, no worries”, as they all say there. But of course, this would be one of the last things you hear before getting thrown into the hellhole of an Indonesian prison, where the death penalty for such offenses is definitely on the table. I managed to roll a pinner despite the absurd wind and sucked it down while waiting on the boat over to Gili Meno. I listend to some Sasak music I got off a guy back in Sanaru.

So the next four days were bliss on Gili Meno. I pondered how I might lure Michelle, who has never been out to the Gili’s, out for New Years eve. But how charming can I be via SMS? I went snorkelling several times each day and blazed epic joints. Luckily I wasn’t as overwhelmed as I had been before and enjoyed myself more than stressed. It got to the point I would spot a turtle within ten minutes of getting in the water and would follow him around a while. They are so utterly gracefully, slowly glidding through the water, much like birds. I was tempted to reach down and hold the shell for a ride, but they usually stayed just out of reach, turning slightly with the potential of a bite, or shooting beyond reach when I did make contact. It’s not good to touch them anyway, I think for bacterial reasons, more harmful to them than you, but locals do it. I didn’t see lion fish this time, but another of the evil yellow eels and another black and white striped one. I heart stoned snorkeling. Unfortunately the strap on my mask broke and I had to get another over-priced one, but I’ve had the thing for 9 years so I can’t bitch. The only issue was not having more money for drinks, which were expensive, and lead to mostly going to bed by 9 each night, including NYE, though I did have a tasty fix-priced feast and watched some fireworks over Gili T early.

I made it back without incident, though the ferry seemed much longer without anyone to talk to, and a singer and keyboardist set up in what would have been the comfortable interior area to belt out four hours of Indonesian pop and Dangdut hits. It always feels good to get back to Bali. The “urbanization” which bugged me when I left feels like “convenience” upon return. As much as I didn’t give myself over completely to this place upon arrival, I’m getting quite sad to realize I’ll soon be gone.

So I have a ticket to Darwin from Denpasar on Feb. 3, and despite some of the impressions afforded by the Bingtang sleeveless clad Aussie masses swarming around Kuta, I’m going. My general plan is to possibly take The Ghan down the middle of the country to Adelaide, then with gumtree.com/au rideshare make my way east, hitting Melbourne, and most likely fly back to the US from Sydney later that month.

Sometimes, with this blog, I don’t know… I’m proud I keep it up, and it’s rewarding in it’s own right, but I wish I got more meaningful response. From strangers I mean, the kind of strangers I’d like to meet. Of course I appreciate the old friends who follow along. That having been said, I have had two pleasant comment encounters in the last few months. Once from an old friend of Patrik Keim who found me via his small image archive here; and another, a reader who put me back in touch with an amazing woman I met in southern China in 2010. He claimed instantly to know who I was talking about and had no doubt from my description. Now, much of that is a testimony to the power of her personality, but it was also “good to blog” validation for me.

So as I try and build my itinerary for AU, I’ll go ahead and put this out there: where do you think I should go? Unfortunately the West is out on this trip. I will have a finite amount of time, and some financial resource, but as I’ve been earning RI Rupiah for the last year…not THAT much. And their economy is doing well compared to the rest of the world, in part because they seem intent on mining up all that China will buy. Beers are $10 each at the moment, ouch!

All I know are Grinderman dates don’t currently extend past Dec.; I’d like to have some bizarre, quasi-Star Wars via Tatooine experience in Cooper Pedy; I must go to Melbourne; and might try and swing Tasmania. So give me all other recommendations for the Central and SE areas, oh Darwin too, though I don’t plan to linger. Band dates, film festivals etc that might overlap the time I’m there – essentially February 2012.

I summon thee, o dark and mystical forces of the Interweb! Speak! Er, I mean… Comment!

I’ve recently been working on a short story from ’08, the trip Mitchell and I took up the east coast. Then yesterday, my Flickr stats started going crazy. More hits than I’ve ever had before, mostly centered around my set from the roadtrip. I was thinking Flickr might have showcased the set somewhere, as they do from time to time, thus the increase. But see now from a link someone put here it’s because Mitchell died the other day in Athens, just shy of his 40th Bday. I’m in shock. I hadn’t heard from him since he dropped me off at the Portland, ME airport in Aug of ’08 – which in and of itself isn’t unusual. I hadn’t heard from him in years before the roadtrip.

My heart goes out to his brothers and kids, the women who loved him and all that knew him. As I’m on the other side of the globe, I’ll be having my own private wake. For all of the strange charisma, he was a strangely magical fucker. Flawed, adventurous, and Balls to the Wall.

I didn’t actually go into the show, as tickets were 700.000 rupiah. That’s 64 small beers, 33.5 large beers, a month and half’s scooter rental, nearly half a month’s rent, or three overpriced massages with handjob…depending on how you look at it. But I did pay 23 cents to get into the parking lot and get some footage.

