bed in a hostel, dorm room, four beds $26-29
kebab and drink $10 lunch special
average entrees around, not esp. fancy $20-30
3 minute phone call to a local number $2
box of “goon” low ened blended wine 2L $11

My train plan has been scrapped. It was expensive and might have been do-able, but only runs once a week, and is full until the 15th anyway. And there is no reason at all to hang around tiny ass Darwin until then. So I got a cheap $191 flight down to Melbourne where I want to be anyway and leave tomorrow night. Then I’ll slowly make my way to Sydney from there, maybe seeing the Blue Mountains en route. I was drinking in the park with some German’s and Estonias when this one guy, Fritz, convinced me to rent a cart with him and see the Kakadu National Park area and I agreed. So Frtiz, who has been hitching, not eating much, and out of practice drinking proceeded to get completely blotto. So the next morning, the kid was a mess, and I did the leg work on the rental car prices. We finally found the deal we wanted, went to get it, and it turned out Fritz didn’t have a credit card, just debit, which wouldn’t cut it. So much for Fritz and his plan. But no harm done, I just won’t see any nature up here. I’m content to swap road tales with other backpackers. there are like 10 hostels in this tiny city, which supposedly has 100k poeple, but feels much smaller to me after crowded-ass Indonesia. but it’s comfy enough. And the Sydney traveling film fest is in town, so I might go check out a flick tonight…for $15.

I also met up with Pavel Friday night, who I reached out to via couchsurfing.com. His new wife is not down with a houseguest, which is fine, but we went to dinner at the Yahct Club, which we snuck into and swapped road stories. He is a Czech Muslim, works in IT, and has traveled all around Iran and the ‘Stans, so has diffent tales than your average. All always dig Czech’s, even non drinking ones. Plus it helps build my cred on couchsurfing and I might have some more luck in that area down the road.

So I am technicAlly “down and out down under” but so far so good. this country is completely zawash in European backpackers who have come down here on work permits, to make cash then set off around the continent and up into Asia. So the hostels will always be full of talkative strangers, and mobile Aussies working around and crashing cheap.

Later in the day I had conversations with both the French guys at various times. Jerome and his girlfirned worked for NGO and did relief work all over Africa and more recently Haiti, though he claimed it was more triage than cultural exploration. Apparently one sacks out exhauusted at the end of each day and there is lttle time for anything else. But he’d also lived briefly in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and we talked a bit over beers poolside about the difference between life in France and the USA. The other guy, whose name I never got, had a company in Mongolia for three years, and since that is a country I think about teaching in at times, I picked his brain after dinner.

Some other teachers who might have come over to do the hike with me couldn’t make it, and the weather was forbidding. Plus the cost, as you have to hire a guide to hike in the National Park, so I took a pass. But a waitress told me about a small temple in the hills behind Pemuteran, so the next morning I went up there before riding back down to Denpasar. I haven’t edited in the jump tower footage I mention yet…maybe later.

Trying to decide if I should return the way I’d come, or along the southwestern road which I knew would be clogged with trucks from Java, I comprimised and came back partly what I’d done, but a new route through the mountains, passing lots of great rice fields, and hooked up with part of the SW road, which the trucks do indeed make suck. But back in my room, I realized I’d left my mp3 player and headphones at the hotel. I called and they have them for me, but I’ll need to return, most likely next week after classes are done but before I leave for AU. Damn it, I thought about them briefly pulling out of town but was distracted by some other thought before I checked while still in the area. It’s be about a 5 hour return trip, or maybe I’ll make another overnight of it. Oh well, I love motorbiking around in the mountains anyway.

I drove back up to Munduk to drop off my finished copy of Germs Guns and Steel with Mr. Budi, as it came up during our previous conversation. He was out, but stopped by my room (stayed again at Guru Ratna and the staff was most gracious in welcoming me back) later and invited me for breakfast the next morning – at his main place from the video, not Golden Valley. I was in town by noon, having driven again through Bedugal, Candi Kuning and the usual spots on the way up, so I went down the hill to the hot springs at Banjar for the afternoon. They were cool, but my awesome spot on Flores was better. It was the first of twice I felt spoiled, by chance having had a superior experience in a field already, when I sense the current one would have seemed fine without having seen the other before. There was a Hindu festival (isn’t there always?) in town and gamelon and hours of chanting ran throughout the town. I’d gotten myself a small bottle of vodka in Serit and enjoyed evening cocktails. Also stopped in to see Bayu, who is about 11, son of a woman who owns a small shop across the road from the hotel. I’d given him some improv English lessons on my previous trip, so we had another, just checking some pronunciation as he read from his flimsy text. I’m sure his local teacher can only judge pronunciation to a certain point. His mom of course loved this and loaded me up with some fruit left over from festival offerings. Women are seen all over the island carrying ornate palm wrappings and fruit baskets on their heads to the local temple during festival time, everyone dressed in their kebayas and traditional clothes.

The rain has held to a nicely predictable pattern thus far: sunny until about 2-3, then a heavy afternoon showering. Today’s seems to be lingering…but I haven’t had to ride in it. The next morning after Kopi Luwak and pisang goreng (fried bananas) with Budi I was riding down the hill to Lovina. My map (brought a borrowed book this time) shows a logical route, but does not reveal the condition of the road, which got a bit sketchy: down to two lane track with grass middle through some steep areas and eventually to rubble I thought would pop my tire. But stopping to ask a local, he assured me it did eventually lead to Lovina. The road got better in time, and I made it, tires in tact.
I stayed at a place where I’d had lunch before, and headed down the coast a few km to where there was supposed to be good snorkeling. Unfortunately I had to pay a guy a little money to take me out in a boat to get to it. The conditions were decent, but again, I’ve been spoiled in the Gilis and Amed where you just swim in at no cost, no boat. And here of course weren’t all the turtles like around Gili Meno. But I was back in my room before the afternoon rain.
The main joy of Lovina was competitive beer pricing, and I had several in a warung before heading back for my even audio book session.

Then I rode on to Pemuteran. My room is a bit more here (still only $22) but very nice and dinner and breakfast are included, plus a pool and the computer action. Tomorrow I’ll pay for another boat out to Palau Mejangan for a day of snorkeling. Maybe hiking the next day.

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.

And the reveal of the Golden Valley coffee shop. It’s interesting how the color settings were so off I appear to be in black and white. But I sort of like the effect.

And some more stills from the Art Zoo, which is much closer to Singaraja but part of the same trip, and huge Banyan tree.

But this past extended weekend, I drove back to Amed. My usual place was full so I tried a cheaper spot. It was fine, not right by the great snorkeling, but I drove on to Tulamben after dropping my stuff at the room to snorkel around the wreck of the USAT Liberty. It was the first time I was envious of the divers and wanted to be “down there” closer.

The next day I rode on around the NE coast, stopping twice. Once at kookie Symon’s Art Zoo, though he was away in Ubud. And again near Singaraja to find the actual Pura Dalem with the naughty carvings I though I had seen before. Confusing as there is another Pura Dalem nearby, also with some carvings, but I think this is faulty linguistics on my part…again. The carvings aren’t in very good shape, but now I know for sure.

At a traffic light in Singaraja, a guy pulled next to me and urged me to see his place in nearby Lovina. I followed him, and declined to stay, stomached his lies (“Why go to the mountains? Only raining! You should stay here…”), though it was about lunch time so I ate there. A while down the road I turned left into the mountains and had soon climbed to Munduk, a town some other travelers told me about.

I am essentially more of a mountain person than a beach one and the cooler climate definitely agrees with me. I got a room at Guru Ratna and the guy dropped the price without my asking. I was worried about the budget for the trip, resigned I’d come home early when the money ran out, saving the majority for the after Xmas trip, but cheap rooms were there for me all three nights. I went to check out a waterfall. Then to try my first Kopi Luwak and have a lengthy conversation with Budi who runs the co-op. He’s a really swell guy. Unfortunately I thought you’d be able to order Civet coffee from the site but I’m not sure that’s the case…

The next morning, a guy at the hotel drew me a map and I went to check out the ancient Banyan tree, rice fields and another waterfall near Budi’s coffee plantation. The map was good, but at first I passed the tree and went way up into the hills, eventually realizing my mistake and returning. Even though you can see it from a distance, it’s easy to pass on the road.

The thing is thought to be 1,000 years old, the oldest on the island. Back when locals were fighting the Dutch, the story is 300 warriors once hid inside. I went in myself…sorry about the mouth breathing.

I’ll post some more pics and vids later. The only rain was very light Sunday morning as I headed back down to Denpasar, through familar Bedugal. Another great getaway! Had I a job up there, I’d be much more tempted to stay and do another year on Bali.

So let me begin my admiting my bias and sharing a story that has amused parts of my family for decades. I am solidly Gen X, and in 1982, when I as 11 years old, with my Dad and little sister, then 6, on one of the weekends he had custody by the divorce decree, killing time as we often did in a movie cineplex, we slipped into a screening of the original Conan. It had already started, the scene where Conan’s mom is decapitated. And we only made it as far as when, as a grown barbarian he meets the woman who is to turn into a lycanthrope during their intercourse, when my sister piped up, audible throughout the mostly empty theater, “Dad, we aren’t allowed to see full frontal nudity!”. Classic hilarity. Soon after of course I saw the entire thing, and would say over the years I have done so at least a dozen times. Friends and I at various times have described it as pehaps the the ultimate fantasy film. For those too young to remember, let me point out there were many in that era, some, like Beast Master, blantantly trying to cash in on Conan’s success, others from Krull, Dragonslayer, Excalibur, and LadyHawke taking things in other directions. So one must ask why one would want to fuck with a classic… But alas, we live
in an era of remakes. And after James Bond, Batman, Star Trek etc. I guess Conan the Barabrian was about due. And it doesn’t completely fail, but there are a few points I must harp on.

Schwarzenegger vs Jason Mamoa

At first look at least, the new guy measures up. I’m no huge Arnold fan, despite seeing him time and again in classic roles of my adolescence. But I would argue he was BORN to play Conan. His Austrian accent adds to the plausibility of his barbarism, as does the stoicism that might be the reult of inferior acting ability. It’s not completely Mamoa’s fault: the writers gyped him trying to add romantic dimensions to the character. After some inital cliche chauvanism, he has a tender “make love” scene with the heroine. Barbarians don’t make love: they fuck. True, old Conan had real emotion going for his thief woman, but only because she was so outlaw, 3/4 masculine and still hot. A barbarian knows when he wants something, and will definitly open case after case of vengence when it is taken from him. But he lacks a certain emotional vocabulary. If he is tender it is almost accidental because has has unintentionally crushed fragile things in his past. Hell, Momoa is a better barbarian in Game of Thrones, where all he does is glower, kill, eat and butt fuck! (Ok so it was most likely only “doggie style”, but I’m taking license for the sake of a comedic line.)

The soundtrack is complete shit, I assume Tyler Bates is a hack, though he did do Matt Dillion’s City of Ghosts which I think is underrated. One cliche “action movie” melody and musical attack after another. You can hear a sample from Basil Poledouris’ superior soundtrack here.

Stephen Lang is completey played out as a villian. The scenes of his scrawny frame fighting Conan without the use of magic or minons are absurd. That having been said – the mask of evil power as a device was superior to the James Earl Jones in a Betty Page mullet snake cult motif. And I liked the idea of the wanna be incestuous witch daughter character, and Rose McGowan seemed to be having fun, though by the end she came up short. The Freddy Cruger nails were just stupid.

What’s with Papa Smurf on the hookah lording over the Tai Chi madiens? He added nothing. Nor did Conan’s black pirate buddy. The character comes off as token pandering. And while I’m on that – there is nothing essentially wrong with Conan doing time on a pirate ship, but the way they did it just seemed like the writers going “Ok, we need a little Pirates of the Carribean vibe here”. As did the fight in the court yard feel “we need a little Prince of Persia/Scorpion King vibe here.”
Also, the only time magic is used. The theif buddy is also a throw away. A quasi-middle eastern guy with a ring of skeleton keys, nothing plausible about him as a theif.

AND WHERE IS CROM? You cannot have Elric without Arioch, and you cannot have Conan without his “God by default” Crom. Conan’s tribe is described as specifically atheistic. Perhaps he mutters “Crom” a few times in moments of surprise, but there is nothing of his shaky faith in the war god who mostly delivers for him.

The sets started out Ok, but eventually had to do the LOLR CG fest, the most absurd being the skull mountain, or I should say the crumbling of the skull mountain as they ride away, straight out of King Kong. Have some rocks fall maybe, not the entire thing crumble.

I don’t want to hate on Ron Pearlman, who does as best he can as Conan’s father, but since when does Conan have a father? I see him as the child of rape, or maybe an absent father off fighting with the horde and ghost writing half-assed lyrics for Robert Plant. Conan’s mother dying here, right at the beginning, and his ersatz cesarian birth are laughable. I’m not sure how Robert E. Howard laid out Conan’s father originally, but see now from IMDB, ’82 Conan did have a dad – but I didn’t find him memorable.

Evil Henchmen

And there are many here. “No nose” is fairly original, as is his demise. But none of the henchmen carry the heft of “Molly Hatchet” and the other dude from the original. The one guy, far too orchish for my tastes, with the face tattoos being sent back as a message on a giant boulder which lands perfectly in the middle of giant ship which is inexplicably being hauled everywhere is cartoonish. Thank Crom they didn’t get too “Burning Man” with the costuming which I could have seen happening. I didn’t appreciate the snarling snow Mohicans in the beginning either, though the concept of the race around the mountain with the eggs was a nice touch. I thought it would have been more bad ass if Conan had showed up with the three heads but had acted penitant because his egg had broken, truely feeling his father might think he didn’t measure up.

What else did this version get right? There was a respectible amount of breast footage (lots of eastern europeans if you look it up…), essential I feel for the genre, though somehow it could have been sexier. And despite my earlier complaints about the scene, I did appreciate seeing Rachel Nichols’, or her body double’s. It’s not that the film is a complete failure. They have to make everything so over the top for modern autistic audiences. But you should understand downtime when you’re trying to make something epic. The plot continues to move forward, but write in scenes where the characters have a chance to grow, or reveal themselves in subtle ways. Scenes for example of characters wandering around a foreign city unsure of the next step, until eventually a camel is punched in the mouth for comic relief. Or a crucifixion. In the new version, Conan rushes from “Slave Island” to “Theif City” to “Skull Mountain” and none of it is really cool, none of it has true ambience.

And more magic. When she started to turn into the dead wife they were trying to summmon, I thought “OK maybe now we’ll see something worth those absurd acrobatics on the wedged wheel we just had to endure”. But no, he falls into the lava and she’s back to normal with no ill effect. The word necromancy was absurdly overused here, with no serious extraction of essenses, animation or the canal violation of corpses I equate with a heavy term like necromany. Either only say it once, or go ahead and show, or at least infer, corpse fucking and fight it out with the censors.

There were no classic lines here. “Conan! What is best in life?” Followed by his O SO METAL answer. Here we actually have the head villian saying, “Conan, I don’t think I like you any more.”

And sadly, not knowing what the box office has taken in so far or ultimately will, I sense this film might go on record as solid for this generation. They will mock the bad Snake metamorphasis of the original and consider the battle won. But just maybe, some teenager will read these words, watch both versions again in his mature years and think “gee, that crotchity old glory days fucker was right.” Maybe not…

My parting complaint: whomever came up with that “omnipus” monster of whatever the fuck that tentecled mess was supposed to be should never be allowed to work in film again.

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 stopped to gas up at another shack. I was most of the way up in the mountains but could see the thick gray rainclouds up ahead. They’d held off so far but I’d known this was coming. In retrospect, I should have stayed at the shack. They were an especially curious bunch of kids, so I pulled out my lame little Indonesian atlas, showed them roughly were we were on Flores, then turned to the US page and showed them Atlanta. I seem to remeber more kids than are in the picture, maybe the others hadn’t come out of the shack yet, which had a lower level. As I saddled up to head out, I pointed at the gathering clouds and made a clownish sound of fear. They laughed appreciatively.

Within 10 minutes of starting up, it was on me. Rain at first, but as it became a deluge, I pulled into some sort of abandoned building on the side of the road to wait it out. There was a big covered porch area and I watched. Other motorbikes were making it, as were trucks going in the other direction. But it sucks trying to ride with the visor down, essential at the drops pound into your face. So I just waited. Another rider came eventually and found space near mine. He was soaked, and stripped down to somehow try and dry clothing.
Eventually I headed back out. Things were down to a drizzle and I saw some road monkeys already out foraging. I guess they just have to tuff it out when this happens, unless they know about hollow logs or caves somewhere. Heading down the other side of the mountain, lots of rocks had washed into the road at the many corners. When a mini-river forms on the asphault, then there is a sharp turn, the water just continues in the gavitational path, leaving behind anything it was carrying as it subsides. And I’m not just talking gravel, there were basketball sized stones that had washed into the road. And now there was a nice fog on everything. Coming down to one turn, I could see another rider off to the side, and many large stones. I couldn’t have been going 5 KM an hour, just riding the brakes really, but I hit something funny and over the handle bars I went. It was such an absurd wreck at that slow speed, but there I was in the road, right on a blind corner, scrambling to get up as a truck appraoched and would have squashed me before it had known I was there. The first rider and some others came out to help, I assured them I was OK. “Bad road”, one guy said to me as he passed. Thanks jackass, ya think? But he was clearly trying to be helpful, just didn’t have much language skill. I rode on, realizing the back of my foot was bleeding. Foolishly I was in flipflops. And the brake handle was bent. I dreaded a confrontation with Ali I’d rented from back in Labuanbajo. Which was still many hours away. I needed to know the bike was in good enough shape to make it. There was very little speed involved, but I went down hard. A bit later I stopped, put some anticeptic gel and bandage on the foot and put my boots on. I’d scraped my feet and banged my knee also, but they seemed OK. The cut on my heel wasn’t deep, I was just shaken.
It turned out I was quite close to Ruteng, but had to wait about an hour, along with many other cars and bikes while a road crew that had already been working before the storm cleared out a major landslide. We watched trees and boulders come down from above. Luckily a backho and bulldozer were already there but it took a while. We could see the crowd wanting to come the other way several turns across the hillside. Finally a guy waved us through, motorbikes first, but everyone was looking up the hill and yelling. The hill had clearly loosened and there was no guarantee more wouldn’t pour down, or that the road beneithe us would hold. Everything had taken on sinister and apocalyptic tones. I couldn’t believe I’d been one-handed speeding along and filming earlier that day…

I finally made it to Ruteng and checked back into the Kongressi Santa Maria. Then I went to a mechanic to have the bike checked. They spoke only Bahasa, but seeing the guy’s wife was very Chinese looking I tried a little Mandarin, which she spoke. So between the three languages, we were able to pigeon communicate, but it was far more her skills than mine. They said in addition to the bent hand brake, the chain was too tight and the front wheel was warped, but this could be adjusted through the spokes. They wanted 150K to fix everything. I figured the chain problem was due to the kid who’d fixed my flat that morning, but agreed. Afterall, I’d agreed with Ali to pay for all damages. I would do so, but then neglect to mention to him the incident. There were some minor scrapes on the plastic, but the thing was well used and I doubted he would notice. It took a while for the repairs and the shop was trying to close up for the evening. After fixing the wheel, it seemed that tire was going flat too (which made sense) so I also had to pay to fix my second flat of the day, which wasn’t much. Satisfied the thing would get me safely back to Labuanbajo the next day, I swung back by the room, then out for dinner.
I went back to Merlin to check in on my buddy learning Spanish and saw another Dutch couple there I’d seen on the road. While we talked a bit, I heard a commotion outside. A grown man was whimpering and his hand was a bloody mess. Apparently he’d been in a fight but didn’t want to involve the police. I thought he’d been stabbed through the hand it was bleeding so much, but apparently most of it had come from his nose. Eventually a guy put him on the back of his motorbike and they sped off. A day of total chaos.
When I’d been lost in Ruteng on that previous night, I’d seen a pizza place, which must have just opened because the Chinese woman didn’t know anything about it. I went there to eat myself, had a calzone and it was a decent approximation of an Indonesian made calzone. I turned in early and read.
By noon the next day I was back in Labuanbajo. Ali and I chatted and he was oblivious to the repaired damage. I was very concerned about money at this point and thought I needed to get out to Rinca that night to see the dragons. Someone had quote me a price that involved sleeping on the deck of the ship for what I had on me. But the price seemed to be more now. Ali cut me a deal that would have been a great price if I could find two more passengers, leaving the next day. Just out to Rinca, where the dragons also live, and some snorkeling on the way back – no meal. Meanwhile I had the afternoon to kill and as I’d essentially filled the bike with gas, convinced him to let me take it until six (after all, I’d paid for the day) to go on a wild goose chase to find some beach he mentioned with supposed snorkeling. I spent the afternoon going up and down terrible roads, got rained on again, got in the water four different places, but it was shit each time. I saw like six fish and no proper corral the entire time.

