Dank City

Kuta – The City of Yes & The City of No?

2009-10-09T16:11:00.000-07:00

Kuta – The City of Yes & The City of No?

Some people just never learn. Others are directed by a greater providence into making the same mistakes. Then there are people who enjoy bouts of self-loathing and actively seek to increase their own torment. And finally there are those among us who derive pleasure from lovely tropical holidays. All these people (and more) can be found within the tourist district of Kuta on the island of Bali in the country of Indonesia.

- Sweet, sweet Swedes -

Well Yes! The ladies are out in force today. There are four of them, all friends from Sweden on a study break through South-East Asia.

“This is Bali! This is our last stop too! Before we go home – BORING! So this is it!” They are all peace signs and Hello Kitty!

Yeah right.

Most patrons are stirring about by the hyper-chlorinated pool; it is late afternoon and preparations have begun for the evening. The girls had a good day. Plenty of sun, the hangovers broke into that glorious urge for another small glass and those clingers from last night’s foray into the Kuta scrum have been gotten rid of. Poor clingy men who shuffle along awkward mornings after - they go on existing as flippant thoughts for those femmes in the graying years to come.

And now in eighties colours and Balinese lace they languidly lounge on deck chairs and indiscreetly peer at others. Supposing they are all attractive. What good does that really do? Okay, yes. I cannot really concentrate on this thick, over wordy novel and my hawked cornered eyes stray over their geography – you could roly-poly across the lot of them! In tiny shorts, all loner boner.

Pull it together man.

Like you, they are nothing extraordinary in this grand scheme – Kuta is a European Quarter with every new moon. BUT! They never claimed to be intellectual property, nor anything deeper than what they advertise. To be children of fun and drink and sultry eyes is all that Kuta asks of them. Good luck sweet, sweet Swedes!

We giggle and then set eyes on an elderly Garfunklian chap strolling by. He has a young local lady quietly entrapped under his arm.

- Introducing Mr. and Mrs. Tom Quatermain -

Never lucky in love they said. Who’s a lucky boy then!

“There goes Tom Quartermain – the town’s loneliest man”. And he believed those quiet intentional whispers. At the diner, through the drug store aisles, waiting at the gas station – a ‘weirdo’ they said. God knows he tried to get a good woman – the love of a good woman.

Tom’s home town is small, he is the local undertaker and he still has a questionably close relationship with his aging mother. The odds are stacked against him finding a partner to share in life’s joys and hardships. BUT! To Bali Tom went, to Kutaville what’s more. Straight into the lap of everlasting love and a wifey – one to take home all his own. The attention and adoring eyes are what this town is about, on the condition that the price is right and plentiful. Hats off to you Mr. Quartermain. Bid farewell to lonely nights and frantic searching days. And congratulations to you to Mrs. Quartermain. Say goodbye to “Bali-Bali” and to all that is familiar. Which acerbic dog or meditative angel could pass judgement on this most ultimate capitalist adventure of the heart? Probably none and nobody – the rainy season in Kuta washes all streets clean and the smell is both sweet and sour that rises from the turbulent pavement. So if that can be cleansed and beautiful, then why not a small, bought love that is pitched against old moral codes.

The new couple, who stand at despairingly opposing heights, begin the long walk between security gates, and at the other end – at Arrivals – Murphy the Surfy strides back into his constant adolescence.

- Murphy the Surfy – the dangerous patriot -

The taxi rank outside Denpasar International Airport is often busy at this time of the evening. The workers hustle on the fence, some sit down on the curb and there are those that have acquired a fare and move off to their transport. Murphy walks over the crowd with an air of complete ease; this is his ninth surfing holiday to Bali and he knows what those Indo’s are like.

Waiting for Murphy at the tail of the crowd is Tin-Winch and Delfrat - the three grew up together in the Coffs Harbour region of Australia and are long time friends. Into the hired jeep they climb, with the luggage loaded, Delfrat begins to drive into Kuta.

