Sunday, August 16

Kuta, Bali.

It’s the first time I’ve traveled abroad during ‘peak’ season. We’re in Bali in August – along with half of Australia, one third of France, one sixth of Japan and what seems like 10,000 other people from various Asian and European countries. No more of the near-empty beaches and restaurants of shoulder season. No more off-season bargainable rates. No more showing up without a reservation. The bombs that tore through the Ritz Carlton and Marriott in Jakarta last month have had no effect on the sun and sand seeking droves that descend on this tiny island during the month of August. Most people think of Bali as the quintessential ‘tropical island paradise.’ If you’re spending US$500 a night and have an infinity pool obscuring the private crystalline white sand beach that lies between your cabana and an endless expanse of ocean, you will probably continue to consider it just that. If you’re traveling on a budget and tend to veer off the beaten path, Bali – at least in August – is likely not your cup of java.

We arrive on July 29 to full rooms, crowded streets, and touts every few steps. Dolce & Gabanna, Hard Rock Café, Quicksilver, Starbucks, Levi Strauss and Co., RipCurl, and even Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. (among others) line the narrow, one-way avenues that make up Kuta. Every few meters is a restaurant promising fresh fish, authentic Mexican food, wood-fired pizza, Cornish pasties or the coldest beer in town. Spaces between are crammed with small storefronts selling ‘traditional Balinese crafts’ – what at first appear to be unique wood-carvings and fabrics soon become pile after pile of tourist-trap items, hot off the assembly line. I imagine a monstrous, black smoke belching factory – most likely in China – that spits out all of the ‘crafts’ that fill the shops of every tourist-laden market in Asia. It’s an ugly idea, and I try to squelch it with the notion of a squatting, dark-skinned man wittling away for hours outside his thatch-roofed hut. But the piles of cock-shaped bottle openers (wooden, no doubt) I pass every few minutes make this task supremely difficult.

We finally find a vacant room at US$30 a night – what is more than an entire day’s budget over the last five months. Discouraged by peak-season rates, but thrilled by the presence of air-conditioning and a pool – we unpack our bags and crash for the night on a real spring mattress– exhausted from sixteen hours of travel and the remnants of my most recent bout with ‘digestive complications.’

We spend two more days and nights in Kuta (find a room the next day for half the $) – clouded in a blur of overstimulating sidewalks, abominable traffic, overpriced food, clubs thumping until 4am, and a seemingly endless sea of people on the beach and in the water hoping to catch the perfect wave. If not for the need to fix yet another camera problem (mine ceased turning on a couple weeks ago), we would not be here. We don’t even go to the beach more than once – it being over-crowded with surfboard-wielding bros and bettys that are here to party and show off every possible fraction of bare skin acceptable in Westernized countries. I’ll admit I’m a little surprised and slightly offended by this – recognizing the alteration of my perspective from the past five months spent in conservative cultures. It’s nice to be able to wear a sleeveless shirt without feeling too bare – but I’m not ready to let it all hang out.

So far, Bali is not the relaxing tropical paradise I’ve always envisioned. We’re going to try to find it over the next few weeks – but for now, I’ve seen enough skin, Bintang koozies, and KFCs to last me a lifetime. I’m starting to wonder if monsoonal rains might have been a better, more authentic experience.

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