Rinca – dragons

That night I went about asking every foreigner I met if they’d go in on the boat with me. Many had come by ship from other islands which stopped off at Kimono or Rinca en route, so had already seen the dragons. Their general demeanor was rude, as if I were trying to scam them. Most people don’t travel here alone. I was generally ostricized for doing so. Fuckers. I’d checked back into my 30k a night shithole and was resolved I’d have to put my remaining 500K on a solo boat. I’d have just enough for a cab to the airport, pay the airport tax and would have to go to an ATM at the Denpasar airport to get my motorbike out of parking.
So I was at Ali’s office early the next morning, sad to admit I couldn’t find another two for the split price. Then he told me about the park fee on the actual island, and a fucking camera fee. I flipped out. I’d assumed the previous high price had included everything. “Well I can’t go. Damn it!” I said and walked out. It would be an additional 150K. Realizing I’d left my mask and snorkel in the office I returned and they urged me to sit down. My frustration had been genuine, but my minor tantrum ended up working in my favor. They spoke in Indonesian for a while, one guy pulled a 50 from his wallet and gave it to me. “Give the boat 400k”, Ali said. “Then with this you will have enough for the park fees”. I thanked them and Ali’s partner took me down to the dock. I was soon my own small, private boat. I’d thought the price was largely a tourist scam, but it turned out to be a two hour boatride each way. We saw a dolphin en route, playing briefly in the wake of the boat.
Out on Rinca, I could see monkeys in the trees as we pulled ashore. There were another couple I’d met previously, he Irish and she English, both currently working in Australia. They’d said they didn’t want to split the boat because he was ill, but they’d changed their plans. So we’d all paid more than we needed to getting here. But at least we split the Guide fee. Ogie was our guide.

The couple turned out to be hilariously frightened by the entire thing. The guy especailly seemed he was about to wet himself. You can hear him starting to freak out in the film and me trying to calm them when one of the dragons slowly moved. There is also some good “dragon hiss” at minute 1.5 and 2, then again 2:15. Those ones by the kitchen aren’t fed but hang out their all day due to the smell of food. Then we saw another smaller one on our hike. Also monkeys, megapod (just looked like a black chicken…) and a water buffalo, but my pics weren’t so great. The dragons on Kimodo are bigger but I got what I came for. It would have been nice to see two males fight, just for the drama, but Irish would have completely shat himself.

On the way back, the snorkelling was OK, but not as great as I would have thought from what I’ve heard. I’ve been a bit spoiled by my spot in Amed on Bali. But it was an OK day, and in the end I had enough to get back AND get my bike out of the lot, even pick up laundry, before having to hit an ATM. I felt bad that Ali had done me so right, under the circumstances which he did not entirely know, and offered them another 50k that afternoon. But like a gentleman, he refused. May Allah grant him his. And like I said I would, I paid for damage caused to the bike. So may Allah not dis me either.

The first part of the week went better than the later, and I hadn’t gone nearly as far as I’d naively wanted to, but in all it was a great vacation.

I headed back up the hill to get some more gas. While refulling, I had the guys also look into a clicking sound I had been hearing at times. It turned out my kickstand (all bikes here have two: one a lean style and one that sits both tires up off the ground) was rubbing the chain. They adjusted this and put some more air in my tire. At first they refused payment, but eventually one said “For cigarettes”. It wasn’t much, but would buy some smokes, which are cheap and still very much enjoyed here. Then I headed back down to find another hot springs I heard about below Bena.

I passed some folks getting ready for some sort of ceremony, asked about the direction, and continued on my way. They said it was about 5 KM, but soon the road was in terrible shape, by far the worst road I’d been on so far. Absolute rubble, climbing up. And I wasn’t sure I was going the right way. Screw it, I thought, even if it is in this direction I’ll blow a tire. I turned back around and tried to get some lunch at the shack where the people had gathered. I got some bread balls, sort of like low sugar donut holes and a water. Soon I was invited over to drink some palm wine and check out the music. The video more or less explains.

Soon, a French guy and his guide showed up and we all watched for a bit. The guide assured me the hot springs were in the direction I’d gone and the bike would make it. They were two after all on one motorbike, neither exactly thin, so I followed them, knowing if they could make it so could I, glad I’d done so. The hot spings were amazing! A piping hot river mixing with a cold one in a pool where you could move about for the perfect temperature. Like before, the hot water wore you out, but here you could move over to the cold side to wake up. I still have questions about thermodynamics though… After the quake I felt last month, what happens if you’re in one of these pools and the earth belches, sending super heated water up for a bit? Couldn’t you instantly be scalded? Anyway, it didn’t happen, it was just enjoyable. Eventually I rode back up the hill and was caught in rain getting back to Bajawa around four.

That night, we met up with some other folks the girls had come over to the island with on a boat. So we had a large group, now including Irish and Spanish, another American guy, and the Frenchman I’d met earlier at the springs. Budget dictated I wasn’t drinking at that point, but they were and we talked long into the night.

The next morning, I had my my free breakfast and headed out to my first bit of bad luck – I had punctured a tire on that crap road. So I walked the bike up the hill to have it fixed. But then I was on the road and making good time. Had lunch again at the Dahlia cafe in Barong, this time heading back west. I shot more video of rice fields I’ll put in the next post, along with a rather foolish attempt to caputre the road feel by filming with my non-throttle hand. The footage isn’t as shaky as I thought it might have been, but the situation was far from safe. Turns out that wasn’t what I needed to worry about…

I had lunch that day in Barong and got back on the road. I was making good time, at least at that point. Passing through Aimee, I asked some guys I on another bike how far until the next gas station, sort of pointing at my gague. In retospect, I misunderstood their comment of “2 KM” to mean Aimere itself, gas bought from the roadside via water bottles. I never saw a Pertamina station and kept going, soon realizing I was climbing massive mountains on low fuel. I kept going slower and slower, wondering when it would run out. There were a few houses by the road but none seemed to be selling gas. Whenever I stopped and asked how far to the next station, I kept getting mixed answers: 8 Km, 5 KM, 15 KM. In any event it was obviously uphill the entire way. I finally lucked out and got some from a roadside shack. Not too much longer I was up the hill in Bajawa.

I’d only done another 4 hour day, but again wasn’t too motivated to go much further that day. But my outdated guidebook showed bungalow accomodation near the hot springs in Soa. So I passed though town and went for that. I had to wait out a downpour in front of a church and lost about 20 minutes. I was quite high in the mountains and put on another shirt and long pants in addition to my raincoat. Soon, decending a bit, I’d found Soa but the hotsprings seemed still some way off. I turned in what seemed the right direction. Everyone I stopped to ask, I would show my photocopy with Paradise Bungalows listed on it, but no one ever seemed to have heard of it. Finally one guy, with some passable English, said “You must mean Alan and David, the Australians…” Sure. The place was supposed to be Australian owned. He pointed me on. It seemed like re-enforcement or a sketchy lead, but worse case I’d just double back to Bajawa if I had to. I knew the road going forward to Ruing was suppose to be worse than this one. I had hit one patch that day under construction, cranes and bulldozers on the road and just a kid signaling for you to wait a second. Had the crane spun around, it would have knocked me right off the mountain side. No OSHA in Asia.
I finally found the hot springs, and the guy working confirmed the Paradise Bungalows were “broken”, which I took to mean abandoned, in a state beyond repair. But Alan and David did rent rooms right up the road. He took me up there. They were back in Australia, but David’s wife was home. Unfortunately the two rooms they had were occupied. By now, I’d lost quite a bit of the afternoon and knew after some hot spring time I’d return to Bajawa. The hot springs were nice, only one other Dutch couple around, but getting in, they sapped all remaining energy out of me. After those hours on the road, I was soothed to sedation. I had to get out for bit to keep from falling asleep. They seemed a bit fabricated: no sulfur smell, the temp just perfect, even when you sat right on where it came out of the ground. I figured they were somehow regulated with pumps and such. Still it was nice.

Back in Bajawa, I checked out one place to stay which was OK but I thought I might do better. Outside where a bunch of women travelling together. Since I had the bike and they were on foot, I said I’d do recon on another place. It turned out to be a bit more, but much nicer, free breakfast and wifi. Going back and telling them about it, I checked in, and they wandered down after a while. There I could see on a map I’d been a third of the way to Ruing, and the “17 islands area” when I was in Soa, and the road wasn’t that bad… So maybe the next day I’d just leave my pack here, shoot up there for some snorkeling and return the that night, not having to deal with my pack which I’d leave in the room. Meanwhile I’d drink some beer and enjoy the company of the French, Canadian, and French-Canadian girls. One of them even had a bit of grass left over from the Gili’s!

The next morning though, the Dutch owner woman pointed out to me that even once I was in Riung, the snorkeling wasn’t just off the shore and I’d have to hire a boat to get out to the islands. My budget was already a concern. I hadn’t planned on doing any “anthropology tourism”, but that became my default plan, as Bajawa is very near several traditional villages. I left my pack and set out with just camera and raincoat. It was nice to travel light. I didn’t hire a guide either, so missed a lot of the explaination/background, but there weren’t many other tourists around and the villages were easy enough to find.
The first one wasn’t so great, but Luba, which a Swiss couple back at the hotel had recommended was better, then Bena best of all. And they were essentially deserted – the men and younger women out working in the fields, only some older women weaving. On the one hand, it was sort of depressing, to think these people’s way of life was essentially doomed and their best hope was to become a tourist attraction, but it was cool too. Looking back from the view point at Bena into the village, the village almost empty, had a total Indiana Jones vibe…

A good friend of my sister, and sort of an adopted sister of mine, worked in NYC for Rough Guide for a number of years. While there she farmed out to us many a travel guide. The only issue now is that my SE Asian volume is 14 years old. And heavy. But I did photocopy a few maps out of it before I left, and also looked through a friend’s Lonley Planet, jotting down some more current contacts. Another teacher was going soon after I and she had dibs on borrowing the actual book.

And this is how I found out about Kongressi Santa Maria. When I pulled into town, I lost about an hour looking around for it – blindly searching and slowly getting warmer and warmer despite my pathetic bahasa language skills. After trying so hard at Mandarin last year, I can’t really be bothered, but it’s to my own loss of course. When I finally did find the place, I wasn’t sure it was what I wanted. The nun who greeted me had very little English. Yes they did have rooms to rent and for a good price. But it seemed very much I was in a convent/girls boarding school. No drinky that night, it just wasn’t comfortable. But some other tourists pulled up a few minutes later and I didn’t feel like such a freak.

I headed out to explore the town and very quickly met Richard, who was on me like a hawk. Unlike Bali, they aren’t over saturated with buleh tourists here, and anyone with some English is eager to try it out. So I took Ruchard on as a guide to show me around town. First he wanted to show me his “sculptures” in a yard nearby. It seemed fortuitous, as I love such things, but they were sort of the amaturish scratchings of a metalhead. Not without merit, though. We had a common lunch in a local warung. He was eager to show me around – there was a waterfall nearby as well as the cave where they found the Flores Hobbit, but it started raining. And I was a bit eager to move on from this “guide” after an hour.

I’d only driven about 4 hours that day, but found that style of bike, with the standard transmission needed for the mountains, you couldn’t extend your legs beniethe like my Vario, and with my pack and such, the seat like a stone, my back really started feeling it. I imagined I might ride further the next day. I was on vacation afterall. And Ruteng had a cool vibe, literally near the mountains, neat little houses, sort of an Indonesian variation on Switzerland. At least houses quite different from the Bali style. And my room had hot water! My first hot shower in nine months. I’ve gotten used to it, but hot water takes you right back again. Parting ways with Richard, he hit me up for some gas money, and as I had nothing smaller than a 20k, that’s what he got. Tackless on his part, but more big deal. He made all sorts of Muslim comments about always remembering my generosity. “Ok man, c ya”.
I read that night and generally enjoyed the room. For dinner I heaed out to another place a Dutch mother and daughter told me about called Merlin. Also to get some super glue for my cheap sunglasses, which had broken. This would become a recurring theme… At Merlin, a chatty waiter wanted to learn Spanish for some reason. Now my Spanish is far from fluent, but I amused myself for a while feeding him phrases which he scrawled on paper and practiced. The owner came over and joined in too. Eventually I said “hasta luego, via con dios!” and tried to get back to the room, but found myself completely lost in the darkness. Eventually a cop walked out in the road, stopped me going the wrong way down a one way, but without incident showed me the way. When he discovered where I wanted to go he asked if I were a priest or a monk. Nope, just a clueless traveler in the dark, officer. I turned in and hit the road early.
There was a huge line at the gas station the next morning, trucks and bikes blocking the road in both directions. But some enterprising locals had bought gas earlier in the dawn and had filled their water bottles which were for sale on the side of the road. It wouldn’t have done for the trucks, but motorbikes didn’t have to wait long and I was on my way. The road was definitely the best part of the Flores experience. Despite the fatigue and danger, totally beautiful the entire way.

Labuanbajo

When the shuttle at the Denpasar airport pulled up to the plane I was bit nervous. There were propellers. Going to Java was one thing: walking up the rolling stairway took me back to the 70′s, as this was how we often boarded aircraft when I was a kid. But this was technically not a jet aircraft… It was modern as far as I could tell, and not exactly “small”, just not as big as I had been picturing. I’m a nervous flier. I do it. I don’t freakout excessively, but I’m very “aware” when I fly. At times a bit sweaty palmed. I don’t like turbulence. Who does? But I really don’t, and you feel it in smaller planes. We took off, I had a few minutes to appreciate how beautiful Bali was from the air, and we flew directly into a storm. It is the rainy season after all. Clouds gather, rain or not, over mountains like the one on neighboring Lombok. Lightning flashed. We entered a dark gray bank. The plane naturally dipped and my stomached flipped. Soon we were past the worst and I got to look down at beautiful islands for the remaining hour.

The airport, such as it was, struck me as hilarious. There are three flights a day. A plane lands, they take luggage off, which is pulled over to the rolling door where folks can see everything on the cart. Then the plane is reloaded and takes off again. I imagine very little luggage is lost. I heard tales that a plane hit a small cow that wandered onto the runway a few weeks ago, and I believe them. Everyone onboard was OK. The cow didn’t make it.

I took a bemo 2KM into town and checked into an absurdly cheap room. It, as well as the town, were pretty much a dump. But during the ride I was quoted a few prices by a local. Renting a motorbike, as I wanted to do to head East, was expensive. Getting out to Komodo and Rinca islands to see the dragons, was expensive. So a 30k room made sense, at least that first night. That’s less than $4 – Ko San Road, Bangkok bargain basement prices. It was of course a closet with a bed and fan, shared bath and no shower. But a German guy, Tobias, was also staying there as he worked as a dive master in town. Komodo National park is well known on the dive circuit. I found some reasonably priced beers and we talked, though he hadn’t really been anywhere on the island, only under the sea looking at the sides of it from various depths and angles, but mostly of course at corals and fish.
I’d met a guy in town, Evan, who offered a decent price on a motorbike rental, coming down from 110k to 70k a day for five days. I would need a standard transmission, pedal clutch, as an automatic, like I ride on Bali, couldn’t handle the mountain climbing. So 350k for five days, while I only pay 500k on Bali for a month. Spendy, but unavoidable. Evan and I talked about my planed route which entailed getting all the way to Moni, possibly via Irung in the North and the 17 island area. This plan was ambitious. Overly so.

At 8 the next morning Evan and Ali, his partner had coffee waiting for me. I’d somehow lost my sunglasses, I think walking off with them still in basket at the first metal detector in the Bali airport, so I’d also bought some imitation Oakleys, not just for sun, but to shield my eyes from dust, pebbles, bugs and various other road shit. We chatted a bit, and I set out. The speedometer didn’t work, but that didn’t really matter. I was more concerned that the odometer was static. How many miles were actually on the bike? I left my passport back on Bali and the boys only had my work permit number as a deposit. I’d made a verbal agreement to pay for damages, should they occur. I gassed up at the edge of town, knowing there wouldn’t be as many Pertamina stations as there are on Bali, dropped my morning dump, and hit the open road. Flores is beautiful and rural. Literally every single kid I saw for the next five days yelled “Hello Mister!” as I passed, perhaps two hundred times. Of course it got old, but was nonetheless charming.
I climbed some hills successfully but shorted out within an hour. Ok, it seemed only first gear would do on these monsters. I struggled to get the bike out of the road before a truck came up around the blind corner and squashed me. The bike started right up again and I continued to climb. The road so far was reasonably paved, but only wide enough for two lanes, should the lines have happened to have been painted, which they usually weren’t. Most of the myriad corners were blind. There are no semis here, but the big trucks are big enough.
After three hours, I pulled to the side of the road, as it was starting to sprinkle, for my raincoat and to have some snacks at a roadside shack. Everywhere in Indonesia, people sell gas out of Absolute bottles, or in the case of Flores, just plastic water bottles. 10k for a large, 5k for a small. I usually avoid this in Bali unless an emergency, as you are obviously paying more, but I went ahead and got a large one here. I wasn’t exactly sure how much further it was to Ruteng and also felt bad abut breaking a larger bill in the rural setting. A bunch of locals had gathered. They didn’t see buleh like me every day. What was I gonna pull out of my huge pack? Oh, it’s some sort of raincoat. What now? Oh, a bottle of water to wash down the peanuts. I got a shot of them and rode on.