Along the busy red brick bordered roads they hurriedly consume Bintang, Arak and speed. Murphy the Surfy is all back slaps, prostitutes and Euro-chicks, he also asks Tin-Winch about the surf conditions.

“Cobba, cobba, cobba – Mate!” pleads the ever colloquial Tin-Winch, with a tongue in his old friend’s cheek, “Let’s just worry about waves when we have to. Tonight all about the T and A!”

Delfrat follows in complete harmony, “The T and The A!”

The same old night waits for them, after Murphy is settled into his room and the fan winds up with a constant circling tick, it is time to venture forth and reignite the seasonal dance.

Roaring down the streets are the lads with no tops, they sink in and out of light spots and stimulations with pupils swelling. They begin to lose the way – which way was that anyhow? There is no point in looking for celestial guidance, for that Southern Cross will not be found, in all the orange glow above The City of Yes & The City of No.

Never fear and be feared! Murphy begins to growl – our bodies are the maps, we can follow the constellation on our backs, our shoulders and our arms! Follow the mighty Australian Southern Cross! This is real Australia and we are the real Australians!

Bewitched the trio round the monument to Islamic extremism and everything it took away and this will stay with them in a drugged memory. The swaying pause they make, guarded in by naked flagpoles, will give birth to their own radical ideals. Many under the gaze of post-destruction feel only grief for the whole world. Then there are the confused and the afraid, who take these thoughts home to their children. It is they who will bare witness to this petrified moment of ignorant loathing.

BUT! The night is getting old and the lads are on tour and morbidity is the bedfellow of boredom. And boredom don’t get you roots – so thinks Delfrat. Charging of into the infamous Kuta strips, the true Australians rebel yell goes up! Too bad if you don’t like us we own this town and this time. The brazen talk drops off as the boys head into a building of sound, sweat and coloured flashing.

Murphy leaves a Circle K on his weary way home. Exiting through the push/pull glass doors, he shoulders “some little bearded poof”.

- Bearded Russian Cynic seeks answers -

“Thanks!” I say’s to my Australian brother, after he bumps me aside. Shuddering to realise that myself and this Dinky-Dye equal have committed a very serious crime, “Lord – I think we really killed the whole damn place.”

With regained footing the tide of guilt arrives and I want to go and hide in my shitty room until the sun lights up the land.

Another day and I am sitting in closed and closer quarters with the Russian acquaintance. Yesterday or the night before (I cannot recall exactly which it was) it seemed to be going fine – we understood each other. Today – maybe no. Andy Solzhe has a far greater intellect than mine. This I assumed, before we even met, would not be so much an obstacle to our relations. How foolish I was to believe that he would want to swing with a proletariat type of smarts. Eventually, it was realised that he was growing bored of me, regardless of my earnest attempts to fathom what was preached. Sitting on the edge of the chlorine flesh pit the Russian turned page after page of socialist theories, then counter acted these with all measure of retorts – I was struggling to keep up and wanted to hang on every word.

The tourist girls became livid at our inconsiderate behaviour, whilst they lay voluptuously parallel and bled sweat, airy looks and not much else. Add Solzhe’s twirling whirl of Russian Cold War prison woes (indebted to a sinister Kuta just outside the walls) and you had a fantastically garbled mix!

The ripples on top of the pool switched direction, soes I slapped Andy on the back and said, “I’m off to the beach, Ol’ Boy”.

Walking away to the stairwell he grumbled about bed and “temptations of the eye and not the soul”.

“Good Oh!” I called back, turning out into the silly streets for more punishment in pseudo-paradise.

Beep! Boisterous-Idiot, Beep! I sway between scooters and hope that Russian is okay, he’d get eaten alive out here – no worries. Hell, I will be eaten before too long. The incense, gutter water, spoiled satay sauce and the rest have become overbearing. This was home to a subtle people, but the tourists (they were once humane too) disturbed the soul’s geography and now everyone has gone to seed. Pushing on to the main beach I am expecting maybe something exciting to eventuate.

