More Like Singa-BORE (Sorry, Spoiler)/JAKARTA - SINGAPORE

Coming from East Timor, I have a layover in Indonesia for a night and a day. That girl in Brunei says Jakarta's the place to be, so let's give it a once-over. Unfortunately for her and all her countrymen, I've got a bad case of the grumps.

First I have to transfer at Denpasar airport in Bali, where they make me pick up my baggage to carry through. On top of that they won't let me check it for some reason, so off I go carrying my hulking backpack through no less than 3 security checkpoints. Why they have so many is a mystery, as one security officer doesn't even look up from her texting as my stuff goes through the metal detector. 

However, at the last security point my bag does get stopped. After all this baggage and security nonsense I'm running very late for my flight, which paradoxically makes me less inclined to be cooperative. The gentleman in charge has me put the backpack through again, and sure enough stops it once more. The culprit: my tiny Leatherman Micra, which normally is safely stowed in my checked luggage. They point its shape out to me on the x-ray and ask if I recognize it. I'm late and getting pissed off, so I claim ignorance. If you G-Men want my adorable little multitool, you're going to have to work for it.

After putting my pack through yet again, the man finally starts rummaging through the pockets. The thing is, I haven't hidden it; the Leatherman is simply floating around in the front pocket, but for some reason this guy never thinks to try the zipper staring him in the face. They run the bag through 2 more times, each time pulling out more of my stuff from the main pouch and setting it aside, and each time neglecting that front pocket. Finally, an announcement from my airline starts calling for people to board for Jakarta. I swear loud and desperate enough for the security guy to hear, and at last he relents. Defeated, he zips my shit back up, Leatherman untouched. That's right System, I win. I should do a little terrorism just to spite you. But I won't, because that's a serious issue with a lot of facets and I shouldn't joke about it so flippantly.

Now I'm at maximum-grump, plus my mp3 player won't charge so for the whole flight I'm left to just read Bukowski and practice my misanthropy. When we touch down, a little girl is in the aisle next to me, with tears in her eyes for some unknown reason. Good, I think, misanthropically.

I wait for the bus downtown to Blok M, backpacker central. The bus is full 3 times in a row as it comes by, and when I do finally manage to get on I ride it too far, missing my stop. I pay for a motorcycle to take me the rest of the way, and meet a couple Norwegian girls wielding a Lonely Planet and looking for a place to stay. They let me tag along, and together we find a place that has a couple rooms left for $13 apiece. I consider asking them if they want to split a big room with me and save money, but after they make a comment about how the completely fine accommodations at this hotel are the worst they've ever stayed in, it's apparent they're not ready to go full Into the Wild just yet.

A glimpse into the heart of darkness, apparently.

I unload my backpack, collapse onto the bed and try to think positive, but it's no use. I'm tired of it. The same pregnant dogs and cats everywhere, the same small talk locals make while trying to rip you off, the same broken glass on top of the walls. Everyone thinking I'm rich because I'm white, and the guilty sense of entitlement when I think anything negative ever. The constant irritation of getting in a taxi and not being able to trust the company, the meter, or the driver who never seems to know their city's own goddamn landmarks. I'm tired of not having had a solid bowel movement in 4 months. Tired of all these old geezers growing out their disgusting mole hairs. Tired of having to assume anyone who talks to me after sundown is a prostitute. The blood-stained towels and sheets. The lizards on the walls. And is it just me, or do all their cell phone ringtones sound like the theme to The Deer Hunter? I'm just so tired. And there's that sense of guilt flooding in. It's all just a vacation, really. Get over yourself. At least the weather's nice. It's not like the sun is our constant enemy.

There's a group of backpackers from all over Europe drinking outside the hotel, so I join them for a few beers. A couple French guys break off for dinner, and ask if I'd like to join. I say sure. For some reason I tell them they don't have to speak English on my account, because I'm kind of drunk and I've seen Amelie a couple times, so I'm basically fluent in their mother tongue. We eat. After an hour, it turns out that I in fact do not speak, nor understand, the French language. I pretend this is not the case for a good hour before we adjourn back to the hotel. More beers in pretend-and-nod-along-French, then bed. Is this a vacation? Is this how my brain wants me to relax? It doesn't feel like it.

With the rising sun comes a renewed sense of drive and optimism, but then a renewed sense of ennui to cancel that right the fuck out. I don't particularly want to go anywhere, so I stay in past checkout watching stand-up comedy on my netbook and then walk to a pancake joint.

They put cheese all over my pancake. I don't know if this is a specific recipe or a cultural thing or maybe something more widespread and this is actually how old traditional classic pancakes are supposed to be, and I don't care. Just Stop.