Excellent use of Eno’s Apollo soundtrack (ed 12-14: I see now from Wikipedia it isn’t credited! Well it is under Apollo soundtrack, but not the Drive entry. It’s also unclear exactly what Angelo Badalamenti did on the film. His name is clearly seen in the opening film credits, and A.B. wikipedia has Drive listed with his name, but he’s not mentioned in Drive wikipedia.) Other music is techno and seems an odd choice, but it works. It’s an early 80′s techno sound.
It isn’t huge “blow you away” sort of film. More of a subtle classic.

Billy and Xuan changed course again and left for Hawaii. It was a move that made the most sense due to visa issues and the ability to work. But before he left, I got some shots from his underwater camera, all taken by him. None truely capture the variety you might see all at once down there, but they are an impression I’ve wanted to share ever since I started snorkeling here.

I’ve been teaching some business classes at the Ayana resort and spa twice a week. I noticed one student taking camera phone pics of me during class, and next thing I knew I had a blurry photo shoot on my hands. Not a problem.

My friends Billy and Xuan have arrived. Billy plans to get dive master certification. They weren’t too taken with Bali initally: the noise, the trash, the “you buy, you buy”, and planned to go on to Thailand. But as Xuan is a Chinese national, she can only stay for two weeks before a visa renewal, and landing in Singapore is even more difficult. So they are looking into staying here. But no doubt there will be trips around the region for them.

Meanwhile we went back to Amed. Billy did some diving, we did some night snorkeling, which at first was as scary as it sounds – visibility down to a beam of torch light, but you adjust quickly. There are completely different animals that come out at night, but two spots we tried turned out to be disappointing. I did see a huge camo box fish though. Mostly laid around in the hammock and did lots of snorkeling. I touched some soft coral I shouldn’t have and two fingers have been swollen up for a week, but they don’t really hurt and are getting better. There was a “discovery dive” offered, where you get a crash course, some time in the pool, then can go down to 10 meters. But at 600,000 rupiah it’s still a bit cost prohibitive. Maybe after Billy is a dive master we can sort something out. For now, I’m still happy snorkeling, but have learned to keep my hands to myself…

So I have plenty of vacation left. In fact will take a week in Oct, another in Nov, we already get a week after Christmas, then the month of Jan and I’m done. I’ve also gotten a flight down to Australia – Darwin for $70, and with a bonus month’s pay for completeing the contract, I’ll be down there a bit. I plan to take The Ghan down the middle of the country then fly back to the States via Melbourne or Sydney.

I had planned on two days up there. It was nice to be cold at that altitude, after seven months of continuous Bali weather. Sure, I love sun as much as anyone, but I’m also a person who likes change, weather included. But there wasn’t much in the town and there was volcanic dust everywhere. Rooms with hot water were crazy expensive. Even rooms at the main hotel seemed a bit much, so I found a homestay with a shared bath. Cheap, but no shower. I caught up on some sleep that afternoon, had dinner and drinks with the gang that night. I’d decided to simply catch my Bromo sunrise and roll on home to Bali that next day. It was a long one.

views of Mt. Bromo from chilly on Vimeo.

I awoke at 4 and paid a guy to take my to the lookout on a motorbike. I was disappointed to realize I’d have to do last last, steepest, 2 KM on foot. I bitched and moaned the whole way but avoided a heart attack. I kept telling myself I’d gone far enough, but did finally make the top, and after resting a bit realized it was worth it. Then I went back down and packed up, waiting around the restaurant drinking coffee while they blasted a Bon Jovi (I think) record I’d never heard and never need to again, eventually met the others and we went on. Mini bus to the train station, 5 hours on the train (some other bits of East Java seemed beautiful and worth going back to explore), another bus onto the ferry, and then the final ride, which with the traffic on the two lane road we thought would never end. Back to Denpasar where Isha was waiting to pick me up.

Bali feels fresh again! I had awesome shirts made from the batik I picked up in Jogja. Hopefully some of the other travelers I met will look me up when they get East to Bali.

Birdmarket in Jogjakarta, Java, Indonesia from chilly on Vimeo.

But on the ride home I saw a horrendous wreck. It happened about 70 yards ahead of me, and I couldn’t see who was at fault, suddenly there were just two motorbikes in the air. I pulled to the side instantly, as all traffic came to a halt. A guy, maybe 55 and riding without a helmet, was out cold in the road, bleeding from his head. Several guys came running out of a garage and quickly picked him up, bringing him out of the road, and cleared away the wrecked bikes. I was in the adrenalized moment of “oh fuck, oh fuck”. I went to get his abandoned shoe out of the road and saw the trail of blood on the asphalt. A younger guy who had hit him was upset and the others sought to calm him, saying maybe it wasn’t his fault, or now wasn’t the time to freak out. There wasn’t anything more to be done, so I got back on my bike to beat the traffic that had built up. Plenty of others were around and an ambulance presumably on the way. As I left the guy was breathing heavily, though still unconscious. He wasn’t dead, at least at that point. I rode on, obviously rattled. What was I doing, a less than experienced rider in unknown traffic on Java, where there are many more vehicles than Bali? Being careful, and not wrecking. But seeing things like that brings the fragility of it all back home.

Then just outside of town, I stopped to shoot some graffiti and discovered a cool DIY type crafty store called Roemah Pelantjong. I got some little things and talked a while with a girl there named Nicole, actually going back the next morning for coffee, as I had the bike for 24hours and didn’t need to give it back until 10. Yes, she was cute. Then I rode into town to check out the Bird Market. The stuff I shot there is selfexplanatory though youtube seems to be down at the moment so I’ll have to get that up later…

I haven’t done one of these pervy posts for a while, but as this starlet was born in Indonesia, it’s fitting. I’ve been eyeing Cannibal Compilation #28 for a while now in a pile of films in the night market. The three of the seven that I hoped to see were Lugosi in ‘Bride of the Monster’, Fulci’s ‘Zombie’, and ‘Emanuelle and the Last Cannibals’. Unfortunately, the DVD had only the last, and only about three quarters of the film. But I still find it comment worthy, from the late 70′s when an Italian schlock-master might combine the themes of soft-core porn with extreme violence.

The film, or what I got of it, is thoroughly watchable, with great scenes of 70′s NYC, the absurd dialogue one hopes for in these sort of films and lots of T+A. Apparently there are many different versions of the film, some with hardcore moments of other actors spliced in to the footage, and varying degrees of gore, but this semi-copy I got (and for only $1.25 I can’t quite claim total disappointment…) doesn’t have anything too gory. Looking around online, there is plenty of choice footage I’m missing. At one point, Emanuelle and the Anthropologist watch a black and white film in his apartment of tribesmen decapitating and castrating an adulterous couple. The effects are absurd at best. But then there’s all of the footage of lovely Laura Gemser, still alive and living in retirement in Rome. And that’s definitely worth watching…

Also found out good friends Billy and Xuan are coming for an extended stay in September to get Dive Master certification. I’m very psyched to have them in the area! Part of the joy of seeing cool shit is sharing it. But I’m resistant to let them talk me into actually diving – an expensive habit I don’t need. Hopefully I can stay in my economic class simply snorkeling on the surface and in the shallows. But I will travel with them to Sulawesi, Kalimantan (which you may know as Borneo) or Flores/Kimono/Rican etc. for dives.

I also move this weekend. Found another place, slightly bigger and higher rent, but with no electric bill, so less $ overall per month. Something tells me I’ll miss the “unlimited laundry for a flat rate” deal I’ve got going with my landlady though…

And then on the way to work this morning a traffic cop pulled me aside again. No, pig, I am not a fucking Australian here on a 10 day vacation, I have my documents, and you aren’t making any lunch money off me. When he had the nerve to ask me “Where are you going?” (which is an annoyingly common question here, yelled at you by vendors all day long in certain areas) I said in surly fashion “To work!” , though I wanted to say “Up your mother’s ass!”. It’s not my fault you aren’t paid shit and part of your income is based on extortion. But I know the game, quit wasting my time. It has nothing to do with anti-terror security, or road safety. Indonesians are allowed to run red lights and ride without helmets. Any Buleh seen doing so is stopped and fined. And of course when they aren’t around, everyone drives in classic Asian chaos style. Death Race 2011.

Add to this my apartment is starting to hassle me about not having something called a kipom. They mentioned it when I moved in, it’s like a residency permit for the banjar – a combination of the neighborhood watch and the mafia. But I never got one, as I was told by other teachers it wasn’t unnecessary for non-Indonesians. After all, I do have my kitas, work permit, and that should be enough. So six months rent paying has gone on with no problem, but I recently outed myself. Last month they started building vertical barricade bars at the top of the street. “That’s trouble”, I thought. But they have remained opened, I assumed for show only. But now they built a little guard hut, and I know wouldn’t go through all the effort to not make a check point. When I asked the landlady about it, figuring I’d soon have trouble coming and going without being able to show my kipom, she assured me not to worry about it. But the next day, the landlady for the other side of the building came to me, “Oh sir, you don’t have a kipom?” We argued about it a bit, as it hasn’t mattered until now, and then I told them I’ll move out at the end of the month. There is no lease after all. The kipom is only revenue for the banjar, who do nothing for me. It’s an absurdly safe neighborhood anyway. But now I’m expecting the guido fuckers to show up at my door any day looking for their $15 extortion tax. And of course it’s the “high season” and will be hard to find another place to move. But on principle I’m gonna look in these next three weeks before possibly giving in and jumping through their stupid hoop.

Last year, living in China, there was some bullshit that went on, but other than some website blockage, which wasn’t hard to get around, it never had to do with the govt. If anything, cops looked away when I rode by. Overall, there was a thankful vibe in general that I’d come to teach the useful skill of English in their country. I know there is corruption in the party, but it’s reserved for higher ups. No one came trying to dig a few bucks out of my pocket. Vendors were generally scrupulous too – though I think that had to do with the province, Shandong, who’s people are famously provincial but honest.
Here, whitey is only seen as someone to lean on, get a buck out of one way or the other. Indonesians bitch about corruption too, as they also fall victim, but there is a fatalistic “What can one do? Such is life” attitude. As an American, I’m used to certain “fine print” scams: insurance industry, credit card/banking industry, airlines losing your luggage or canceling flights, cable/cell phone companies etc etc. But when it comes to cops, I can’t get comfortable with one trying to shake me down. Make that constantly trying to shake me down.

Headed south again, back into the mountains. I had to stop for the view of Kintamani and to get completely ripped off buying some gas from a roadside guy. Over twice the price a fill up should have been, but still less than $4. This has happened to me a few times now – paranoid about running out, pushing to “just the next available spot”, I give in, pay too much from someone by the road selling petrol out of Absolute bottles, then soon see the proper gas station where it always seems I would have made it. But at least I haven’t run out in the middle of nowhere. I’ve also had good luck only getting flat tires where a fix place was quite close.

The other issue with these roadtrips, I find myself cracked out after such long drives, arriving from yet another unknown angle into Denpasar and wandering around until I find something familiar, I end up driving crazy and taking too many chances. So far so good, but passing trucks and buses on mountain highways gives one an unrealistic sense of how dangerous it really is. Perpetual close calls, but never a collision.

After two evenings of drinking more than I should have, I rode an hour to Tanah Lot to watch the sunset. It’s tourist high season, and so a bit busy, but it was low tide when you can walk out to the island temple. The “holy snake” was hilarious: paid a donation and went into a semi-cave to a seated guy who shone a flashlight in an alcove where there was a snake, but I’m not entirely sure it was alive.

I went around and got some other shots, especially trying to capture crabs camouflaged in the rock and other sea creatures in the tidal pools, but then while having another over priced beer on the overlooking cliff, absentmindedly deleted all of these shots, and had to scramble to retake before dusk. The were great terraced rice field views on the way as well, but I don’t think I need to go back there.

In the evening I met some older kooks from Australia. Actually she was Australian and he originally from Austria. They said some interesting stuff, and also some kooky stuff – about the proper way to eat and “Earth Energy”, which cats love but dogs hate. I’ll listen to most any old shit once you start buying the beers, even if you speak over one another and constantly repeat yourself. The cafe closed rather early and they turned in, but I had to ride down the windy road to find an open store to have one more large Bintang before the rushing surf and under the stars.

On the way back I saw an interesting temple in a perfectly square shallow pond. A “tourist object” as the sign says, but I’m not sure of the name. I was just south of Amlapura. I loved driving in the mountains, though the roads are sometimes sketchy and you have to watch petrol consumption. Mountains are just good for me and I wish I lived closer.

All in all, it was just what the doctor ordered to make me feel good about where I am again. Getting away from Kuta is key. The cost and all the Australian tourists can be a real drag. I realize if the school where someplace less touristy and mountainous, this would be an entirely different year. But all of that is only 2-3 hours away, so I shouldn’t complain.

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 awoke super early the next day, so went out to see the sunrise. Lee and others had convinced me not to take a scenic route through the mountains back to Lembar, the port town, in case I got a flat, as there is no one out there to fix it. I didn’t in the end, but now am thinking about a system to self repair that would free me up to do more kooky adventuring. It’s much more complicated than a bicycle flat fix unfortunately. And the roads here are often shot out and full of little pot-holes that must be navigated. But I made the ferry back by 9AM. It turned out to be mostly empty and we were back on Bali by noon. Then I rode on home. Not the greatest weekend ever, but a nice little getaway. Driving through the countryside, seeing the rice fields and mosques, which are actually kind of pretty, the only foreigner around, gives me more appreciation for being here. I look forward to more trips out to other islands, Java and beyond.

Otherwise, I’ve more or less recovered from the very demoralizing failure to be paid on my BDay… I was ready to throw in the towel then and go home, as they’d technically broken the contract, but lucky my sister was here and calmed me down. I was of course paid the next day, a technicality blamed on the vacationing accountant. And Bali really isn’t so bad. But I don’t picture re-signing here. I preferred China, as much as it sometimes also drove me crazy. But of course plenty could change in my remaining 3/4 of a year. I head back to Lombok next weekend, which is a three day for Easter. I’m picking up Winda in Sengiggi, spending another night in the Blue House, then taking her down to Kuta, Lombok which is supposed to have amazing beaches.

We also went to a Monkey Chant retelling of the Ramayana, an abridged version of which is posted below the Fire Dance. Near the end of the show we saw this…

There was a holy man chanting and ringing a bell. Mira and her brother, in traditional garb, had prayers said over them and washed in some holy water. They were then adults in the eyes of the community. And then she got to take off the apparently heavy and hot headgear and some of the make up. But it was a beautiful event.

Her parents are both police, so at one point loads of Indonesian cop guests came filing in to the event. Dewi made a timely joke, urging me to “get down”, but naturally I had to get my picture taken with the cops in the non-threatening setting. Others in the photos are fellow teachers and assistants.

-the yelp heard just after the one little monkey reaches for the camera and man is heard to say “I hope that’s video”, is when a larger male went for the back of his head. He had his sunglasses resting on his ears, but turned around, facing back. Monkey’s don’t like this douche move either. In the end, for the drama of the sound, he only had a scrath, which he hopefully did iodine. Unfortuantely I didn’t keep filming the post attack. It was really only a tiny scratch.

-the one that went for me after I tapped on the stone and startled him (you can barley hear if you listen) didn’t make contact, but I was lucky. Shoestring Monkey got a little agro with me too, but we worked it out.

-heads up in the Monkey Forest! They know when you are distracted. I wasn’t filming when the teenaged girl got her skirt pulled mostly off either, but that footage might have made trouble for multiple parties…

Here’s another. Make’s ya wanna have have a swingin’ knife fight…

She had to work until 3 on Friday, so we left her massage salon from there, dropped off her scooter and were on the road, she on the seat behind me and holding a bag with all of our stuff. We made the harbor town of Padangbi by 4:30 but couldn’t get on a ferry until 7, sitting in rain all of that time. The upside of this was getting to see that small town’s ogoh-ogoh festivities. Large, some huge, paper mache demons and devils are made and paraded around before the day of rest.

I had shots from several back in Kuta I wouldn’t get to see paraded, but nor would I deal with those crowds. Also the stores have been running beer specials, as it is one of the few days locals drink and nurse hangovers during the lights out, day of rest. The stores were insane days before with people buying everything off the shelves. Some hindus fast, but most seem to be succumbing to the same mania that sweeps westerns before a snowstorm. The realities of starvation never reflect the lines and bare shelves beforehand.

We got to Lombok Island around 11 and I had her in the capital and her hometown Mataram by 12. She suggested I just stay there for the night, but all rooms were full. It was obviously a popular time to get off Bali. So I gassed up and rode on to Senggigi when I’d “booked” a room days before. I was well tired by this point, and not aware of the ocean view just off the cliff due to the darkness and the hum of my engine. I found the place in tiny Senggigi and a guy on a bench out front told me “all full” then tried to sell me some dope. “I have a reservation” I assured him, declining his other offer. He said Ok and led me down the dark path. No one woke up from the completely unlit “office” shack, so I looked for the number in my phone history and could instantly hear my ringing from inside. Eventually the older woman awoke and came out. I gave my name and told her about the reservation.
“Sorry”, she said, “I give room away. Why you no make two reservation?” Who’d ever heard of such a thing? Usually one reservation is sufficent. And why the fuck didn’t she tell me to confirm when I made the first one?
1 AM and everything in town booked, now what? Wait til dawn? But Dopey had an idea and made a call. He could get a room for three times the price of the one I’d arranged but I had to be out at 7 AM.
“That’s nuts”, I told him. “I’m not paying that for 6 hours. No”. He called again. Same high price and I could leave at noon. “Ok”, I said. Fuck it – I was tired, hungry, and in need of an enibriant from a source I could trust: beer from the 24 hour store which thankfully was still selling.
The contact, a young guy, came and met me and we rode on to the house. There sat another watching TV. I thought I saw a pipe on the table, and riding to the store to get my beer and then eat late night in a warung on the way back I was worried about cops and set ups and general paranoia going along with illegal activity. When I got back and drank my beers (the first guy was gone but TV guy was still there) I saw upon closer inspection it was actually some random small piece of a motorbike engine. There was talk about such things later, but just in general terms – how it works in the US and Indonesia. Obviously bad news in both places. We said our goodnights and turned in. the guy said he lived there, but it seemed like a deluxe set up for one so young. I think it was a rental house with no tenant they had camped out in. I had no qualms about cranking the AC for the price I paid.