White crumbles way out on the mustard sea, but it is the foreground which pulls focus. And what is wrong with staring into a vast distance? There is as much definite detail out there as in here. People in the foreground hassle each other, they wish to know your business because business is money. Yes. Okay and leave me be - is the stare given to surrounding hawkers

Another big pack of Orstrayhans ogle and goggle at females lolling in the sand (but not as crudely as the Brasoes whom I sat next to later that day). What a monkey gallery! This is good Kuta Beach though; all cultures of the world can unite for this common cause. Ogler, Goggeler – Show us your tits! It is interesting, as repulsed and revolted as one can be by a situation; there is still an invisible and unswerving beam of curious attraction which draws the investigator deeper.

Jeez! I guess I was visibly lonely or probably more bored, so bored of it all. That is until…The lone child staring out at sea is approached by an effeminate man and a manly female. Powers of deduction underway! Yes. Harris from Jakarta is gay and the other person is a transvestite.

The same sun as all over the big round world begins setting and two old white maggots rip a broken kite earthward.

Harris the queer is nice enough and we talk about beards, and Sarah (who is a man) shows me his driver identification. Every last person in this place has a story to tell in hell. Me included. Then Harris gets a little intense and talks of flying back to Jakarta together and I hang there maybe a little too long. So lonely Mr. Harris! Hey, not that lonely.

“Oh! Oh! Mr. George, you shave your beard-en you look much more cuter” says the grabbing Mr. Harris.

Signs of intent flare upward. Woo! Woah! No! See you later Mr. Harris and Mr. Sarah. And now I feel like Dalouz or Cassidy, those fellows were heterosexual and used to run from queers and jeer at queers from slinking box cars – yet only to attract them the whole while.

Ah, but whatever happens – happens, and we are all some ones children and so on. Everybody has a motive or something to sell in Kutaville.

The sun is gone and the salesmen and women are losing energy and the will for this day – “Thank a Lord” I say, please go get rested – tomorrow will be just the same.

This place is in a state of devolution. From a mature island culture to an immature tourist trap that has sprung shut. What joy could humanity siphon from the sad old crossbow salesman? I felt mad for a moment and ready to talk with Solzhe again. We should go out with our beards combed on this very night and preach to those bastards. Those bastard idiots bumping into other bastard idiots like broken tug boats in the dark. I wave goodnight to Sarah and Mr. Harris from across Jalan Legian.

The only action left now is to skip the uneven pavements, return to the hotel and wake up that solemn Russian with a scheme and a cold drink.

I hates the Yankee nation and everything they do

2009-10-09T15:37:00.000-07:00

“I hates the Yankee nation and everything they do”

-Major Innes Randolph,

Confederate Soldier and lyricist.

Paulo Drombrovsk is a 24 year-old Polish explorer and scientist. He’s had a long day in Nepal – tracking ex-circus elephants through devilish swamplands, whilst contending with tumultuous insides, due to his eating of a nasty salad. After sighting a public house on his homeward journey Drombrovsk starts singing to nobody,

“Warm beer. Cold women. You know I just don’t fit in.”

With this prelude he triumphantly meanders off the main dirt road and into that bar to find a seat, couch or stool. Yes. Yes. Yes. The beer is cold, soe's he massages it along his forehead, exhaling all the while. But this bar is momentarily quiet – it is the eye of the storm into which Drombrovsk has wandered. Enter – “Hurricane Dusty Farrell the Illinois State Quarterback – BROOHAH!” The Polish observer can only mutter “shit” as 6 American college boys vigorously roll in.

“FUCK YEAH MAN! JAGER! FAAAR-KING YAY-GRRR!” yells Number 17 at the visibly frightened bar keep. They spread throughout the faded, fluoro wooden den priming the air with an electric cultural presence. The new ambience is both alluring and repulsive, as divided revellers (previously in the shadows) scowl and head to the door or step-up, dance and drink. Our man on the ground has a whole beer to finish and watches on with curious intrigue.

“Hey little Asian dude!” shouts Number 37 at a huddle of Nepalese, “Com’ ere you crazy little bastard. We are doing shots! Right now! Yeah you! You an’ me!”

