Didn’t make it too late into the evening. After a day pregnant with flying, drinking, swimming, smoking and eating we turned it in around nine. So far everyone has been awfully nice around here. Haven’t heard any discouraging words or seen anything but smiles on people’s faces.  A few toiled through English for the sake of friendly conversations, so we broke the spine on our Balinese phrasebook. No time like now to return some cultural courtesy to our hosts. Then again now came at the end of the day which ended twenty-two hours of plane time. We gleaned about 2 words, one each, before the coma sat on our heads. 

Oct. 4

     1:00 AM – Woken up by a sweaty girlfriend trying to figure out how to get the A/C back on. Wiring and switch designations in Bali have been designed to challenge us. But no matter which switches we flicked or how often said switches seemed to change what they controlled there was no hint of life from the unit. I was lying back in bed, whimpering in humid defeat, when it hit me – that clacking noise from the closet after hitting the main room switch.  Popped up, causing audible splatters of sweat on the TV and ceiling, peeked in the closet and there was the board.  Flipped a few breakers…Kowabunga! Back to sleep with the wall unit exhaling cold air at us.

      Exhaustion is a chronic failure when we travel – there is no sleeping late. Which meant I was leaning over to smooch Elisa at 5AM when we’d been bug-eyed awake since around four; each thinking the other was still out. Got up to trip over a hatchback size cockroach on the way to the shower. Not knowing the place of vermin on the Karmic scale here, I wadded toilet paper into a catcher’s mitt, scooped the critter up gently and tossed it outside. Seemed like a fair compromise; I’d let it live but there was no way were going to be tub buddies. Free from ground-level voyeurs we  rinsed off the patina of dried sweat, arranged our stuff into drawers and over chairs then slipped out to breakfast at 6:30. 

   Little chicken sausages at the Risata were cross-sliced at the ends prior to cooking.  This mad culinary deviation resulted in terminally splayed wienies which looked like tubby beige jacks or exploded cigars.   The A.M. chow line had plenty of western standards – bacon, eggs, muffins and the like – along with Indonesian style grub. Fried rice and noodles and lots of sauce for firepower; mango, mangosteens and snakefruits. A good start to the day – a balance of luscious grease, a cigarette or two and fistfuls of fresh fruit.

    Eating then scoping out the hotel grounds.  So much shiny, tropical foliage and even stuff cooler than that, like ginger shafts sprouting red bracts like skinny, succulent pinecones. 

   And ants too! E found some outside our room.  Medium, light brown, cranky little fuckers. Maybe I shouldn’t credit her with their discovery. She must’ve stepped on or near a mound because a couple dozen jumped up and bit her up nicely. They didn’t sting like fire ants, but their nasty long jaws made a point with the simple pain of the pinch. I picked up her flip-flops when she kicked them off to jump around and slap her feet. I shook the sandals to get the rest of the bugs off, but they weren’t going anywhere. Their cruel little pinchers clamped deep into the dense neoprene soles and nylon thongs.  It took some heavy slaps of shoe against shoe to convince them to let go.

   There’s space for doubt regarding cockroaches but we’re now aware of how at least one arthropod faction feels about our presence here.

e