In the morning I showered and no one was around, so I left a note and slipped out leaving the door unlocked. Senggigi is was asmall town, a village really, and I was in a neighborhood off the main road, so after pulling the gate shut, security didn’t seem an issue. Coffee time. I was hoping for a place in this neighborhood rather than on the main drag where a buleh was bound to pay more. I tried one little shop that sold coffee packets, but none made. I ran into a Westerner washing his car. He was an older Canadian guy and we talked for about 20 minutes about the area and his ex-pat experience, general lack of eco-consciousness in these places, the short sighted quest for the tourist dollar, potential dive spots for some other frinds of mine who will hopefully come, etc. He pointed out a cafe that had just opened about a block away, and I went in to have coffee.

I had a pastry as well and a female German owner came out to the table (it was sort of one table in a garage area with a counter) to mention they also rented rooms. Hani was texting me at this point with leads on places in Mataram, and indeed staying back there seemed to make it easier for our depature the next day. I was paranoid about how long the boat back might take, picturing 10,000 bulehs and Balinese returning to the island in the post holiday/pre-week rush. But in the end I went to see the womans room, again back in the neighborhood. It turned out to be a good choice. I rented the smaller room, and no one came to get the larger, so I had the entire small house to myself for 150, 000 – less than $17. There was a “kitchen” but only some plates no appliances. As I set myself up, people form the restuarant came by to bring sheets, haul away recycling from the last guests, and this one really smiley, cutie showed up – Winda. Unfortunately I had to tell her the western toliet (one eastern, one western) had just backed up. First she brought me a toilet brush, which was useless. She soon returned with a borrowed plunger and I remedied the problem with minimal trauma. It worked fine after that.

I put some of my sopping things from the previous day’s rain up on the tiny deck area to dry, then went out to the beach. I chatted with some locals, foraged coral for a pending aquarium project and had some tasty satay with congeled rice wrapped in palm leave bundles.

Later, while trying to nap, Hani wrote she was coming to town with her daughter so I told them to come by the houe and I’d meet her. Her cousin came too. It started to rain agian just as they arrived. We talked and ate peanuts while waiting out the shower so they could go to the beach. Her ten year old daughter was obviously bored so I suggested she watch TV. She shyly resisted this idea at first, but eventually relented. Unfortunately, I discovered I could get no channels, but there was a DVD player and luckily I found a stash of about 40 DVDs in a drawer, including some kids stuff. She was now more of less content to wait out the rain.

Eventually they left and I went back to the store for my evening beers. My budget was a bit in question, as I’d had to blow a quarter of what I’d brought on that first night’s room, but breakfast was free, I had enough for dinner, gas, and the boat back. Hani agreed to pay if we had a blow out or some other bike issue on return ride, then I’d get her back.
I watched the excellent Australian crime drama Animal Kingdom and drank. Then went back to the restaurant for dinner. They had a special Italian menu that week, but it was too spendy. I almost went for a default burger and fries, but decided agianst it, notcing some Thai items. So in the end, had only the Italian salad, Tom Yum soup and Pad Thai. Plus, Windu to sit with me and flirt the entire meal as I drank some more beer they kept cooling for me in the fridge.

Back at the house I watched a film I’d never heard of, Extra Man, with Kevin Cline, who can be quite hilarious when he wants to. Then as I was drifting off, I felt really funky, and ran to the bathroom to puke. I think it was some seafood in the Tom Yum, but still no regrets, it was tasty…the first time. No clogging issues and I was off to a good night’s sleep.

In the morning, I rode back to the restaurnat for Indonesian breakfast and coffee, chatted a bit more with the German owner, said goodbye to Winda (who has since started calling and texting…) and rode to Mataram to meet Hani. She now had a small package en tow for a cousin in the hospital back in Kuta on Bali. It rode at my feet on the small platform of the motorscooter.
On the ferry back I met this guy, Mitch from Montana, who’s on a fair trade journey and writing a book about his travels. He’s really into the cause and there are lots of reading and links there if you are. We also saw some dolphins from the boat.

We rode back to Denpasar/Kuta without incident, though I got the flat I was expecting the next day before class. They are cheap and easy to have fixed here. Three holes in that sucker, I’m just thankful it didn’t shit out on me out on the highway in a driving rain. Despite some price-gougin’ and vomit, it was quite a nice little trip. And definite confidence builder for getting around further on my own. I still have much of this Bali island to see of course. The timing on getting my drivers license and the visa run just hasn’t made it possible before now. And this day of rest dictated me over to one of the other 17,000 islands of the archipeligo in the short run.

Singapore is essentially a city of shopping malls. I didn’t see the Orchard Boulevard hotel with the “four floors of whores” some English business man told me about in the airport, but on the other end of Orchard where I had dinner I saw plenty strutting about, including one in an anorexic Mrs. Claus get up. But Sing. is a huge financial center and those ladies are after the big $.

I walked around Chinatown, got to use a little Mandarin, got rid of the older “small head” hundred bill no one in Bali will take without a serious penalty. Walked around a ton actually. Rode the bum boat in the Singapore river. Had some great pho, and some REALLY choice honeyed pork and beef jerky sheets called bak kwa.

Got some comic/art book things in a Japanese bookstore with a huge, very discount section. Met some other teachers from the same chain I teach with from Jakarta and it seems their situation is shittier than mine. But they had been up since 4 AM, were exhausted, and weren’t exactly the best representatives at the moment. Got my bottle of Jim B from duty free for a decent price (as I’m not paying the $90 they are here), and came on home to the rain.

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.

Since I did have the bike, I went and took Valentine’s chocolate and fake roses to two girls I’ve met, one Hindu one Muslim, both massage girls (legit Balinese massage, I haven’t tried the “naughty” yet). The Hindu one, Ayu, seems quite keen to be my “girlfriend” despite being literally half my age and the fact we can barely speak to one another. It’s all quite puppy and innocent. Phau-action prospects being better than no action at all as I see it. I get the impression things are all quite chaste in their minds, for now. Ayu had a gift for me as well when I showed up, so it’s not all just complete suckersville on my end. And I will slowly be learning Indonesian…one text message at a time, as I made the effort initally and now she seems to not be bothered with using English.

I’ll be taking a school funded visa run to Singapore soon, and also start training with the online version of the school. But for now my schedule is actually rather chill. We’ll see how long that lasts…

I walked by there in the afternoon, was thrilled with the general vibe of the place: incense and fruit offerings, people burning some other paper things – not hell notes – I’m not exactly sure what. Kids running around and families, a general good vibe like a crowd of Buddhist can create. Saw a 3 lion dance, which turned out to be the afternoon show for a busload of Taiwanese tourists Someone told me there would be a parade at four, so went to a nearby place to eat. Found myself ravenous and ate quite a bit from this cheaper place, which turned out to be a mistake because the temple was giving out free dinner a few hours later.

Four o’clock came and went and no parade, but I was enjoying just sitting and watching the prayers and offerings, mellow Chinese music and sweet smell wafting about. I’d been watching a cameraman and reporter doing their thing in the mix and eventually met them (though never got their names). He was Aussie and she Indonesian with really good American sounding English. They were AP, currently hired by CCTV to do the bit on Balinese NY celebration, no doubt going into a bigger segment on festivities all over the world.
We talked film, modern journalism, the in’s and out’s of Indonesia, and got a kick out of the tweet she got when Anderson Cooper got popped in the Cairo fray, which I assume made at least some waves in the States, if not full on CNN Domestic absurdity, with Dr. Gupta doing some fluff piece on Coopers “injuries” etc. What a gigi.

Anyway, at 7 there was another show, better than the first. A dragon dance, the red lion dancing on large concrete rolling balls, other theater. But it’d been a long day, I was (needlessly) worried about my computer back in the less than secure room, and I left before people were to jump around on phau-Bamboo poles.
I’d come by day and thought I knew the way back, but took a wrong turn and walked WAY in the wrong direction, was caught in the rain, and turned down overpriced cab rides as I stubbornly stumbled around until I found my way back, about a two hour wander. I could have hopped in a cab, but screw it, I had the time to waste. In all it was a great Chinese New Year.

*met with the “main” school in Denpasar and was pleased to find
things less formal than they might have been. Yet also got the impression my previous experience might not count for much. The “trenches” of China are China, Indonesia is Indonesia. It’s almost as if my previous teaching was guerrilla warfare and I now must learn to be a proper soldier…or something closer to one.

*driver took me by a cool monument in the center of Denpasar. Utterly
tranquil despite the heat. Cool, bizarre unknown Hindu deities.
A series of 25 odd dioramas depicting ancient, but plenty more
recent, history of the area. Turns the Dutch may have been just as
culpable bastards as other European colonialists, though I’d wager
most North Americans don’t realize this. South Africa wasn’t their
only fuck up.

*starting having random chats with Australians who weren’t too drunk
or shirtless in public, non-appropriate places.

*moved to a cheaper hotel but right in the fray of tourists saturated Kuta. Literally had to walk a gauntlet of vendors of get to my second floor room. Each, and, every, time. “Really dude, I didn’t want a t-shirt 5 minutes ago. Why would I this time?”

*sat around all weekend stressing about money and trying not to spend much money. Did find the silly little toys I collect are here though and got one.

*met with my school, peers and boss, observed classes (see above comment on previous teaching experience) found a reasonably priced place to live and will move in Friday. Also, swell owners of hotel where I’m staying cut me a 10% discount for the remaining days I’ll be here. Serious Maytals’ style pressure drop on my financial future.

*more stress about my immediate learning curve, centered around computerized utilities, corporate standardization and lingo more than actual teaching I guess. Also learning to love the local slack vibe and not to see it as nefarious. That initial “theft” (and another semi-curfuffle with some staff from the first hotel) put me in the paranoid mentality. The Balinese for the most part are swell people. Javanese in the mix, who’ve come to cash in on the tourist mecca of their country…maybe watch out a bit more. This is just an initial observation and hearsay, hopefully not bigotry.

*And now for something completely different: ladies and gentleman, a mangy tailed Asian Palm Civet…

I can’t wait to sift his poop and grind!

It’s 9:37, I’m full of Sumatran coffee, sweating, to quote Ben Kingsly’s ever so charming character from ‘Sexy Beast’… “like a cunt”, must shower and go through hell traffic in blazing heat to meet a new boss, and I just got robbed in the stupidest possible way. So maybe I’m destined to end up paying a Fool Tax, but I’ve got to try and get that back!
So I run to the front counter, remembering my hired driver is a hulking fellow who might back me up as muscle, and explain my situation to the excellent desk people. I’m shaking and freaking out a bit, and big guy hasn’t come to work yet, but the desk lady explains to the thin but uniformed security guy what’s up, who orders me onto the back of his bike and we’re off.
The place is close, but now of course everything looks the same and it takes me a minute to find the right spot. En route I see two guys sitting on a nearby wall from earlier. The wordless look between them says ‘that white guy is back’ and what doubt is left in my mind that it might be my mistake, or I was somehow robbed earlier, diminishes further.
There he is reading his morning paper as I approach. My tone is polite, but I jack my aura up to rhino level.

You are an obstacle in my path…you will submit.

“Hey, did we have a little misunderstanding earlier?”
“What do you mean sir?”
He begins his verbal dance. The calculator to explain the commission again…the small head Frank that is less than acceptable, etc.
“No, I’m talking about the $200 you palmed…”
Truly, the guy has a gifted slight-of-hand/misdirection routine. Energy squandered on petty crime; he should be doing magic at kids Bdays…hell maybe even Vegas someday.
He hems and haws, “I would never steal…” etc.
“Look me in the eye, sir..”, he says, which is perfect, as I’ve seconds before removed my dark sunglasses and am giving him my red, white and blue cowboy best. Right on cue, my muscle leans into the doorway… I don’t even think I had to use the word “police”, which is good because I’m not exactly sure how far that would have gotten me without receipts etc. And he starts to quiver ever so slightly, but keeps his relative cool as we both realize I am holding 4 aces and he is holding jackity-cock, as he reaches into his wallet and nonchalantly says, “Oh you mean this $200…”
“Exactly. Thank you.”
And I motor back to the room, thank my sidekick, who I’ve later purchased a “three pack of smokes” gift for, hit the shower and ride on to meet the new boss.
It’s become sort of a happy story in my mind, despite my pure idiocy. Hell, I might even swing by and buy that rogue a beer later, just in the name of mind-fuck-shame-karma.

Meeting went well, more on that later…

not a temple or even the front of the hotel, one of many doorways

I actually wasn’t as jazzed about this move, despite how absurd that seems, mostly through a lack of “hunger”. I’ve had such a blast with my 20 month old niece, digging the holidays, helping a friend’s parents in a low stress move for $25 an hour, it was hard to get away from. Losing a week to ATL’s snowpocalypse 2011 makes sweating it out now all the more surreal. But now that I’m here, the jackpot feeling is kicking in.

Flying Korean Airlines to Seoul, I have to give huge prop to their service. A complete entertainment system in back of the seat in front of you for free is definitely the way to do Pacific flights. I watched and was underwhelmed by “Inception”, the sad but wonderful “Never Let Me Go”, the comic book entertaining chocked full of cuties “Scott Pilgrim vs. The World”, had tetris AND chess. I barely got into lisening to podcasts I had (holla, Producer) and didn’t even open my book! What gives, airlines of America, with your nickel and dime inferior service? I won’t even go into how cute and polite the Korean stewardesses were in their little uniforms. Then after a very quick connection in Seoul, I popped an ambien with wine and slept most of the other 7 hours to Denpasar. The airport is actually south of Kuta, technically where I’m staying in a swank place my brother-in-law helped book. Despite the 1 AM arrival, there was a driver with a sign bearing my name, and I needed only change a little money, buy a few beers and a water, then was at the hotel.

This morning after breakfast, I went exploring a bit. Met a guy on a scooter with whom I agreed to do a “listen to our timeshare schpeal” for a prize (“What! Grand Prize winner, what are the odds?”). Hopefully he got his commission, because I only had to listen to the young German woman’s pitch, realize I wasn’t gonna throw down 2K right now to join the group, find I’d won the reduced price stay and not the camcorder or $500 (…shocker) and was out of there in a paid cab back to my place in about 15 minutes. Riding around on the back of his scooter en route I got to see around a bit.

The vibe is very SE Asia, though more expensive. Two large beers and a large water were about $6 out of a convenience store (true, right by the airport and surely I can find for less) which is only slightly less than the States, and very expensive by Chinese standards, where 9 lg beers (warm) were only about $2.50. And there are jaded tourists everywhere, which is the one thing I’m dreading. It’s a mixed curse as opposed to isolated Liaocheng, China where I lived for the last year: on the one hand, less culture and language barrier, improved chances of getting laid…on the other, the smileless faces of the expat gilded ghetto, and being treated like a tourist yourself, even months from now, and the hustle that goes along with that. But picking up some language skills (and thankfully for the most part Balinese is NOT tonal) should get me out of that rut.

fuck Snowpocalypse!

I really enjoyed the transformation, when the Nina character “nails” the Black Swan half of the dance, which the entire film her ability to do has been in question. But rather than a “dance film”, I would describe this as a very repressed and infantilized woman dealing poorly with personal and professional pressure.

Even though the film works and is very good, if I seem a little less than blown away, I must admit I wouldn’t have minded a little more “Aronofsky style”. It’s what I loved about the first three films: the zip edit montages and time lapse, the emphasis on color, and whatever other ephemeral but distinct elements where at work. Yes, even The Fountain, which I didn’t think was as bad as some others seemed to. Then with The Wrestler, he shed most of that, replacing with strip downed realism, not “Hollywood magic” at all. And it worked. But I’d like to see the former style come back! To be fair, there are hints of it, as the film progresses and Nina is getting lost in her psyche. But the only scenes that struck me as distinctively Aronofsky where when the camera followed, about two feet behind her, showing us the mundane city commute as she was seeing it. He did the same with Rourke walking behind the scenes in the grocery store and at various matches. In Requiem, he did it with the camera in front of the characters, we seeing their expressions and behind them, often in a fix cam that shook about all the background only keeping their heads in focus.
I miss all of the other highly stylized trickery Mr. A! Don’t be afraid to follow it into realms they might call pretentious crap…

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.

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.

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.

There will also be bar-b-que for sale and live music. I plan to blow it out as never before.

*Also want to note two additions to the film link here: Love Train of the Tenebrous Empire,which I’ve been following for a while; and the amazing UbuWeb, which I’m still exploring and will certainly be reposting from in the near future*

I haven’t read the entire thing yet, am sort of slowly savoring it. And Mukesh Singh’s art is beautiful (he worked on Devil, among other things I have yet to see). It’s a retelling of India’s Hindu epic Mahabharata. The actual story is better than Morrison’s uber-pop “notes” in the beginning. Not to judge him too harshly: despite whatever other genius he may posses, the guy is essentially a comic book writer. But as he mentions, name dropping from Star Wars and LOTR help give readers a reference in trying to keep up with the multitude of strangely (to western minds) named characters. And ultimately to understand the story, we will have to go beyond the western duality of good guys/bad guys.

If, down the road, this is turned in an animated feature film – or more likely a multi-part franchise – it could kick supreme ass. But for now, let’s be just as please to enjoy it in this form.

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

PATHS OF HATE long trailer from Platige Image on Vimeo.

Over the weekend I went to part of the BuriedAlive filmfest at The Plaza, not so much because I wanted to see the films but support the theater and the idea of such a festival. And the films lived only up to that level, Terry Gilliam’s (who is always interesting but I can’t get on board with 100%) Legend of Hallowdega, which was amusing but sort of felt like a tax write off for Amp energy drink; and Satan Hates You, also OK but 5-10 minutes longer than it needed to be. Still I’m not sorry in the least I went: Fangoria and other film swag was given away in the lobby, and it as all about supporting the Indie film (and theater) scene, which is very much in need of such support.

Shout out to Michel Houllebecq for winning the 2010 Prix Goncourt with his novel The Map and the Territory, which I have not yet read. I did enjoy Platform though, and frank talk about sex tourism in the 21st century. Creepy perv types still get mad props in France.

It’s a difficult topic to write about. On the one hand you have Chinglish filled articles like this Xi Ya Ya expose. On the other, there is a lack of info from western sources. For example, passing a shop window in Beijing earlier this fall I saw some of the very cool Calabash Brothers mentioned here, but then can find no info on IMDB, and it’s only from ’87. Something tells me there are many holes from that source with international films – at least for now. I’ll stay with it though and report more when I can.

Also be sure to check out Golden Shoes (embedding disabled).

Caught this animated short on IFC late night a few weeks ago. Interesting animation, cool story and music. Starts out almost in a C. McCarthy zone but then goes much softer, still with it’s own important story to tell. Searching around on youtube (which I don’t recommend, as that title, as you can imagine is well used…) I did find this trailer for a DVD of which it was part. The voice over and black and white animated bits are what is relevant here, though I’d like to see the other work as well. I’ll be looking for more from German Andreas Hykade.