A few things you don’t get from this: that lot completely filled with 20,000+ scooters, cars and buses and it was quite difficult to find my own in the dark with no lighting at all, ever so slightly buzzed on Arak. Lesson learned, next time some sort of flag or marker to help with rapid, ill-lit, scooter identification when parking in such scenes. Also the older couple, guy with The Ramones shirt, where the coolest Aussies I’ve met so far, actually knew the Dirty 3 and Grinderman – the first I’ve run into who did so. Also some of those 20-something Indonesians are in a Death Metal band and hopefully will call me to come check them out next time they play Bali. They were from Java, came over to the island just to drink in the lot without tickets or the ability to afford them. That’s Metal. You proabaly could have heard the show from where we were sitting, but I took off soon after dark, before the music (from a band I don’t really care about anyway, just nostalgia – though I’m not saying I don’t still occassionally spin cuts from NotB or Powerslave) and potential clusterfuck could ensue. And the guy in the final shot was a satay vendor, most likely wearing the hat just for sales and to fit in, but I found it classic.

I saw a book on this guy a few years ago, didn’t pay attention to his name and had to do much research to rediscover Greg Irons. But how can I not help but feel affinity for a guy who worked in Underground comics and actually on one of my favorite films The Yellow Submarine, before reinventing himself in the world of tattoo? As for his death in BKK Thailand, soon after receiving “magic” protection tattoos: after seeing some cynicism expressed about this, may I offer an alternate view that perhaps the ink was only a final step before passing from this realm. Anyway, a great and interesting guy while he was here.

Two examples of great 70′s rock out of Africa. First of all, both of these “videos” are only a vehicle to hear the tune, there is no additional visual. I first heard Witch on Pri’s The World. Great tune, and where do I get one of those magic rafts? I think the guy is operating it with his boots…

And tell me the chorus of this Chrissy Zebby Tembo song doesn’t have Ozzy written all over it…

If you like it, get more here. Props to Aesop and his Cosmic Hearse blog.

Twitch had me anxiously awaiting this film. So much so that while in China, I went to my Beijing source TWICE in hopes of a black market DVD. I wasn’t disappointed; it’s still a film I must own some day. And yet…

One thing reviews I’ve seen so far haven’t mentioned is how psychedelisugarpop the opening credits are. Here is everyone involved, essentially unreadable, at least to the conscious mind…and into the film.

*rather spot on depiction of a DMT experience, not exactly like my own in the early 90′s, which strangely also involved a painter, but it definitely worked.

*combined factors make Tokyo seem like the most tripped out city on earth: the neon and futuristic vibe, tiny alley like streets, ex-pat vibe created therein, well done, but definitely not a place to front on the cops

*the first portion of the film completely works, and but I now feel a compulsion to go off about Paz De La Huerta for a bit…

An actress who clearly loves to get naked and carnal in front of the camera, I first saw her in Season 1 of Boardwalk Empire where her Apple accent works perfectly. But after this I have to question her acting ability overall. And it might not be entirely her fault. Noe’s script has her bogged down in quasi-incestuous inappropriate lounging with her brother and only companion in a cruel world. But I am still tempted to blame her acting, especially in her big “break down” scene, which rings hollow. I’m really conflicted about this actress, she is sexy without being exotic somehow. Something about her feels “Chloë Sevigny” if that makes any sense, and indeed, it would be interesting to see her work with Larry Clarke esp. before she gets too old for his tableaux. She has all of this sexuality frontally presented, as if there were little inside, and yet a hint of another deeper level where much is hidden. I’ll be curious to see more of her work (haven’t seen the Jarmusch thing yet)- my verdict is still out. But since I’ve gone this kooky obsessive about it, I’ll further mention my sister and I have a running bet if her breasts are real or not. I say real.

What else to say about this film? It’s as abstracted as you’ve heard, yet in ways that make sense. There is nothing David Lynch’s ‘Inland Empire’ about it (in other words: “what the fuck am I watching here?”). There is something about spirits interacting with electric energy. There is something about the nature of expressed love. Mommy issues and sister issues and the search for love.

But one quote I must include, from a wasted girl who burst into the men’s room afterward looking for a friend and delighted me with a quote as they followed me into the frozen night from the theater. Apparently she had no idea what to expect from Gaspar Noe (who I still credit, along with Ms. Monica Bellucci, as capturing the most hardcore depiction of rape ever filmed), nor what she was getting into.

She said, “I mean what the fuck was that? That was a porno, Joey. A reincarnation porno.”

It wasn’t, but the quote was appropriate and hilarious. I would have liked to see more about some of the minor Japanese characters in the story: the painters roommate who build the amazing model of Tokyo; the girl with the glasses, who got with the main guy, but apparently had a thing for Mario. I guess I would have liked more of a film, shot in the same style, about naughty gaijin in Tokyo, than a film about this guy’s death.
I guess you’ve done it again Mr. Noe. Got me thinking about and liking a film I can’t entirely get on board with. Contrasting the brutality and the bliss. I still give you points for grit and balls, even with all the experimentalism.
And I don’t agree with those who say it was too long. The subject matter, style, presented in this way…just right.

After almost a quarter century, still a classic. Gus Van Sant did the film montage.

Also psyched for the new doc coming out, WSB:A man within…