The undeniably large kid drags a local from the shivering crowd. The Number 4 slaps Number 2 on the shoulders and signals at Number 13, who is ambitiously rolling under the flickering lights.

“Wooh! THAT is why I fucking love you man! You fucking ARSEHOLE! Look! Tevo is break dancing in his own spew!” exclaims Number 4, who is then joined by Number 2 as they both cheer at the graceless spectacle. A virile chanting crescendos as the rowdy pack somehow unify in a shambled chorus, “you…es…ay! You…Es…Ay! YOU-ES-AY!”

The blind, patriotic call continues to build as Drombrovsk drains the beer and makes off - out into the quiet street. He is neither afraid nor annoyed, as dusk begins to call in the day, but there is a definite confusion of thoughts concerning those robust tourists.

* * *

The global tourist trail is awash with national groups who have been explicitly bound to certain stereotypes. What Drombrovsk witnessed in that small town in the Himalayas, is a manifestation of the growing idea that the American traveller is an over zealous, culturally insensitive, drunken buffoon. Every outing I have undertaken from these insulated shores of Van Diemen’s Land produces parallel accounts - it seems that this nationality of genuine explorers, these good ol’ sons and daughters of the United States, are subject to an overt and unwarranted level of prejudice. But who levels these charges? The numbers and events are fixed truths in the Drombrovsk narrative, what we mustn't forget is that the specific nationality could be easily dismissed.

I were once in Barcelona, years ago, sitting with a nice young couple from Oregon, and cards were dealt and stories traded about various police institutions and the Jewish faith and so on, when some five or six Europeans decided to intervene our mellow conversations. This was no pleasant, jovial or even cheeky intervention, these bona fide Eurocentric’s began wailing abuse at the Americans because of their head of state (at the time) President George W. Bush. They went on and on, as if this particular topic hadn’t been discussed at monumental length in every public and private sphere the world over. The couple from Portland city diplomatically fielded the rant and continued to do so, even after they had become personally responsible for the destruction of the English language. How boring and “poo-poo” we said to them (we the colonial upstarts) and returned to our wines.

Then the poor boys of Gainesville, Florida are sitting in a restaurant in Jakarta being spied ordering burgers, fried chicken and “goddamn beer”. Later that evening, in a pool hall on Jalan Jaksa, some English, Irish and Australian fellows and ladies, felt it necessary to reprimand these southern lads of music, engineering and poetry about their culturally boring dinner selections. The intellects of the New World avoided exacerbating an inane confrontation, by withholding the fact that they had been three weeks in the darkest heart of West Java, eating only minnows and rice. Thankful we were, once the gourmet dining police had gone to bed, for those hardy travellers were off to Conrad’s very own Heart of Darkness the following day – to Sydney and the brutal, unchartered world of generic IT jobs and one-year working visas.

There is Josh the veterinarian from Washington State, who could quote (whilst drunk on rum) all the great Russian novelists to the unknowing masses in Chile. Audrey and Rhonda from Illinois, studying law in Durban and always fighting off trained racist guard dogs. Tee-rent from San Diego didn’t care how loud he was, all he cared for was environmentally ergonomic construction, French girls and playing music with “who ever is down”. Or Old Eric from Kauai, smiling and sailing with his wife throughout distant blue atolls or anywhere else he pleased, and if some "jerk-off journalist" in Samoa wanted to fight because he was too old and too loud then it was time to "duke it out on the beach". All these people had an entrenched inspiration and hope; vibrant, huge and infectious personalities that would steer them beyond misguided accusations and self-doubt.

* * *

It’s true that on the world stage America has often not been held in high esteem; this has been the growing case since the 1950’s. The Yankee sailors, on leave in Australia, would come ashore and strike the dance halls and bars sweeping the local ladies away from the doldrums of a conservative, war weary society. It would seem that this said more about the laconic ocker than the lonely seaman on shore leave. The local man who sits in the corner grimacing into his 10 oz. beer, unable to launch a suitable retort against these dashing foreigners on the dance floor, has only himself to blame.