That is the yo-yo making that droning sound. When the woman walks by at the end she points out to the man that I’m filming him and he laughs. Here are some other shots I took earlier in the year of a man doing yo-yo tricks, catching it on his hat platform!

I gathered some make-up and was ready to go as Help! era John Lennon zombie, as it also would had been his 70th BDay, but in the end, after reading in the local rag about the spiting of copious amounts of fake blood, decided I didn’t want to risk having my pea coat ruined.

And it was unseasonably warm besides. But we did do some drive-bys for shots – hard to manage from a slowly moving vehicle in traffic, with wasted zombies milling all about. Nerds gone wild, just like Dragoncon – though maybe slightly less nerdy, and seasonally relevant. Looked like too many to get drinks in a reasonable amount of time despite all of the bars involved.

But way to go MPLS! You’re still looking good too St. Paul. I’ll be back.

*I realize the irony of writing about zombies in the same post you are memorializing your deceased father…but that’s the way it happened.*

I’m trying to get some tracks uploaded to attach to this post but can’t figure it out right now. More later…

And in this Daniel, who was a student all year in my most advanced teenage class, talks a bit about the history of the shopping center I thought of as “downtown” Liaocheng, Baho Dalo. Tom was a newer student of the same age but for only about a month, and doesn’t say much here.

Lilly and I quickly bonded in the excellent little house I was staying in when I returned. A friend had it on the market (back when houses sold in America…) and I paid only bills in the months we lived there. She had a great fenced in yard, but only wanted to be back there with me. When I’d set her down to explore, she’d just stand at the gate like it was a prison until I came out to brave mosquitos and throw the golfball. Specific events I remember from this era include the day a wild hare got into the fence and I let her chase it for a few minutes, as fast as she was never able to catch him; the time we had a discipline breakthrough and I made her sit lonely at the gate until she realized chewing up flipflops as verboten; the time I channeled her chewing powers for good and we sat together as she slowly pulled all the cotton bit by bit from stuffed animals and I filled my little Thai pillow with it – the look on her face…’so this is OK? this is sanctioned destruction, usually you seem pissed, but it feels like we’re working together here…’.

Over the next few years, moving a lot between Athens and ATL, beginning a record era of house-sitting, Lilly went where ever I did whenever it was possible. My sister and brother-in-law watched her a lot, as I did there dog while they were traveling, before my niece was born, which was quite a bit. Lilly was an ever present best friend and companion, always eager to travel, patient and well behaved when I was away.
And then the time came for me to move to China for a year. I made arrangements for her while I was gone, one friend watching her most of the year, then my sister taking over again last May. Lilly and my niece got along like gangbusters from day one. I knew leaving for so long held a risk, but the way it unfolded was heart wrenching: two weeks before my return she was hit and killed. After seeing so much canine abuse and neglect in China, I’d been yearning to get home and spoil her all over again. But it was not to be. The last time I saw her, like my Dad, was via Skype and she was never able to know I hadn’t abandoned her and I was coming back. Sometimes fate has just gotta do ya like that. If she’d been killed in the first few months I was away I swear it would have been easier to handle. She felt like a big part of the “home” I wanted to come back too. This is a pain I’ll be carrying for a good long while. But I’ve got to be thankful for the times we had to ramble together, and know that despite how she must have felt at the end, she was as thankful as I was – a hell of a partnership. As close as I’ve come, and most likely want to, to having a kid. Some of you won’t get that statement, but others will. Anyway, she was a gentle warrior who now chases wild shadowy hares across the parks and forests of Asgard, and those in Valhallah can hear her excited occasional barks.

When I awoke I went on a stroll around town with a specific test
for my limited Chinese: score long shoelaces for my boots. It took
several shops, but I finally did so. I’d eaten lunch earlier at one
literal hole in the wall and went exploring elsewhere for dinner. The
entire town (village) seemed to shut down around 8, but as I happened
by one place, a group of eaters called out for me to join them and I
did so. Thus I met Franch, who was from Brittany and had been working
on some sort of theater project in Shanghi, and two younger Chinese -
Michael and Gillian, who were not a couple. They had all come that
day from Yanghsuo, which was only about 45 minutes away by bus.
Gillian worked in what she described as a “regaee bar”. During the
meal, they realized they had missed the last bus back, so I took them
to my place where they were able to find rooms. Back at the hostel,
we also met two French speaking guys, Nicolo and Pierre. Nicolo was
actually Italian, but as a photo-journalist he was currently working a
French publishing house (like a French A.P.) and had lived many years
in Paris. They’d had an active day and had not yet eaten, so we tried
for the one other place in town we thought might still be opened.
I only had some drinks and they wolfed down vittles as the kitchen
graciously stayed open for them. The place was run by a Belguin guy
who chatted us up for a bit. Then it was back to the hostel for more
drinks and pool, joined now by two German girls. But as they were
“too many dicks on the dance floor”, I was 10 year older than everyone
else, and Gillian at 19 was the hottest one to me anyway, I retired
before the rest. It did fill my heart with pride though when young
Michael and Gillian took me aside at on point to ask if I was familiar
with an American writer they were currently enjoying named Kerouac.
“Yeah kid, I’ve heard of him… I could tell you some stories.”
But the Beat history lesson could only go so far with the language
barrier. The next morning we caught the bus for Yangshuo, still with
amazing mountains the entire ride.

Gillian paid my fare and was a useful guide when we got to town. I
was actually a bit dismayed to see Yangshuo at first, it seemed huge
and commercial. But after being there a while I realized it’s true
size. It is however very tourist centered and someday might be a
charmless shithole. Gillian showed me the bar when she worked, which
was much fancier than I was expecting (I was picturing a mud floored
shack with a boombox and some Bob Marley discs – as seen ubiquitously
in Jamaica). It was actually a really fancy and expensive bar
connected to a boutique hotel. As it was early in the day, all rooms
vacant, I got to tour several, as I did need a place to stay and there
was a chance I might choose here. It had a urban loft feel to it,
with original art in the rooms, glass floor lofts and multiple flat
screen TV’s. At $30 a room, it was very expensive by local standards,
but of course a joke to one who comes from a country where this price
gets you a room in a stabby crack den at best. Even the penthouse
suite was only $100 or so a night. I considered it, just for the
luxury factor, but in the end decided it would only be depressing
without someone to share it with. What good is an all glass shower
for one? The place had “love shack” written all over it. We moved
on.

She next took me to cool hostel that butted right up to a mountain,
one wall stone. It was raining, as it did every morning, and water
was dripping into buckets all over the place, but it was more
atmospheric than annoying. Being China, there were banks of computers
and electrical chords and bare light bulbs running all over the place,
but somehow no one was being electrocuted. It was like the computer
system I’d seen back in Reef Flute Cave ready to print tourists photos
on the spot. I asked about the lifespan of a system in such
conditions but the owners claimed it wasn’t a factor -
“meysha”:doesn’t matter – it is nothing. Whatever.
My room was a little more than the others but still very cheap, with a
private balcony I never ended up using. l thanked Gillian who went off
to work and I went for my nap. I later realized West Street was the
center of the bar action and was glad I was situated well away from it
where noise wouldn’t be a factor for me. It was over the top and
obnoxious, not quite Koh San Road in Bangkok but sort of a mini
version of that crossed with Gatlinburg, TN. Tons of cheesy bars, and
some OK places to drink, many foreign food restaurants, junk and
trinket shops, smaller alleys leading off the main action. Lots of
lowei and Chinese tourists, hawkers out front trying to get them to
come into this spot or that. But after so many months in a town
without a bar scene, I didn’t mind a bar scene – such as it was.
And it was on that quest for my first burger in a long time I found
Music East and West cafe, Yo yo and her co-workers, and what would
become my home base for the next few days. I think they were playing
Beatles pastmasters vol. 2 which is what pulled me in. But come to
think of it, I never heard “Rain” so it must have been some other
collection. How to describe the charm of Yo yo? She was a natural
comic, a smooth talking waitress. When seated, you were “customer”
and she would often jokingly refer to me as her “master” or even
“God”, but when you stood, you were just another chump and you should
buy her a shot. They were cheap enough during happy hour, which went
from 4-12, so I ended up doing this plenty. Occasionally she even set
me up. But in fact, as a guide she was indispensable.
“Sit down sweetie. Pick some music” was the first thing she said to
me. There was a short somewhere in the speaker wiring so one channel
would often go out, especially unfortunate and surreal with Beatles
recordings as you may know, but the place was comfortable anyway -
electric fans to combat the heat, great menu of western and chinese
food. Yo yo looked more Hawaiian, Samoan, or possibly half black,
than Chinese to me. But she talked like a small town diner waitress
with a Chinese accent. Soon Franch wandered by and seemed as pleased
with the place as I. It turned out he was a saxophone player and had a
little portable one with him he would take to practice by the river
daily. I wasn’t surprised to discover he was good.
So the tale gets a bit blurry from here, but essentially followed a
pattern of our meeting here, eating and going off on outdoor
adventures, to be followed by dinner and copious drinking into the
night; or a buzz with lunch, followed by a nap, then meeting back up
in the evening for copious drinking. Yo yo’s perpetual suggestion of
shots was not helpful.
“Wanna do a shot of Jameson, baby?”
“Yo yo, it’s 11 AM…”
“Yes, my Lord, but I am here to do one with you.”

I’m not gonna obsess on the order in which things happened from there.
It might have been after one night or two, I moved to another hostel
further up the valley I’d heard about and there met Jennifer, the
American who lives in Ko Samui, Thailand briefly before she headed on
to Xian. That other hostel was owned by a Belgian guy with a super
hot Chinese wife. Jennifer had some cross words with them before I
arrived, but I didn’t get this story until later in Beijing when we
met up a third time.
It was a full service hostel: bike rentals, arrangement of other
tours. Most of the other guests were couples, and I had to overhear
some obnoxious conversations over breakfast:
“Oh yes we were there the other day, and found it just lovely..”
“Did you?”
“Oh yes, quite, and we’ll be trying the kayak adventure today”
“Oh that sounds fun!”
“Yes, doesn’t it?”
As Camus complains of in The Plague – the trite, egoism of
lovers…and he didn’t even have to deal with the British, ee gad.
I’d wanted to try a balloon ride in that setting and was ready to pay
a heap of money, but that operation had been shut down a few months
before when one had exploded and several Dutch had died, Chinese
safety standards being what they are – but apparently the owner of the
company had been executed as compensation, Chinese justice standards
being what they are… I settled for a bike rental and set off with my
MP3, some water and a vague map along with some instruction from
Jennifer.

It was a little harder than I’d imagined getting out of town, but
after a bit on a highway going south, I turned off on a dirt road and
it was just me and the mountains, amazing views all around.
Infrequent other bikers, scooters but equal in number to water
buffalos, often tended either by old ladies or very young girls. Only
a little way out of town it was very rural, Iron age, but with signs
of more development on the way. I came to the bamboo ferry Jennifer
mentioned and rode on. I would sometimes pass through cool little
villages. In one I met an older guy who wanted to be my guide on his
own bike. It didn’t seem necessary, but I’m glad I did it, as he took
me out on tiny trails through rice paddies I wouldn’t have ventured
into on my own, as it felt like trespassing. His tour consisted
mostly of tiny bridges which I dutifully photographed. He was a
retired solider who had worked with artillery, or so I gathered from
his charade acting. I couldn’t understand most of what he rattled on
about of course, but nodded politely. In time, we came to the main
bridge of Dragon Bridge Village and had a drag moment when I went for
a beer, and offered to buy him a coke from a guy with a cooler, who
insisted on charging a crazy lowei sucker price, so I said no dice,
ranted for a bit that I was no fool. Then, going to part ways with
the guide, I realized his weird pronunciation of 4 was actually 10 and
the tour was more than twice what I’d thought, but this was my own
foolishness – as 10 is a far more logical price than 4. Still China,
nothing can be as it seems can it? No matter, it was still quite
reasonable. I rode back on the highway, well tired as I’d been gone
several hours, and after climbing a large hill, came in on the north
end of town. I showered or drank, or I’m not sure what then, but it
was nice to have the bike, as where I was staying was now a 20 minute
walk from town through utter darkness and a construction site which
will soon be dozes and dozens of vending stalls catering to the
Chinese day tourists who come in on the boats just to shop and move
on. I rented the bike an extra day just to make this trek to and from
town easier.

One day Franch and I convinced Yo yo to skip work and take us to Water
Cave which took quite a while to get to on various buses and the wait
for a full tour to be gathered. As a local, Yo yo was our “guide” and
got in free. We entered on a small boat and had to duck down beneath
the very low overhang. Soon out of the boat we followed the walkway,
much more rustic and wet than RFC had been, just bare bulbs over
head, no psychedelic lighting. We came to the mud baths, but they
were freezing so I didn’t linger. I was more psyched for the
hotspring area, which we eventually found. It was a cascading hill of
rock with several pools, perfect for one or two, ending in a pool at
the bottom. The water at the top was much too hot and at the bottom
nice but not quite “hot tub”, while the smaller pools going down could
be perfect to suite depending on your tastes, while a stream of
freezing cave water ran down the side. I was lying there after
yelling instruction to Yo yo, who seemed unable to operate the camera
she held for us well away from the water (she didn’t swim or do the
mud), when it struck me that the entire thing might be fake. The
brochure claimed this was a “recently discovered” portion of the cave,
but once there, it was part of one big chamber they surely had to pass
through to get to other parts. It was quite possible the entire hill
of stone had been fabricated and there was some sort of mechanism
beneath heating the water, which would explain why it was so hot at
the top and got better as it mixed with the natural water going down,
with absolutely no sulfury smell. The Chinese are masters of forgery:
antiques, designer labels, media and software piracy. I’ve opened
sealed bottle of liquor which seemed very cheap to realize half way
through they’d been watered or cut with something. Fake or not, the
hotsprings were neat. On the way out, I apologized to Yo yo for being
a spazz about the camera. With the noise of the cascading water
apparently I’d been yelling and she was rather embarrassed. By now,
my nickname had become Hou Tai Lang, who is the wolf from the Pleasant
Goat kids cartoon here I am semi-obsessed with. I called all the
girls Mei Yang Yang (the cute girl goat from the show) when I hit on
them, all of us knowing as respectable Chinese girls nothing was ever
going to happen without a wedding ring, which wasn’t going to happen.

“You bad man Hou Tai Lang”, Yo yo said as we headed back on the
insanely bumpy bus ride. “I feed you many drinks tonight and calm you
crazy ass down!” Franch and I pitched in and paid her more than a
days wages or missing work and taking us to the cave, which sadly
wasn’t much.

At some point we met back up with Pierre and Nicolo, who for some
crazy reason decided to WALK from Xinping to Yangshuo like fucking
Green Berets or something. They had met some girls they had plans
with and so I met them one night (might have been after the cave…)
and we were out to entertain these young ladies. They wanted to go to
this very loud and smoky club with “Chinese rock” where we split a
crazy expensive bottle of Absolute and washed it own with Red Bull. I
couldn’t hear a thing in there and was sweating like mad, but this one
girl seemed into what I might be saying and I convinced her to walk
with me outside where we could hear one another. She was in the
middle of college and trying to figure out what might be next for
herself. We sat on a bridge and I drunkenly babbled on about a life
of self-discovery where parental opinions aren’t the most important
thing (or even considered in my case, a very non-Chinese concept), Lao
Tsu, walking the roads of adventure, paying the price of solitude, but
generally dining on honeydew, standing within the pleasure dome,
drinking the milk of paradise etc blah blah. Soon it was time for her
to go meet up with her young tour group and I walked her back to her
hotel.
But her wide eyed cute stare had me rather wound up and rather than
trying to go and find the Frenchie dudes I went in search of a massage
parlor I’d seen earlier, wondering about the price of the “full
release” services. But before I could find it again, a woman in a
dark alley approached me with the age old question “are you lonely”
and whisked me off to a seedy hotel, when I had fleeting relations
with a lovely, young and svelte Mei Yang Yang, possessing just enough
Chinese to be granted the locals price (supposedly the hawker herself
came from Shandong where I live, and this fact impressed her.) So
there I was back out on the street as the town was shutting down, not
believing I’d stumbled upon what had taken me much longer to find and
figure out in Liaocheng, for the same price, with a much hotter woman
than the average. But positively JACKED on the vodka and Red Bull, it
felt more like coke at that point, so I wandered on to find Yo yo, who
after some brief reservation was OK with selling me after hours beers
to take back on the dark trail where I might be able to sedate myself
toward sleep before the dawn.
“You be careful crazy Hou Tai Lang! I no want see you tomorrow with
smash face!”
“I’m a pro, baby. A blessed magical maniac, worry not”, and indeed I
didn’t even drop one on the bumpyass ride back.

Another day, we took Lisa and Lucy for a day outing, which only seemed
fair as they had minded the restaurant while Yo yo had gone with us to
the cave. We went kayaking, again Yo yo able to beat the price they
had quoted me back at the hostel. Now we, Franch and I, were joined
by an ad hoc group with a Norweign guy and an English girl and this
Swedish guy who I seemed destined to perpetually argue with. He had a
Ramones shirt on, but didn’t recognize the Stooges when I played them
(though too be fair, I might not have at his age either). The fucker
just didn’t want to believe me when I insisted that Johnny Ramone was
a right wing ass… which is a matter of public record. Ok I might
have used the word ‘fascist’ which tends to come easily from my lips
when drinking and certainly means a very different thing in
Scandinavia. The funniest part is when he wanted to ask me about
another of his favorite bands, “Someone once told me, but I can’t
believe. Is it true Hatebreed are nazi’s?”
“Oh my Christ on a bike, I can’t believe of all bands you mentioned
that one! Yes! Yes, it’s true.”
“But common, no! How do you know this?”
“Look; I don’t know if they’ve read Mien Kampf, or polish jackboots or
fly swastikas. But I promise you they are north-eastern thugs. I
personally saw them kick the shit out of some poor clueless suburban
Oregon kid who didn’t know what he’d wandered into outside one of
their shows when I worked for a promoter out there. They get off on
violence and pack mentality.”
“But that doesn’t mean nazi…”
“Not as a political movement, no. Call it what you want. And I’m not
saying listening to them makes you a nazi or a thug, the divide
between artists life and their art etc. Enjoying the films of
Polanski doesn’t mean you condone statutory rape (never mind the dated
facts of that whole debacle). But I’m telling you first hand, those
assholes are bad news.”
“I just can’t believe it…”
“You believe what you want, kid” and round and round we went. But
this was back in the bar. Out in the kayak I had other problems.
Lucy was my boat mate for what turned into a several hour English
lesson, which was fine. But when she got tired, she quit paddling,
and as I was in front, we’d just go in circles. It was amusing at
first. But by the end, when it came time to get out, and we needed to
navigate to the far side of the river current, the sun and fatigue got
the better of me and I spazzed out on her verbally, the word “useless”
being used several times. Even safely on land, my bitter pouting
continued and the others rebuked me. An exhausted and sunburned
(fake, useless, overpriced fucking Chinese sunscreen!) fat guy on a
bender is rarely as amusing as it sounds. But back at the bar a few
hours later, re-hydrated then re-inebriated, all was forgiven, but I
assume Lucy will choose not to boat with the Wolf next time.

