The LCCT surau smelled of socks and repressed feet. And damp sejadah. My flight was postponed or in a more consumer-friendly term, re-timed. 6 hours and 35 minutes. Outside the surau is a mess. A cramped group of angry campers seeking their 'space'. Personal space. Whatever that means. I spent my 6 hours reading half of The Known World. I heard it's Oprah's favourite book. Well, airasia kan.. In any bargain, there're quality, service and price. Choose any two.
Flight was swell. A german passenger beside me wore only his boxers and whenever his girlfriend kissed or fondled him, out came his member, shrugging for release.
Hotel was swell. Everything's swell. New smell. New wind. New accents. New definition of new.
And Bali people are really friendly. 7 hours into their threshold and I'd already sharing jokes with three people. They find me funny.
Lucu sekali kamu ya mas.
One shopgirl told me Berani sungguh mas jalan seorang, hebat. She'd no idea I'd practice the Indonesian accent infront of the television. Televisions are education here. I fit right in.
Mas dari Jakarta ya?
Jauh ya dari Riau sini.
The Kuta strip of beach is breathtaking. A morphing piece of nature. In the morning time, part of it was shrouded with mist and the water is lemon-freeze cold. A sweet moment of silence. Dewing pearls on stranded coconut leafs. Clear. Blue. Sky. No one in sight. Garhhhh~ I found it funny too but I was in dire need to roar. As if procalaiming this heavenly shore is (temporarily) mine.
In the afternoon, the beach roared back, smashing patterns of green and grey into chaotic swirls. I rented a surfing board and the guy who rented it taught me how to 'be one with the sea'. The first time I tried, I was already in my groove. Suave. He wasn't too surprised to see that I could already surf even though it was my first time. Some people are born with the sea mate'. He said in his Balinese-Australian accent. Crikey. It was exhilarating. It's like a wave is no taller than the other, and I want the best of em all. I fell down a couple of times, having the surfing board tied to my left foot, it carried me with the waves like a dog ushering its blind owner.
In the evening, when the day neared its destined ending, the beach was packed with people. Ants of people. Most of them Indonesians. British people gathered under shades of coconut trees, drinking Bintang Beer (those stuff is soooo pahit) and selecting grinning young prostitutes for their leisure activities at night. As one man's right hand explored the girls' thick lovehandles, his left hand was pulling an invisible lever. He shouted Tally-Ho. Astaga. His wife distracted herself with lean young australian surfers. All is well eh?