The United States has been the global hegemonic power, by a huge margin, since the conclusion of the second Great War. This supreme position, although eagerly pursued by White House foreign and domestic policy, has garnered the country international ill-feeling. Not everyone likes the top dog, but most have to begrudgingly acquiesce to this hierarchy.

'Soft Power' is a term used to consider the cultural potency that a national body indirectly or directly exudes onto other states. It is this American soft power, which appears to particularly enrage and encourage outspoken behaviour from other travellers. The television and music, jive-talking, bold gestures, broisms, whack clothing, green backery and consumerist cappo-pig dogging are all components of a cultural phenomenon, which has captured the brains, imagination and wallets of people everywhere. But is it truly a case of the tele-box being the opiate of the masses? Are we simply mindless absorbers of the only way - the American Way? Problematic though it may be for people to admit, American culture runs deeper than a mere veneer of brashy cheese. We engage with it consciously and find it is exciting and fundamentally hopeful, and that it isn't European. Nobody can deny Vanilla Ice.

* * *

Larger social, political and historical contexts can sometimes assist in our understanding of seemingly random encounters and events. It makes life easier when we can explain away contradictions, even if that opposing idea is more like the truth than our minds would allow. However, this narrative has slowed and is ironically twisting into the canals of academic writing, this is exactly what we need to avoid. We should stop prescribing larger models of thought to the individual. It is from this way of thinking that stereotypes and grand judgements are able to evolve, from the thin veil of myths, into a factual and grotesque plumpness.

The Americans out there, on the road, taking charge and exploring the world by larger perspectives should not be chained to a perceived solitary national image. Essentially, what happens is not the meeting of two peoples, but a political engagement. The lady from Austin Texas is being cautiously trapped, whilst she spins and sings on a hostel chair, waiting for the computer screen to talk to her. Wandering past are those that would later sneer in the kitchen and lounge, about her thoughts and beliefs, without her having uttered a word on the matter of personal politics. The fact remains, that many of us do not possess the political skill or objectivity to examine and interact with other people through this lens, without making horribly misguided judgements. We must understand and attempt to read the humane poetry of every individual. Let the person speak, have a drink with them, lose in a game of cards (if you have the time), talk about woeful and joyous occasions - those Americans, and all the people, can read a newspaper or watch the television if they want those grander versions of national truth.

* * *

Jimmy Bodean, the stalwart Yankee, sits on the edge of that old porch before bed every night and screams from his pores "American Dreams! American Dreams!" Gazing sadly out across suburbia, he fulfils his role as the White Trash Prophet. Then before slipping into bed and a restless slumber he quotes an old Russian - who loved his homeland just as much as Jimmy, in an endless and sinewy, patriotic thread - and from the foot of the bed with clasped hands in prayer, he asks politely and solemnly -

"Lord, let me be a poet

Let me not deceive the people"

(Russian Poet - Yevgeny Aleksandrovich Yevtushenko)

the bourgeois bicycle caravan

2009-10-09T15:27:00.000-07:00

As so many groundbreaking failures or equally spectacular successes have been birthed within lucid dreams of the past, it now seems more appropriate than ever, in this pastiche saturated modern world, to pursue what one has so gloriously envisaged from across the closed, dark plains of sleep.

Whether it was the effects of malaria tablets or the post-8pm cheese consumption, that made the mind whir and speak from the subconscious, matters little in the light of day – the fact is last night I dreamed of Caravans.

Silver aluminum boxes chocked up on bricks, mustard striped, full of spiders and nature creeping in through the peeling corners. No wheels? No matter. These homes float on imaginary highways, meeting real terrestrial pirates and through all weathers, to hanging gardens, grand old cities and endless oceans.

The interior is moron velvet and smells of romantic expectation. One minds warp wants to see an explicit heart shaped bed, but this shakes off and there in a glade, in the Black Forest, is a gypsy’s horse wagon, complete with red and green awnings, winking Romani eyes, gold earrings and magpies.