Eventually my time in Yangshuo ran out and I ate one last burger with
Yo yo, said my goodbyes and took the bus back to Guilin. Shefen and I
had a dinner date, though she was off that day, and she came to my
room WAY early while I was trying to catch up on some sleep. But we
went on anyway for a good Chinese meal with a hilarious chinglish menu
and another wander in the night market.
On the way into town, I’d seen a hilarious looking “Bear and Tiger
Mountain Village” with big animal statues out front. But asking
around it seemed there was a distinct possibility that it had neither
tigers not bears. So in the end I decided that what I needed was free
pictures of the front entrance. So the girls back at the Riverside
Hotel helped me arrange with the cabbie a brief stop by there the next
morning. I got my shots, and as we headed on to the airport, there
was suddenly a naked man walking along the dawn highway, his head one
massive tangle, very unhip deadlock. A “wildman” who looked for all
the world like he’d just spent the night in, then escaped from, Bear
and Tiger Mountain Village. The cab driver was very amused that I got
his picture. It was bizarre sight. A few hours later my flight
landed back in Beijing.

Woo..this has taken forever for me to write and has been rather long
so I will sum up the rest quickly: took the cheap shuttle train back
to Sanliturn where I stay in PEK and walked to the hostel, actually
bumped into another traveler I’d met in Tsingtao back in Feb on his
way out. Turned out two of the girls from my school were in town so I
met up with them, also Jennifer for a third time and we checked the
area around Hou Hi. Went back to the 798 arts district before
catching the train home the next day. All in all, the trip of a
lifetime. Feels very long ago now, as the school is in “high season”
and we are doing six day weeks.
When I come back to China in 2011, I’d like to get a job in the south,
though I can’t imagine how hot it is down there right about now. The
mountains though definitely did my soul good!

There was a light drizzle as I headed out, but I was pleased to figure
out the airport shuttle train after a short walk. So I can now get
from plane to room for 25 RMB when in China, avoiding the costly cab
ride one often has to bear when landing. On the train I chatted with
cute Dutch girl who was at the end of her trip to China. I got off at
the wrong terminal in the airport and had to wait a bit for the next
train. “Alone” in this huge terminal, I was tempted to take some
pics, but thought better of it, noticing the cameras and whomever
might be watching me. Nothing would have come of it of course, but I
figured I’d avoid the hassle. My plane took off an hour late, but the
flight was only two hours, and I was in humid, mountainous Guilin!
My hotel there had arranged a driver to pick me up, and I found my
name among the name cards of the waiting drivers. Grateful the guy
had stuck around despite my late arrival, he got a rare tip. I
instantly loved Guilin just as I thought I would. Limestone, ‘karst’,
mountains litter the terrain like huge stalagmites. The elements
easily carve them (as well as hollow them from within) and the
humidity keeps vegetation all over them. It’s hard to tell from
pictures before you arrive how many mountains there are, but
thankfully they go on in all directions. The growing city is built
all around them. The driver took me to the Riverside Inn, a place I
found online and was perfect. Cheap, clean, and staffed by several
cute girls in their 20′s. Ah, China! So Shefen, Peggy, Yo yo and the
others became my go to advice board for events around town and what to
do down river.

Dropping my stuff in the room, I went out to explore and quickly
found Elephant Trunk Hill, which is a short, steep climb and a view.
Actually, at first I misunderstood the 40 RMB fee, thinking it was
just to get to a garden area by the river, but it actually entails the
entire park and hill, which was not laid out in an obvious fashion
from the outside. But once inside I was pleased. True it was muggy,
and I sweated almost continuous for my first week of the trip. But
the rooms had AC and I was comfortable when I wanted to be. I had a
nap and Shefen told me about a place for dinner. I told them I’d be
staying another evening before heading South. Most foreign tourist
paid 390 for a boatride all the way to Yangshuo with lunch, but the
girls convinced me to take a local bus for 15 to Yangdi, then ride a
private “bamboo” boat down only the prettiest parts of the river to
Xinping for 150.

The next day I went to Reed Flute Cave which was technicolor lit and
screamed out for the use of hallucinogens. It was also mostly paved
through out, so older Chinese tourists found it easy to get around.
The Chinese love to light things and otherwise “artifically enhance”
to a point where the surreal is often obtained. Not so great for true
spelunkers, but it suited me just fine. That evening I took Shefen to
dinner at the place she’d told me about but had never actually been
to. Later I went to stroll the large night market downtown with
Jennifer, an American who lived in Ko Samui, Thailand for the last
several years. Jennifer is a health consultant and works in some
semi- New Age fields that might have turned me off were she not in
essence a Philly, cynical girl. She had a way of talking about
crystal and such that might have taken some of the bullshit factor out
of it. I’m involved in lifestyle choices that turn her off as well,
but nevertheless we got along OK and I met up with her several more
times during my trip. There was a flier at the hostel for one in
Yangshuo where she decided she would stay and I said I’d look for her
in a few days.
In some ways, Guilin is just another Chinese city, but the rivers
and mountains generated enough romance for me that I’m considering
signing my next teaching contract down there. As I said, the
mountains are a region, and while it is touristy and growing (both
foreigners and a huge emerging Chinese middle class, taking vacations
for the first time) and I would happily go anywhere, it seems my best
shot might be there in the big city, though it’s not the capital of
the province.

The next afternoon, Shefen walked me to the bus station, and I
caught the local which would take me to the road that would turn off
to Yangdi. On the way out of town the police pulled the bus over and
the driver had to talk with them about something for about 15 minutes
and we rolled on. If he paid a fine or bribe I didn’t see. It was
all rather unclear what was going on. Finally we set off again.
Sooner than I expected the bus was stopping and telling me we were at
Yangdi road, just a T intersection with some fruit and water vendors,
people waiting for other buses and traffic wizzing by on the dusty two
lane. As soon as I got off, a woman approached me, but I assured her
I already had a contact I was waiting on. I sent a text to Peggy
saying I was at this point and ready to meet the “boatman” who I had
met earlier back in Guilin. As another bus came by and turned down
the road to Yangdi, the woman came again and chattered I should get
on. When I attempted to protest, she pulled out her cell and showed me
in her contact list the number for the boatman. So the boatman wasn’t
here, but she was telling me to get on this packed standing room only
bus. It was going in the right direction. So I did. The ride was
only about 20 minutes, and the setting was now decidedly rural: cattle
in the road, mudslides on the corners the huge bus would navigate
around. At the end of the road, there were a bunch more vendors
milling around, myself the only foreigner in sight. I bought some
water and was approached by a guy who wasn’t the boatman, but had the
number in his cell and was willing to take my receipt for the ride, so
I got on his boat, which wasn’t actually bamboo, but PVC pipes painted
brown, which was fine, considering I had my camera and pack full of
everything with me and didn’t plan on going into the river just then.
We shoved off and I relaxed completely for the first time that day as
the scenery unfolded. Everything I wanted it to be and more despite
the drizzle. I’d brought my kite along and though there wasn’t truly
enough wind to get it going, the boatman put on the small motor to
give me enough velocity to go aloft for a few photos. I also had a
total 21st century moment as I received 2 cell phone calls out there
in the middle of nowhere on the river. One from a guy back in
Liaocheng looking for this certain store and another from Shefen
calling from Guilin to check up on me. All was bliss.

I’m back on the rotation where I have to out to the kindergarden in a
rural town twice a week. One of the cutest little girls in my first
class where I run flash cards and try to get a few English words to
stick had one. So I asked for it and started in on the ball, and
broke the thing. There is only like a rubber band string holding it
all together inside, and this was a cheap knockoff anyway. As it came
apart in my hands, I headed for the regular teachers, unsure if it was
a classroom object or her personal toy. They assured me not to worry
about it, truly an accident, and I started back in on the flash cards.
I looked up and saw her silently starting to cry. I didn’t know I
could feel that bad that quickly. She was trying to put on a brave
face, but after all, the Foreign Teacher had specifically asked for,
broken, then tried to slink away with her toy. I could just see
inside her little brain “That fuckin’ “lowi” (ghost – as they call
us) broke my snake, man! This is evidence of an unjust universe!” I
kept trying to tell the teacher to tell her I’d bring another one, a
better one, when I come back next Tuesday. And explain it all to her
parents. Four days is an eternity to a four year old! I asked the
driver to take me to a toystore in town right away, but she was late
anyway, and everyone kept telling me not to worry about it. But I
think I just singled-handedly started a future chapter of Al Qaeda,
the first in Eastern China…

It’s not as bad as all of that. I haven’t bought an electric bicycle,
as the regular one I was given works fine. Liaocheng is gloriously
flat, a town made for biking and I need the exercise. I’ve also
re-discovered simple youthful cheap thrills like the flying of kites.
And there are no recreation drugs to buy here. Nor records, or books
in English, or movies in English to see in the theaters or things I
would regularly buy back in the States. Beer and liquor are absurdly
cheap, and I’m drinking less anyway. I guess what’s bugging me is the
sorority girlish glee I get when I go off on a weekly buying trip.
Who needs all of this stuff? And I’m just going to have to ship it
home.

I went to Beijing in early March and it was only worse. There is so
much more available there. But ties? Seriously? Why buy more ties -
even if one was a gift. The sales girl was cute and I’m a sucker. A
rich sucker, it’s disgusting. And the street of toy stores – I was
beside myself. But I will vouch for the city – Beijing has only gotten
cooler since I was there in ’06. The 798 arts district is a must see.
And the hutong area east of Houhi as exploded. There is some
“tourist cheesey” factor with Tibetan yogurt shops and fish and chips
places, but some cool bars too and indie crafty type stores that could
only survive in China with the tourist dollar.

How much is it gonna suck to have to go back to being an American poor
person? Hopefully I will have gotten some of this consumption out of
my system by then.

Mark P. Casey, April 20, 1942 – Feb 23, 2010

My Dad died yesterday at Crawford Long hospital in Atlanta. It was rather sudden, at least the actual cause of illness, but in general not really, as he didn’t take very good care of himself and had minor mental health issues for most of my life. He had advanced pulminary fibrosis, which was only recently found, with complication of pneumonia. Even if he had last six more months for a lung transplant, that would have only bought him a few years.

The situation is especially strange as I am overseas and wont come
back for a funeral. Our plan at the moment is to have him cremated
and take him to the (family) plot in Minnesota in mid-October, hopefully
beating the first freeze. I am glad I spent a lot of time with him
before I left on this trip. The last time I actually spoke/talked
with him was via Skype in December. There were no indications then
that this would be coming so soon. I really feel for my sister who is
having to deal with the details first hand and wish her strength and
support. She got to say good by, but also had to see the horror at
the end. I called this morning and spoke into his ear over the phone
but he was already unconscious an in intensive care.

For whatever faults he may have had, he always encouraged my curiosity
and interest in history…or one of his favorite cliches, taken from
what I assume is a long defunct teen literary magazine called Cricket
- a sense of history, mystery and adventure. I wished he’d gotten to
travel more, specifically, I wish I could have gone on a trip with him
to parts of the UK before he passed. He really would have dug that.

I’ve had a chance to do a bit more traveling. Just here in
Shandong province, but I’ll take it. There are big changes coming for
our school – new name, new books, new problems etc and there was a
banquet in the capital, a meeting of the three schools our owner owns.
They put us up in an adequate hotel, which strangely had nude woman
tiles in each of the shower rooms. We had a few hours until the
dinner, so we went out into the city to explore a bit and get things
we can’t in Liaocheng. Sadly, I must admit I’ve appreciated Walmat
and McDonald, as we don’t have them here. I hate both companies in
theory, but the Chinese seldom use deoderant and I’m running low. I
found one place with Nivea, very expensive roll, on in Liaocheng, but
I wanted more variety and sure enough they did, though not much. As
we headed out, not exactly sure how to tell a cab where to take us, I
was really pleased to recognize one high rise among the many, and was
able to direct us to the store on foot in about 10 minutes. We came
to Jinan once before to see Avatar in English (though not 3D) and
Walmat is in the same multi-story building, as well as a decent toy
sore (as in collectable toys, Qees, robots and other figures). Also,
Chinese Walmat has decent log sleeve shirts with chinesey looking
stuff on them, obviously cheap.
So we made it back to the hotel in time to see part of an utterly
depressing documentary about the Chengdu earthquake (English TV is
also a treat as we don’t pay for channels. I see historical dramas in
the massage parlor, occasional news shows or sports in restaurants).
We were given nifty Qing dynasty jackets to wear, though a bit more
red than I’d like, and we were off to the drinkfest/banquet. As the
evening wore on we met some of other foreign teachers, got the schpeal
on good tattoo shops and other Jinan goodies (*ahem*…did have a
taste later in the evening, but it was bullocks and hardly worth the
general risk). We went out drinking with them at this pub (another
treat. There is a bar or two here in Liaocheng, but they are very
expensive and don’t really have what you want. Also very difficult to
talk to the hot chicks, who are mostly college students and can’t
afford to drink in expensive bars. Not to mention the garbage pop
music. I’ve got dibbs on the assasination of Kenny G btw…) and then
a dance club. Not my scene of course, but it was this one Jinan
western teacher’s last night in town, so we tagged along. Actually
the room itself was pretty cool, steam punk decor they refused to let
me take proper pictures of, and all the female employees in these
matching 60′s airline stewardess outfits. Inside all sorts of lights
and coyote ugly nonsense, plus our hosts bought copious amounts of
watered down drinks. If I’m gonna be in a silly ass disco, it might
as well be a Chinese silly ass disco. The four Liaocheng foreign
teachers, Dean, Darren, Kissi and myself eventually wandered on to a
cab and were almost home when we made the driver drop us at the 24
hour McD’s. We were all blasted and it is munchie food, though they
use cucumbers instead of pickles and some spicy dust. There Kissi got
into a fight with some guy and we wandered on, easily could have
walked the rest of the way, but Dean got us into another cab that took
us way in the wrong direction, wasting much time and money.

We awoke the next morning to the kind of
gasoline-destroying-the-peeled-skull style hangover only baiju can
produce and caught the bus back to Liaocheng. I napped, drank much
water and went for a massage. I’d call it about a 6 hour recovery,
which is impressive if you could understand the previous level of
pain. Note to self: do not mix countless beers, whiskey, vodka and
baiju. Unless ready to PAY.

The winter course has begun which means lots of work for a few weeks,
six days per. But it actually wasn’t as bad as I thought it might
have been. We’ll see about the summer when we must do two months of
this regiment. To be fair I must say, other wise the load has been
rather light. I’m not on the shift that has to go to the rural school
for a few months, and my adult class all got so busy in their personal
lives it’s on hiatus for a while. So January I only worked three days
a week, can’t bitch. But now with the new books and routine, plus
having to judge a few rounds of the national English competition – I’m
nervous.
But now it was holiday time, and Dean and I headed for the coast at
Tsingtao (“Ching Dow”). It’s stressful because even though everyone
knows the date of the lunar new year (Year of the Tiger of course) the
govt. doesn’t announce the actual dates of the long holiday until a
week before. EVERYONE goes back to their hometown for New Year (also
called Spring Festival), ensuring the bus, train and air routes will
all be clusterfucked. The only thing smaller than Chinese foreskin is
Chinese forethought (*double snare-kick-cymbal crash*). But we got
seats on an overnight sleeper, caught it at a frozen 3:30 AM and awoke
more or less rested in Tsingtao.
There were a bunch of German settlers there about a century ago,
starters of the famous brewery, and they left some architectural
influence. It’s also very dense and hilly, so it felt sort of like
San Franciso to me (though not THAT hilly) or a bit of Europe in
China, but the red tile roofs had me feeling Italy more than
Deutschland. There was a snow a few days before, and they got more
than Liaocheng, so there was still plenty of snow in the corners and
ice on the hills. The hostel where we stayed was in a converted
observatory and really cool, though the tiny restaurant in the
telescope part was freezing cold. We split a private room with it’s
own bath, very reasonable, but there were also dorm style rooms in the
three story building.
Almost immediately we met Lou, who was up on the hill taking pictures
but not staying at the hostel. She was born in Tsingtao but has lived
most of her life in LA and NYC. I know I’m into Chinese girls, but
seeing her general Western style, nose ring and saying fuck every
sixth word, had me realizing it’s more about Chinese-American girls.
She didn’t have long before having to go to a huge family lunch, but
we went on this goosechase trying to find a market area by bus, none
of us really knowing the right way. Eventually, we got into a cab and
headed back to the right area, but Dean and I hopped out to check some
stores we saw on the way and paid the cabbie to take her on. She gave
me her number, but it turned out to be a digit short when I tried to
call later…

There was a big free dinner party that night at the hostel, and the
baiju flowed liberally. Other guests who had seemed standoffish
before now got lubed and loquacious. There were several Irish
teachers from Korea who’d come over the the holiday. And at dusk the
fireworks started…well I guess I mean the colorful ones, as noisey
bangs had become a constant in the previous days. From our vantage we
could see half the city, what wasn’t blocked on the other side of the
hill and explosions were everywhere. The beer ran out and more
arrived and the colorful explosions continued. When I’d left Dean
inside, he was pounding drinks hard with some Korean guys. It was
eventually reported to me that after falling over, they’d taken him
off somewhere. Which I presumed meant to some room to sleep, as I had
the only key and knew he wasn’t in ours. ‘Fucking rookie’, I thought
‘passed out by 9 and missing all of this’. Hands down the greatest
firework evening of my life. We had some of our own of course an lit
them in the snow, but not the heavy artillery colorful stuff. It went
on until midnight, then an hour of “finale”. Madness! We made
dumplings and ate for late night munchies and everyone pretty much
wandered off. I was still up with the owner and a woman from Texas
when a phone call came. Someone from the hostel had been arrested
breaking a glass door across town, and police were bringing them over
now. We laughed about the pathetitudue of it all, and pondered the
condition he’d be in after police Chinese cutody. The owner described
“the panda” which amounts to two black eyes.
“I’ll bet it’s one of those Canadians who left before dinner. That
big one looked mean”, I said.
“Yes, your right”, AJ agreed.
“No”, the counter girl said.”Room 306″
My blood went cold, as that was our room.
“No it can’t be. I’m in 306 and Dean is…passed out….somewhere…(I hope)”
“I think it is him, the boy from England…”
Oh sweet mother of fuck!
I went up to get his passport to give the cops, which I essentially
had to, and asked AJ to try and get me a minute alone to talk with
Dean to explain selling him out at this point, even though it was a
situation of his own making. But still, even though there were no
options, giving someone elses passport to Communist Cops doesn’t feel
good. I sweated and waited. This had to be some bad joke.
Car rolled up about 20 minutes later and I was expecting a bloody
panda to emerge from the backseat. But Dean actually seemed rather
jovial, with remarkable Chinese for his condition, an actually joking
around with the cops. They let me take him aside and I gave him the
passport to give them.
“What the fuck, Dean…”
” I know mate, I fucked up. Big time.”
“What happened?”
“Don’t really know. I’ve been blacked out most of the evening. But
apparently I’ve broken something…”
“A glass door the owner wants 10,000 RMB for (over $1,500), and you
fucked with a bank’s door. The cops picked you up sleeping in front
of an ATM…”
“Shit*”
“Why DEAN?”
“Can’t say. I remember nothing.”

