11 August 2014

Bali Belly

In that moment between wake and sleep I felt the hot fire and I was wicked confused. Hangover? How? Then reality arrived and I realized it was so much worse. I duck-walked to the toilet with one hand on my belly and the other hovering over my already clenched butt—just in case. The steak sandwich I had put in the night before had become a frothing pot of black tar with only one way to go. I might have cried a little. Not because of the pain you understand, but because my iron gut, an eat anything from anywhere machine, had suffered a most heinous defeat at the hands of Bali Belly. And to think, I was excited to visit The Island of the Gods.

Sumatra had been one of the better travel experiences of my life; chilling on the shores of Lake Toba, adventures on Bawa, surfing in Sorake, an absolute all-timer. But I was starting to miss the backpacker crowd, I wanted to tip back a few and tell travel stories with my people. I chose Kuta Beach because that’s where the party is. I wish I could unchoose it.

Kuta Beach is the worst place I’ve ever visited, and that ain’t the hot poop talkin. When tourists find a place they like and locals start liking the tourist money there is always a chance that rot will set in. Kuta is rotten to the core. It is an absolute tragedy of tourism. The beach is unimpressive and littered with hawkers; hawkers renting surfboards, hawkers selling beer, hawkers selling bracelets. Go ahead and lay down on your towel little bunny, I’m sure they won’t notice. The rest of Kuta is cleverly designed as a labyrinth of stupid shit for sale. You can buy a t-shirt that says, “Sex burns as many calories as jogging. But, who the fuck jogs for 30 seconds!?” Or if that isn’t to your liking there are many art galleries selling gorgeous portraits of Biggie Smalls, Jordan and Scarface. If you work up an appetite you can always grab lunch at Subway, McDonald’s, KFC, Burger King, etc. And if your feet get tired, don’t worry, the unleashed beehive of motorbike taxis will take care of you. I’m not kidding about this tourism splooge being a labyrinth. There are no straight lines in Kuta, everything is a weave. I kept expecting David Bowie to pop out and fuck with me.

Now imagine how this place would look, smell, feel with a stomach full of hot tar. I was afraid that anything I ate would slide straight out, but I needed sustenance so I shuffled out looking for fresh fruit. I stopped at a corner stall selling rubbery pizza to ask for directions.

"Fruit? Far from here. Maybe forty minutes by walking."

"Forty minutes!? There must be something closer."

"Mmmm. No. You can take a taxi."

At this point a guy on a motorbike appeared out of nowhere. I looked at him like he was a wet fart.


"No, man. I'm just trying to buy some fruit."

"Come on. I take you. Too far."

"No. This is... There has to be..."

"Where you from? America? Barrack Obama!"

I waved them off with a hand that clenched into a fist and retreated. I bought some yogurt and laid in bed sweating out the evil. As soon as I was sure I wouldn't soil the minivan, I got the hell out of there. Ubud was supposed to be better; rumor told me so, Facebook comments told me so.

I didn't like Ubud either. It has its virtues. The guesthouses are gorgeous and the surrounding countryside is beautiful, but it's still a hot mess of tourism. It is basically Kuta Beach designed by someone with a lot more aesthetic flare.

I gave it a go, I really did. My Bali Belly had died down to molten heartburn, so I hit the streets and did touristy stuff. I looked in shops I had no intention of buying anything from. I went to the Monkey Forest and almost got attacked for videotaping a momma and her baby. I took a bike tour through the countryside. I went to bars and started conversations with random strangers from several continents. I tried. But, I couldn't get over the crowds, the cost, and the sell, sell, sell.

I realize now that I had reverse culture shock. In Sumatra I was the only tourist. All of my interaction with the locals was genuine and interesting; they wanted to know me, they taught me about their culture and introduced me to their families because although we were strangers we were also friends. They never tried to sell me a forty minute taxi ride to a pineapple.

I got out of Ubud as quickly as I got out of Kuta. I am well aware that I didn't give Bali a proper chance and I'm sure you Bali-ites could send me an itinerary that would change my mind. I don't care. As far as I'm concerned the Bali box has been checked. I will forever remember the Island of the Gods as a wonderful place...

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