The cheese and Doxycycline begin to truly permeate, bringing with it the Atlantic Ocean or the Pacific (depending on whose side you’re on), and they spill out and into a new sea of trailer roofs which lap a chorus of greetings from the U.S.A. baby! Jimmy Bodean (the White Trash Prophet) screams “The American Dream!” from the beaten roof of a mobile home. In front of Bodean, the eyes of many generations look between temporary clotheslines and listen for his Caravan poetry.

With a Cold War effort Russia and the Orient invade the dream sequence. The Russian Caravans – so far removed! Making kopeks, delivering smoky-bitter tea, dancing bears, Chinese silk and this old train of merchandise just keeps on travelling.

What to do! The cerebral messages speed to burning point – Western Grey Nomads bump in triplets and quartets, slowly through outback New Zealand and alpine Canada in rented RV’s. They are commanded by husband and wife ‘til road death doth part them. The finale, before abruptly sitting up – is ushered in by camels who “maw” at the desert, whilst navigating along generic land waves, with noble integrity, bad teeth and blind obedience. The Arabic Caravan spells ‘environmental ergonomics’ in the waterless, sand ocean.

Awake! But that dream is still here! And it’s instructing motives and motions in reality. I ask my friends what they think and we only discover more questions.

How do we commemorate and command the history of such an intense and varied way of life? How can we stay true to modern ideals and faithful to our own personal beliefs whilst live the nomadic way?

In the face of these deeper, dangerous questions my comrades and I propose – The Bourgeois Bicycle Caravan.

Cheerfully sweating in the boiler room of this beast are four unique and talented individuals devoted to the rambling way and the challenges (both joyous and arduous), which can arise on a winding and unknown path. The initial goal is to travel the length of the French Western seaboard, our ships are bicycles and behind us we will tow laden carts. Central to what we, as a combined force are pining to achieve, lays within these carts. We will bring water craft of all sizes and shapes, paints, cameras, pens and paper, computers, an unnerving sense of humour, intestinal fortitude, Russian beat poetry; all manner of equipment which we can best use to capture and create a special journey in a unique part of this turning globe.

In perfect tune with these pragmatic notions are two main ideals -

First - to respect the earth, because while we grow it shrinks and there is definitely time to turn back the big, ominous clock. We will ride, camp and live within our means, hoping to leave only laughter, good will, broken hearts and other bits of environmentally friendly debris behind.

Second – is to respect the locals and their customs. If this requires some of the comrades to drink more red wine than they ever have before, then this is what they will begrudgingly do. We shall endeavor to communicate with the people on an intense level – never before attempted from the swift and silent seat of a bicycle.

Success will go far beyond completing tick-box objectives, we must be sure to casually promote these notions of respect, as it seems that everywhere people don’t know what they should. The Bourgeois Bicycle Caravan will be a French experiment entertained by foreigners – it will be a revolutionary way in which we consider the Caravan – yet it will pay homage to past exploits, by remaining loyal to imagination, creation, adventure, sexiness, pride, patriotism, initiative, awareness of environment and the enjoyment of the road with our fellow man.

Climb aboard the contorted Caravan. Inside lives scientists, painters, riders, reckless drunks, photographic documenters, lovers and fighters, activists and pacifists, beautiful men and handsome women, rucksack ramblers, poets and there’s that one corporate suit man. What will you do? Is it right that you should be let through that dangerous little white door? Soes! You’re already thinking in “rights” and “wrongs”, huh? Well, you’ll be tussling with them thoughts from that gravel ditch and the Caravan will be bombing hoarsely by. Make sure you wave too-rah. There is missions to be completed, species to save, tubes to conquer, cronies to be run through, damsels to swoon over and walls to be drip, drip, dripped in paints. Through the country side we will write and sing, “THIS MACHINE KILLS TRASH AND FASCISTS!” Yessir. This mobile home is driven by feet and wheels, by creation, youth and desperation. And the whip cracking responsible corporate world has a red right hand in there too, ‘cos everyone has to answer to somebody. Jump on, bring it to the table and be ready to push up the hills and coast down the other side. Running North to South. Destination: France. Oui?