He was released as they had his passport and he’d be an idiot to leave
town without it. The plan was to go to the station the next day with
AJ and try to negotiate the price down. Up in the room, I plugged him
for more information, but he had nothing I described the last time
I’d seem him hours before and he didn’t remember any of it, the Korean
guys, nothing. I’ve seen Dean drink plenty, and Jinan just the week
before had been a “blowout” but I had no inclining a beast such as
this dwelt within him.
“How are you gonna pay? Ask your folks for the money?”
“My parents don’t have any money. I’m gonna have to ask the school in
Liaocheng.”
He’d only remembered at some point thinking there was a zombie
apocalypse and begging the cops not to “go out there”.
I laughed bitterly and was soon asleep. I awoke to the sound of Dean
puking his guts out, the phone rang and it was time for him to go to
the Police station. Certainly that day’s hangover beat the Jinan one
for him. After a few hours the school called and I talked to Carol,
who was in a full panic. The cops had found her number in his wallet
and called the night before.
“What has happened? Why did you leave him? (because I am older, there
is a cultural assumption I should have been watching out for “younger
brother”) What was the phone number of the restaurant owner?”
And of course I had no info for her, but resented her presumptions, as
indeed HE’D left, I never went anywhere, and after months of cleaning
up after his 23 year old ass. Not to mention he fucked the chick I
was after for three months, and I’d wanted to come on this vacation on
my own anyway, and he’d tagged along like a fucking puppy. I’d didn’t
want to hear any shit about “responsible for Dean”. He’d made his bed
and he’d lie in it. I told Carol he planned to ask the school for the
money, and she laughed bitterly.

So I went on with my day, what else could be done? I went and toured
the Tsingtao brewery with the Irish which was mediocre. They only
give two small beers and the giftshop, the main reason I went, didn’t
have much. It was more of a museum tour, we saw no live brewing. I
wandered home, exploring the city. Got a cool robot, mech-warrior
model in a shop that seemed mostly a flower store but had a few toys.
I ran into some gay guys from Chicago who were staying at the hostel
and wandered with them a while trying to find this historic German
house, but was soon hungry and tried, in need of a shower, and headed
back to the hostel on my own after they pointed the way.
Eventually, Dean showed back up after spending most of the day with
the cops. Carol called again while he was in the shower and seemed
more calm but still claimed it was the “worst New Year” ever, and
asked me again not to drink any more.
“Fuck that! I didn’t break anything. I had a lovely evening, not
even a hangover as I just stuck to beer.” But I tried to calm her as
well. AJ had talked the price down to 5,000 and the school had indeed
wired him the money, about a months salary, which he now owed them,
but he had his passport back and supposedly there were no charges
being pressed. Apparently the guy who owned the restaurant was a
mobster, but as I never even saw him, this is the vaguest speculation.
AJ’s previous hostel had been “closed by gangsters” and I think he
sort of had gangster paranoia. But who knows… Bottom line, Dean
the black out drunk got lucky as fuck after getting really stupid. At
one point, the cops showed him the video from the bank of his butting
up against the doors, out of his mind wasted.
“If only it had just been the restaurant, the cops wouldn’t have had
any evidence”, he said.
“Zip it Dean”, I told him. “You have to own this! Now lets try to
get on with the vacation.”

We’d gotten tons of great DVD’s at a shop the day before, that night
found Book City which had lots of English titles (which means two
shelves worth, in China) finally got my own copy of the four volume
Outlaws of the Marsh so I don’t have to worry with borrowing volumes
elsewhere to get through the 1200 pages. We had dinner with a
Canadian living in Shanghi named Matt at a Korean Bar-b-que place.
Tsingtao has the Old City which is the hilly part, and the New City
which is more modern, full of jazz bars and conveniences, but much
less charming.
The next day was more wandering, exploring, had some sushi, back to
the new city for a two huge department stores, one French owned an one
Japanese. Dean was psyched to find Stella Artois. He had three
despite his new swearing off alcohol (but to be fair, he hasn’t had a
drop since) and I some Tsingtao dark, which is tasty and stronger than
the regular. And they even had Cheese, not processed bullshit but
real slice-able cheese. But it was stupid expensive, in small
packages that never would have made the trip home after a few drinks,
so we just stood there a while and looked at cheese – which was free.
I also saw one of my favorite wines Negro Gato, which is $7 for a
magnum in the States, but here slightly less than a bottle of Jameson.
I was so befuddled I almost grabbed a salesgirl to freakout on, but
what would have been the point?
That night met some more travelers, including a swell Hungarian chick
who lived in NYC for a while. Next morning we went to the train
station at dawn, glad we’d already gotten tickets home as soon as we
got to town, but not yet realizing it was for the local train that
would stop in most every station. So it was a freezing cold day, took
about 10 hours to get home, but at least we had seats the entire way,
which some didn’t.

Flickr is so huge, it is fed by “farms”, which I believe refer to
server farms. At first I thought it just might be me, but looking
around in the forums there I have confirmed that farms 3 and 5 are
blocked in Northern China at the moment; and this when I was just
given two more years membership as an Xmas gift. As a result, I can
not see most of my images, the more current ones, nor my contacts. I
can read image titles about others recent vacations etc, but only get
to see a red dot in the rectangular silhouette. Also IMBD is off
limits (really? you fuckers…) and Wikipedia comes and goes. And
obviously pornhub which was miraculously activated a few weeks back
doesn’t crank out the money shots any longer. Thus has begun my
search through various forums, which will remain nameless, for ways
around this bullshit.

Maybe I’ll spend my Spring Festival vacation in a Falun Gong training
camp in Taiwan or Tibet…

Went to Qufu (choo fu), Confucius’ hometown, which was nice to get out of Liaocheng for a day, but unlike the Forbidden city and various sites in Beijing, they allow vendors on site.  As there aren’t many tourists in winter, they are hungry, and ALL OVER YOU…  sort of a drag. And we had a big snow a few weeks back.  Did I mention our apt. has no heat?  The rooms do have electric units, but the main room has no gas heat, as they are repairing it for the entire building.  But what’s the point of bitching about this here?  Or the new roommate from the UK whose only 23 and used to his mommy cleaning up after him all the time?

Here are some articles I’ve compiled on Chinese weather manipulation (some sci fi shit…here’s another from Wired), censorship (I’ve heard from a woman who works with my Dad at the Fulton library, “party” members even harass anti-party press in the Chinese community in ATL),a robot Olympics,gang trials, and stupid laws no one is about to obey.  Happy clicking.

Living in China, I’ve had some encounters with other American’s over here to “teach English” who are in fact protestant Christians who feel they must convert, “save”, these lowly Chinese savages and inject bible-speak into every conversation they can. This despite the fact that Confucious, who is 500 years older than the “Christ child”, has had a more lasting effect upon the morality of China than the impact Holy J seems to have had upon the west. The wars, rape and murder keep on and on, but some just won’t shut about him. Unfortunately, many of these boring-ass myths are new to the Chinese students and they indulge the coersation, not to mention they’ll do most “anything to practice English”. I was hoping to vent some of this angst enjoying a film with this name, but the story has almost nothing to do with the title. A better title would have been Gynocide, which is seen written on a notebook at one point during the film. Note the feminist symbol for the T in the poster…

The prologue of this film is straight beautiful, even if a bit heavy handed. There are glimpses of the blunt carnality to come. But the film is more of a psychological thriller/ghost story than apocryphal. Charolette Gainsbourg steels the show from Defoe, but they both have rather solid performances. I wouldn’t have minded seeing her go off even more when it gets to that bit. I didn’t think the violence was as hardcore as some, or as realistic. A man would not carry on so after receiving such wounds. It’s got the fucking and genital mutilation you may have heard about, but not to such great effect. I’m not sure about Von Trier’s overall message in this film – is sort of wreaks of misogynistic paranoia. And you know it’s bad if I’m saying such a thing…. But it’s creepy like you want a scary movie to be creepy. I also give props for making a “small”, non-blockbuster film, and tasteful use of CG for a pleasant change.

So right now this is just Bob Pollard style fake band and fake album/fake song titles, but the new roommate Dean is on the way from the UK and is a bass player. So maybe I’ll get a classical acoustic as are so cheap in a nearby shop, a better mike for the software and we’ll actually record some of these songs…

Band: Qilin(chi lien)

Album: Liaocheng Shien Tsi

side A- Buddha was a hippie, Lao Tzu was punk rock
I beat a little Emperor, then another one
Somehow the un-lubed Happy Ending works
Sha-fucking-ma?
Wua shiang my negga (I would like to buy this)
Down to 400 RMB for the week
cheap but cheap

Side B- What the hell are you saying?
Ditch oil
Juicy Mao
pay me if you want to stare
Golden Pig Blues
Tai Chi on a frozen morning
Ain’t goin’ back to Bo Ai
Hey Shiao Jia, dig this…

Anyway, there was no doubting this teacher – he read me like a book. He could tell when I was doing something with my arm or with my Chi. He had a little “time out” T motion he would use to stop me whenever my motion was originating from the wrong place, and I’d start again. He would also stop me at just the right point, which I’m slowly learning to recognize. Then he would make me close my eyes, and take like a psychic snapshot to try and recognize the position. I don’t mean to be overly flaky in describing this, but that’s what it felt like. He’d say things in Chinese, which of course I couldn’t get, but I can say “I understand” and “I don’t understand”, and he can say “OK”, and make the thumbs up sign along with smiles, frowns and occasional blatant hand slapping or shaking out my arms when I was getting too tense. I felt like we had communication going and I was at least getting some things right, based on the look that eventually came over his face. It’s like meditation: you can tell when you’re hitting alpha wave state, but can’t really describe it or explain exactly how you get there. You just zone in on this other place, over time it’s a muscle to be exercised like any other.

Then I followed his head student through what were supposedly the first six moves, but felt more like 20. It’s hard to understand where one begins and the next ends, and of course they couldn’t completely tell me. But then I’d be surprised by another student being able to say just a few words in English to clarify. If I keep going often enough, things will become clearer and clearer – through muscle memory if nothing else. Plus there is all sorts of action in the park: people of all ages stretching, doing this rhythmic pingpong ball toss and catch, various weapons training, and other exercises; not to mention all of the tables of gaming – majong, Chinese chess, card games; and people playing classical music. Commies really know how to utilize a public space…

In other news, one month without TV (I’ll get a DVD player later, we don’t pay for channels and what would be the point?) but plenty of beer drinking with the music and net. Also digging more into Old Time radio (a strange nostalgia for my culture, or as it was 50-70 years ago), I recently found a PK Dick story on X-1 from May 22,1956 (#50 The Defenders). Not the greatest or anything, but still the first time I’ve heard Dick done for radio. Thankfully Phil didn’t have to live to see some of the less prestigious adaptations, not to mention blatant rip offs, of his work.

Anyway, my load is about 21 hours per week, for starting pay of 5K RMB (same as Yuan) per month. It’s about $734, not impressive for the west. But when I consider I can save 1000yuan per month and still live on 1000 per week, I’m essentially living like a king by Chinese standards, and my first raise is in 3 months. And also, this IS the “light” season. I will have one hell month in Winter (Jan or Feb), and one hell month in Summer (June or July) which means working closer to 40 hours per week. When I say 21 hours, that’s classroom teaching time, also have to make lesson plans, some teacher meetings, other school functions and dinners I must attend. Also there is a rotation that goes out to another rural school two days a week to what we call Bo Ai. I’m not on Bo Ai shift this month and am already trying to figure out how to get out of next month. It’s only an hour, flash cards with little kids, but an hour each way, so that’s another 6 hours per week not your own, every other month. I guess Bo Ai just stops during our “hell months”. So in a typical week, I am off Mon and Wed; one class in the evening Tues and Thurs (not counting Bo Ai), Fri; a full day of 4 two hour classes on Sat, and 3 two hour classes Sun. Ages range from 5-14, and actually my Tuesday nite class is adults level 1, beginners (more to come here…). Classes have at least 8 students, my biggest has 18 which is considered “too large”. A new teacher from the UK is on the way, and will make some of our large classes smaller. The worst are the 8-11 year olds, esp. the boys. Like maniacs are they! It’s shocking how they will run amok before class and during the 15 minute break that separates the two hours. Parents often just idly stand by and watch art being torn from the walls, screaming and chasing etc. It’s a combination of “one child – little emperor” (which is not as strict a “law” as westerners are lead to believe) spoiling and the fact these kids are pent up in class most of their week. Yeah they get recess, but they have almost no unstructured time. “Little boys are naughty” – is just understood, and little is done to curtail their behavior. The Chinese assistants get the worst of it, as occassionaly one will bo up and say all sorts of abusive things. It’s in Chinese, but you can tell it’s ugly. The discipline style is to verbally shame the kids into submission, which usually works, but not always. We can assign homework as punishment (picture Bart Simpson at the chalkboard) but this also only goes so far. Of course, it’s even more hilarious for them to see a foreign teacher lose his shit (remember when you had a “sub” at that age? Now imagine how much funnier it would have been to abuse them had they a heavy Chinese accent…) so this must not happen. The shear noise and commotion… It isn’t helped when you’re trying to prep your materials for the young ones and some jackass parent comes into the room and starts SCREAMING into a cell phone – that’s just the style here. The school’s main concern is that the money keeps coming in, so they don’t want to push things beyond a certain point. But anyone who knows me, knows this isn’t MY style, and I will only be pushed so far. I’ve already instituted business cards with our names for each of us to hand out (after all, we are walking advertisements all around town…) and if we can prove enrolling a certain number of kids/new clients, I will vote we be allowed to kick out some of the worse ones, who after all only slow up everything for those who can learn. And it’s only a matter of time ’til one of these naughty boys will discover “the emperor really does wear no clothes” i.e. we don’t have much ultimate power, and we have some sort of Lord of the Flies situation on our hands. I already saw one nasty fight between two boys, and the first thing the parents wanted to know was what the teacher had done to cause this. The teacher of course was already on his way out the door (not me), finished with the end of his final class on a long day, and could care less if two little demon emperors wanted to tear each others throat’s out. At least they don’t have guns… Another factor is: keep in mind how medicated American kids are – ridalin, prosac, who knows what the fuck, and there is none of that here, at least as far as I can tell.

So my adults are also all rich. One owns a coffeeshop/hotel/spa, which is just a hobby and not his real income. I was having a Chinese lesson with a friend in his shop and he invited us to dinner, which ended up being in a posh dining room. I was a bit dumbfounded and nervous, until our first class when I quickly realized he was the worst student. So it seemed he was trying to bribe me… But I’m more than willing to hang out in his expensive coffeeshop (which is more like a bar) and he can ply me with 15 year old scotch (even more exotic here) and such while we practice his elementary conversation starters and ABC’s. There was also a BDay party for one of our teachers (and my roommate) and most of the school in SPR coffee, which he owns (franchise). At one point, well buzzed and after singing all the verses I could remember of “Hotel California” to a conga and hollow body guitar, I wandered over to Rick’s “men’s table” so he could show me off to his buddies and they could drunkenly bellow their limited English into my ear. I am learning to drink warm beer, because the style is to slam small cups of it…”now this toast do 2, now this time 3!”…and you just can’t get cold beer down as easily. So I sip my one cold large one, and slam small warm ones, it all ads up quickly. Anyway, I didn’t want to be rude to my school friends…mostly female…and wandered back to the main table. All of the Chinese drunken men acted like 10 year olds trying to win the cool kid back “Here Teacher, have more whiskey…here Teacher we’ll give you this!…you want cigarette?…you want this? Come back to the men!”. Woke up the next morning, not hungover, but with a cold from overdoin’ it and biking home in the fog, but a friend took me to the pharmacy. They gave me a shitload of pills for like $2 and I was 99% again within a day.

Anyway, there’s an impression of the job. Meeting other foreigners, some other little dramas and joys, and still generally getting along fine. For now…

In the midst of moving to and adjusting within the lifestyle of China, I haven’t had a chance before now to give proper memorial for an old friend who recently past. Thom was a totally swell guy I hung with quite a bit in the late 80′s/early 90′s.

In high school, I had a friend who’s Mom moved to Canada for several months leaving his older sister in charge. No surprise, this became a party house of sorts, during what we now refer to as “Salad Days”(I believe taken from the Minor Threat song). It was in this era that I first met Thom. He was a year older and went to another high school, but we had similar musical and cultural tastes. In fact we collaborated on a zine called Soma, which I think only ever achieved two issues, and who knows if I even have one buried in my files any longer. But he went on to become program director for my favorite ATL radio station, GA tech’s WREK, where they have a podcast and memorial in the works. I last ran into he and his wife in the winter of 2006(07?) and was pleased to realize he seemed the “same old Thom”. He died in a hiking accident in the Grand Canyon, and while this is obviously horrible, to happen while he was so young, I take comfort in the fact he was spared some more painful fate in possibly not as beautiful a setting. Knowing we all have to go some time, may I say I hope for a similar passage. I wish all the best to his surviving wife and family, and know that all who knew him will always think fondly of him. He was that open and friendly type, without enemies or spite, while still striving hard against a mundane system that deserves to be shaken up-

But how exactly to spontaneously pitch this?
I guess he wasn’t too impressed, for his response came, and I’ll never forget,
“You have a bookstoaahh?” like a junkie Elmer Fudd doing an impersonation of a New Yorker.

And then quickly some student union handler whisked him away with a promised carrot juice. Surely he was tired after the reading, surely wackballs approached him constantly, and as the sage N. Peart reminds us “one must put up barriers to keep oneself in tact.” I’m not bitter or anything, that’s just my little Jim Carroll story. He came of age in a great city at a unique time in it’s history and wrote some great stuff. I first saw this photo on the inner sleeve of J. Giorno’s compilation “Your a hook”.

J Carroll and P Smith in 1969. photo by Wren D’Antonio

The Animated Heavy Metal Parking Lot from Leslie Supnet on Vimeo.

Different than her clip they ran on Twitch a few weeks ago, this is an animated version of scenes from Heavy Metal Parking Lot.

I don’t really have that many things for a person my age, and had I a house in which to arrange them, they wouldn’t seem like much at all. But damn if it doesn’t still seem like so much stuff. Am I a clothes horse? No, and yet all of these T and button down shirts I can’t seem to part with. A look through the books one more time for what can be traded in and what must be present when The Library is eventually assembled. Yes, record jackets are kick ass, and vinyl is it’s own thing, but hauling around piles of it sucks! What business does a nomad have collecting art, even these small pieces? Tools which are useful and should be kept but are seldom used. Other hobby gear along these lines. What stands out the most are little “stocking stuffer” type gifts given out of some sense of “balance” or just more packages to open, that get tucked away into closets and boxes, never opened, never really wanted.

And god knows a year from now I’ll have another pile of stuff on the other side of the Pacific trying to figure out what needs to be shipped back over here…

I’ve been pulling for Michael Mann since the early days ala Manhunter, with the creepy Francis Dollarhyde and early “rock video” use of bad trip anthem “Ina gadda da vida”. What is it about his style that just doesn’t take off, esp. these days?
The cast is stellar, as is the soundtrack. The strongest kick is the period setting, recreating the 30′s world of polished hardwoods, marble, wool and steel of the tommy gun. And indeed there are many great shootouts, the tommy gun intensifying the violence. But Christian Bale’s southern accent is hokey and somehow all the elements brought together here just don’t get their Gestalt on. Worth seeing, but no need for the big screen.

Now past the time constraint, we were free for what I considered the fun part: taking some state highways on the way back. We took PA 209 from Port Jervis and followed the Delaware river down. A large black bear ran across the road just in front of us and into a corn field, no doubt on to do some fishing in the Delaware. Unfortunately I had no time for a photo, but thankfully it wasn’t a close call: 16′ Penske vs. Bear = mess for all. We had lunch in Nazareth, PA enjoying the small town Real America. Lots of bikers in PA.

Tonight we’re crashing in Staunton, VA where there is the abandoned DeJarnette hospital just off 81 and across from the Microtel. The desk lady assured me the cops snatch up infiltrators regularly and enforce jail time, so I only took some pics from across the road. Here’s some more from Flickr of those who’ve made it in. The classic “haunted” TB/mental hospital…maybe next time. Plus, Staunton has 2 indie movie theatres. Tomorrow some more exploration in VA and back to ATL. I love roadtrips, esp. of the semi-aimless variety!

I’m not a visual artist, but have gotten interested in graffiti in recent years. Watching this docInfamy just now, I realized there is something for the voyeur too. And I’m not talking about the thousands of lame pieces you’re gonna see day in day out, but something really weird in a cool place, (for me I guess seeing Botch in the abandoned prison in ATL), then seeing other works by the artist. Touching a bit of the obsession. But for all of the lame ego tricking that goes on with the game, there is genuine curiosity in the mix sometimes.

Like it wouldn’t really change anything to meet the people doing these things, but it would be cool anyway.

This film has gotten much hype and acclaim, all of it deserved. It stands now as a further memorial to the demolished towers, and a beautiful quixotic event in another bleak economic period. I also think it’s really interesting that there was another toll or cost from the event, in terms of the lost friendships and love, which are honestly discussed. A must see! I’ll probably read Philipe’s pick pocket book at some point as well.

When I was traveling around Northern Italy in the Spring of 2004, I kept seeing a book by this American con. Thus began my introduction to Edward Bunker. I read a few of his books soon after, including The Animal Factory. I knew Steve Buscemi made a film version in 2000, but I only recently got around to seeing it. Why this film, with Willem Dafoe and Edward Furlong, wasn’t better received I can only count to the prison subject matter. But I thought it was really well done, including a soundtrack from the enigmatic John Lurie. One IMDB review I saw complained of the plot being “unbelievable”, but it’s completely true to the novel…I think the real complaint was Furlong was too good looking to not get punked, but whatever.

So I’ve been in contact with an English school in Jinan, China and am awaiting my invitation letter, which will land me a work visa, and a move on the the next chapter of my life. Unfortunately I heard from the school yesterday, that the Chinese govt. has slowed way down, if not halted the issuing of such visa over lingering fears of swine flu. A little searching around elsewhere confirms this. So my wait will be a bit long and future a bit less certain. But I’m not in such a bad spot right now, have other work in the meanwhile. Things could be worse.

I don’t have the swine flu, and am ready to stand before a panel of Chinese doctors to confirm this. Just give me a chance ya’ll!

I guess they actually had quite a challenge, with all the franchise history, to go back and tell the pre-story, esp. against the backdrop of all of the technological changes that have come about since 1966. I would have gone with some serious high end set designers to get the perfect combination of 60′s technicolor style against the 21st century audience expectation, and kept the CG shit to a minimal. But that’s not what summer blockbusters are made of. The only time they get seriously wrong is during a gratuitous monster scene. Common with the absurd over the top CG monsters already! We can’t be scared by a large monster…it has to be a crazy large monster, with red reptilian skin in a snow environment no less? Not buying it! The casting was OK, other than Simon Peg being too heavy a pick for comic relief, and the Chekov guy a total miss. Also, negative points for absurd, anachronistic use of a Beastie Boys song.
But the script is OK, and wisely hides behind “alternate timelines” to clear up some would be slop. Not sure why the new and old version of a character have to meet one another, but I guess that’s throwing a bone to the trekkies. But since you went with the PG 13 rating would it not be OK to have some boobs in there? Yeah I know, there are kids in the audience, but if you consider most every film between 1978-1983 had at least a few seconds of boobs and we turned out OK, what’s the problem? After all, those rogue Romulan miners might be the deciding factor in some of the kiddies making unfortunate decisions to get facial tattoos. Boobs never hurt anybody, and I’d argue the real James T. Kirk would approve.
In the end, do they manage to bring the franchise into the 21st century like Batman and James Bond? Yeah I guess, but without the “darkness”, and I rather like the darkness.

*update 5-19-09* Oh no! But I’m not really surprised…

music: Trentemoller’s Snowflake

My sister had an 8lb daughter yesterday, both are now doing well. The gbv song has little to do with this, other than the title and the recognition of aging, though it has all actually happened in good time.

He’s the Uncle

It occurred to me last night as I was reading some Borges, one thing I would never do, were I leading a barbarian horde in ancient times – destroy my enemies’ library. I can see the plundering of loot, destruction of crops, enslavement, and even crueler methods of killing off the first born, or thinning blood lines through rape, but why the fuck would you burn down the library? I would assimilate the library! Even if all of your enemies were reading garbage, or the same old thing, you’d be bound to pick up an esoteric volume or two with each conquest. Even if you couldn’t read the texts, someone you overpowered along the way would be able to – which also calls for a moments pause before slaying your way through those wimpy captured sages. The “ignorance is power” argument they must have been using just doesn’t stand up to the “knowledge is power” cliche of our information age. At the very least…knowledge is more fun. But I’m probably underestimating the barbarian pyromaniac factor. And when you stop to consider an art gallery is much like a library, and each musician is much like a library, and really, each mind is much like a library (…well most of them), soon you’ve seriously curtailed your barbarian license.

Here’s one resource page, and goodreads. A heavy hitter of 20th century outre fiction! Two other BBC articles on JGB references in music and as a Seer of the Atomic Age.

Finally found a great Ballardarian animated tribute. I’ll be doing more research on this filmmaker!

She was found dead in her mobile home in California. I’m a fan of the early Cronenberg film Rabid in which she starred. I’ve never actually seen Behind the Green Door…well maybe it was on a middle school VHS comp I briefly had possession of with Debbie Does Dallas and other “hits” of the era, but I don’t remember any of it.

And here’s a VERY 1977 interview.

What’s the point of this post? Nothing really, and I don’t know why I should be surprised to realize there is a semi-celebrity factor to the entire Con-model/cosplay scene. It was just weird to come across the info.

Great noir film director who left America after being blacklisted during the McCarthy era. He had a hit with the documentary style The Naked City, but last year I came across Thieves’ Highway which I highly recommend (trailer below), I can almost assure it to be the most cutthroat tale concerning fruit vendors you will ever encounter. There is also an French television interview where he describes working in the Hollywood system in the old days, and specifically with a “mommy dearest” style Joan Crawford. There was a recent film forum retrospective of several of his works in NYC. And the NYT obit. from last year.

pt.2

The following rules should be applied to all future films:

1. Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkeries” can never again be used during Vietnam attack footage. Coppola did it 30 years ago. It was great then, but is just lame now.
2. Midgets are no longer weird or scary, even prison midgets. Especially the guy who played Kramer’s lil buddy on Seinfeld.
3. So you love Bob Dylan, I do too. But three of his songs in an unrelated film, once by him, once by Hendrix and once by some power pop punk band during the ending credits is excessive.
4. Using that “Hallelujuah” song by Leonard Cohen or whoever the fuck is very likely to make a scene silly. This is definitely the case during a sex scene where a guy with ED discovers his costume is his mojo.
5. There is a major difference between idealized fake violence and stylized real violence. I’m sick of watching choreographed fights where people trade punches like a routine. Real fights often look spastic due to the adrenal factor.
6. Anyone whose had their head come in contact with stone tiles or porcelain after flying through the air is very likely to lose consciousness. At the very least they are going to be woozy.
7. That CG lynx/cat thing looked like shit

I saw a FrontlineWorld bit on this some time back. Sure, many right here in the States could use an interest free loan right about now, but the impact is so great in the developing world where such little money can go so far. Kiva is one site where as little as $50 can make a difference. Surely there are more examples out there.

I Bought a Van and Then It Got Stolen and Then I Got It Back

and when i got it back… GOOD NEWS!, it came with a FREE METH PIPE!!!,
and a bunch of hooker clothes and ratty makeup bags
and some Stars & Stripes Fruit Punch
and some Mexican toilet paper
and some Teddy Bear cookies
and some Double Stuffed Ravioli
and some Mini 3+2 Sandwich Crackers (Cheddar Cheese Flavor!!!)

and even though they stole my brand new $1500 Chinese GPS/DVD/USB/OPP stereo system, inside was a completely different $400 American stereo system undoubtedly stolen from some other dickhead. Poor loser.

I also got a few extra tools to start up my own auto-theft stereo/hooker biznizz!!

I called the state parole board to find out about the woman who’s papers were in the van, turns out she was locked up the same day for something else. I called numbers on her papers and talked to her husband and grandmother both of whom were relieved that she isn’t dead. He mentioned her children which was sorta sad. They had no idea where she was.

I might go visit her in jail and interview her about her time living in my van. Take a picture at least.

If i ever do, look for it here : www.aHookerStoleMyVan.com

what else…

Oh yeah, despite having made it 22 years without any dents, the hooker done dented it right in front of the sliding door. Ran into a pole. Crap. Perfect no more.

DON’T GIVE BLOW JOBS WHILE DRIVING ON METH!!!

Anyway, her name was Danielle McKee and her rap sheet is mostly drugs and prostitution, she probably didn’t steal the van, but perhaps got it in exchange for a rim job. — i don’t mind publicizing that assumption.

That’s what I have been doing, HOW BOUT YOUS GUYS?

A strange as it seems, some series didn’t last long and not much is known about them today, such as The Weird Circle. I tend to enjoy the horror, sci fi, cop and suspense stuff the most. Lots of Poe adaptations, if only he got a chance to know how much they loved to adapt him in the mid-20th… BTW, Poe celebrated what would have been the 200th BDay back in mid-Jan.

This looks like a rather amazing line up – can’t imagine how it’s free… I guess some car companies still have huge advertising budgets. But how many headbanger metalheads can they get driving Scions, no matter how customized?
It’ll probably be a packed madhouse by the time Mastadon and Neurosis take the stage, but hopefully I can have a reasonably pleasant experience if I try to catch Boris and Harvey Milk.

I don’t know if you’ve been following the hype with the release of this film, mostly concerning Rourke’s “comeback”, but part of the excitement for me was picturing Aronofsky’s trademark directorial style in the mix – stopmotion sped up, quick montage of micro clips in sequence to convey an abstracted mood. Sadly there is none of that. But it’s a good film anyway. Marisa Tomei looks amazing at 44, Rourke does indeed deliver. It’s really a “small” film, and would be a downer for most. All the locations are decidedly authentic Jersey and non-Hollywood. It was a stark contrast to all the trailers beforehand (and to be fair, they are gearing up for spring blockbuster season) which all centered around mutants, apocalyptic scenarios, and science fiction. This was very much a film about, and set in reality, despite dealing with the human truth behind the fantasy industries of wrestling and stripping. No glamor here.

No spoilers, but at first, the ending didn’t sit well with me. It seemed somehow cliche “Hollywood”, but then thinking about it a bit, I realized there were at least two other directions they could have gone which would have been more “Hollywood”, both tragic and romantic. So in the end, I would recommend you see this film, but there’s no need to rush to the big screen. After scoring a hit with this stripped down work, an almost too deliberate move after The Fountain, I’ll be curious to see what Aronofsky does next. And Rourke for that matter.

“Rock ‘n’ Roll specialists”

I love this show, and am happy to find from the one episode I’ve seen from season 2 so far, the quality is being maintained. Sometimes the song bits can be a bit much, but sometimes they are spot on. It’s hard not to draw comparisons to the comedy of The Mighty Boosh, or Tenatious D, but if you think about it, I’d argue they have their own original style going. Good support from characters like Mel and Murray help as well. Here’s a recent interview. Clips.

So I am the first of three intensive weekends through my training to become an English teacher in foreign lands. I’m psyched to think I’ll most likely be “elsewhere” by this spring or summer, actually earning in country rather than my usual “clock is ticking” financial strategy while traveling. The options of where I might go are somewhat limited by my not having a four year degree, but the following countries are on the table: Cambodia, Indonesia, China, Mexico, Brazil, Argentina and other spots in South America. One of my fellow students is from Alexandria, Egypt and claims to be able to hook me up there. It’s all so exciting, hard to pick a spot, but that’s not the focus right now – right now it’s all about…Engage, Study, Activate, over and again, in as many ways as possible.
Also looking into some volunteer work with the IRC in Decatur/Clarkston to help beef up the resume…

Meanwhile, I also recently saw a bumper sticker that said “My boss is a Jewish terrorist”. Makes you think. While I’m not quite ready to take it to the streets, I will say I find the media blackout, general disproportionate response (just as the US’s was to 9/11), and killing of UN workers unacceptable. I’m sure the Bush administration was stunned when Hamas became the democratically elected govt over Fatah. We’ll see how the new administration eases itself into that hornet’s nest, along with the other domestic and world messes…

Well this is the second, and it’s pretty good – Slumdog Millionaire. I’m not sure the show actually started in the US. The first I refer to to is the 2006 French film Mon meilleur ami where the game-show wasn’t as central to the plot. Slumdog is a bit conventional at times, and ultimately sort of a date movie. But I’ll be looking for more Freida Pinto work…

There is no excuse for this sort of behavior, but I’ve been there. It’s another argument for the home theater experience, but I refuse to cower in one entirely. I’ll still try to catch films I want to see in mostly empty and cheaper matinees.

Letting this end is so foolish! If it is no longer profitable for your company, why not sell off the formula and let someone else hang on to it for the diehards? Supposedly the company is open to doing this after 2009, but I won’t be comfortable until the deal is made. Vinyl wasn’t allowed to fully die in the 90′s (thank you turntablists), horses can still go places cars can’t. Gung ho technology and all that, but never eliminate the hard copy. Anyone who has ever wound up a Victrola by candlelight during a power outage knows how cool a feeling that is. Also see Polanoid.

And a song from Athens, GA based Madeline Adams Betty Page from her album “Kissing and Dancing”.

I need work, and have put a temporarily fix on the situation by becoming a seasonal driver’s helper for UPS. And the irony factor for my life being what it is, I’m cruising the old haunts of Chamblee, GA a town I am drawn to in one way or another again and again. While the money isn’t stellar, I can do anything for a short time, and can make the most of flying in and out of the jumpseat (definitely using seatbelt each time, as the sidedoor is mostly open and pace is beyond brisk), and seeing anew the community I’ve known, and it’s various changes, my entire life. The wall of the stadium I used to foolishly walk along, 3-4 stories up, when I was 13. There’s the guy I painted houses with for a time back in ’04, but I won’t bother saying hi – he wouldn’t recognize me shaven anyway. Now a package going to the weightlifting, art collecting father of a good friend, where I did some work when I was with the art installer two years ago – do they give me factotum props or think I’m a grasping loser? Hopefully we won’t be stopping at the home of the long ago x-girlfriend down the street, whose parents would assuredly try to kill me, if they knew or recognized, which surely would not be the case.

You gain new respect for these guys, these delivery drivers. Drop off is only half the game. After the overnight, then “ground” speed-rate deliveries, come dozens of pick ups, including plenty of heavy objects from various factories around the area. My favorite part is getting a glimpse of what goes on in dozens of would-be anonymous small warehouses in the area: Chinese people loading produce and seafood into vans, who knew there was a small coffee distributor tucked away back here? Or this Vespa mechanic?

It also becomes obvious how much a driver knows about the area and lives on his route, not really from being nosey, but a part of doing the job well. “There is no 3567 on that street”, for example, “it’s a bad address”. People with home businesses get lots of deliveries and the smart ones are friendly and give a Christmas tip. Neighbors talk about one another. “These are like 9 Inch Nails people, they don’t come out in the daylight…Columbine shit.” And it quickly becomes obvious who has dogs and roughly what size they are. “There’s where the lady yelled at me that time for ringing the doorbell when her baby had just fallen asleep. But I was just doing the job. Without a note how was I supposed to know that?”

Overall, it’s interesting to see the dehumanizing effect that goes on. You are Delivery Driver, not a person with any scope beyond that. Everyone thinks there’s is the most important business, there’s the most important package. “We aren’t quite ready, could you come back for the pick up in half an hour?” The answer is obviously no, and if you stopped to think, you’d become aware of the exponential nature of afternoon holiday traffic on the main boulevard. Everyone has a story about a botched delivery, or sour interaction, but these are far in the statistical minority. You aren’t thinking about the mistakes that might have gone on with the truck loading, number-crunchers at the top still bitter about the strike of ’97, the way other drivers seem to think delivery trucks are as slow as MARTA buses (when in fact the opposite is true) and don’t want to let them into traffic. You forget there are people attempting to assume the roles of magical robots for your convenience.

My first hint of such things I encountered seeing “death porn” magazines in LA during my first trip out there in ’94. There was a general pre-millenial crazy with killers and satanism in the 90′s, a throwback to the big 70′s craze, which included all sort of paranormal interest, from biorhythms to Est. There was a claim that many of the corpses shown mutilated in these magazines were victims of satanic cults in Mexico. It sounds like the usual nonsense hysteria when presented like that, but when you dig a little deeper, there are actual beliefs going on that help sustain, along with the chemicals, weapons and money, the malicious cycles of violence.

*another relevant article, found through bp’s bagofwinds blog, link to the right

And mention tomorrow I’ll be tending concessions at the Winter I.C.E. Atlanta event for I believe my third year now, good fun.

Found dead in Portland, OR.