I buy a new toothbrush so I can feel productive (not at the pancake place, that'd be weird), and when I return to the hotel the guy very rightly points out that it's past checkout, so I need to pay more. Unfortunately for him, he's speaking to the Emperor of Frowns right now, so I'm gonna feel compelled to make that way more difficult than you ever wanted this business transaction to be. Never Back Down, son.

In the end, he's trying to charge me for a whole extra night, even though he's got a sign that says it's supposed to be 50% for overstaying. So I win, with him reinforcing the sort of shady shit that put me in this mood. And all I needed to do to avoid this was check out and take my backpack to the pancake house in the first place, since that's pretty much all I did with my day. Whoops.

I get a taxi to the airport, which takes a long time to show up, and then an even longer time to get to the terminal. Jakarta traffic is slower than a sloth riding a turtle in a world made of molasses, and yes I am basing that off my experience of one day. The long ride gives me some time to observe and reflect, and most importantly judge, my Jakarta experience. The city seems halfway on the sleaze scale between Bangkok and Kuala Lumpur, and maybe deserves a second look. Putting down my Grump Goggles for a second, the city seems like it's got a unique life of its own, and the people so far have mostly been lovely. In fact, in just my brief time I received multiple CouchSurfing messages from Indonesian strangers asking if I wanted to hang out or chat, just like Puspita back in East Timor. Of course, in between the time of me going there and then writing this I've seen the documentary The Act of Killing, so...let's just say they've got some shit to work out.

Just like Tiger Air has to work out this huge line! Ha ha! Preferably through smarter organization, and not genocide.

The plane is delayed, and then delayed again after we board. At this point, I'm feeling worse for my CoushSurfing host in Singapore, Malcolm, who is presumably waiting up for me.

Singapore has the longest airport-based slide in the world. I don't have any context for this.

The plane gets into Singapore around midnight, then baggage takes another half hour to come out. Trains have long stopped running, so I find a pay phone to call Malcolm, who very reasonably suggests I get a taxi. This very reasonable taxi to Bedok ends up costing 25 bucks, which in my current delicate state sounds goddamn insane. I flip my frigging lid on this guy, convinced the meter was running fast or somesuch, but he keeps very reasonably pointing to a sign in his cab that says night-time rides cost an extra 50 percent. I'm so mad, I storm off forgetting my bag in the trunk until the driver I just cussed out reminds me, forcing me into the awkward position of continuing to frown and act as if him giving me my bags is a further inconvenience that he is using to spite me.

Malcolm, who I later find out had been waiting over an hour for me at the train station until it closed, lets me into the apartment he shares with his family. He's lovely, they're lovely, blah blah blah. Nice people, what's their deal. Really, I'm extremely gracious to him for opening his home to me. Time for a chill pill. Nay - a chill suppository. A chill IV drip. Need to stop trying to fight random service industry workers. Civilization is what I need, and the price of that taxi definitely smacked of civilization.

The morning brings riches indeed. Malcolm has taken me to a hawker food court.

It may not look like it, but that picture is why people should come to Singapore: the food scene will blow your tits off. I try "Singapore pad thai" as Malcolm calls it, and he gets chicken fried rice. Both are obscenely good.

This plate of greasy slop is better than your last dozen meals combined.

My enthusiasm must be written all over my face, because Malcolm comments with a smile, "We'll probably be eating most of your time here!" He tells me about how the government cracked down on the old style of food cart, moving them all into these food malls where they must also secure licenses and face further competition to up their game. I can't speak as to what their food traditions were before, but they're blowing me away now. Something about the confluence of Chinese, Southeast Asian, and Indian immigrants in Singapore has made this country extremely racist (did I not mention that?), and extremely open to delicious fusion recipes.

We finish the meal with some coffees (I'm sorry, "kopi"), served hyper-sweetened with condensed milk like in Vietnam. Malcolm informs me in the future to make sure to order "Kopi C" or "Kopi O", as these are less sweetened versions for dainty Western palates like mine. Apparently Singaporeans take their coffee pretty seriously, with an entire lexicon to match. Malcolm also picks up a soya milk with tapioca pearls, which is whatever. Can't really go wrong there.

So after we eat, we- alright, I tried to put this off as long as I could. There's nothing to fucking do in Singapore. Remember when I said 3 paragraphs ago that people should come to Singapore for the food? That is literally the only reason anyone should ever come to Singapore. Don't get me wrong, the food will make you want to call your parents for the first time in years to thank them for that one act of lovemaking that led to this meal, but Singapore ain't got nothing else going on. When Malcolm said we'd be eating most of our time here, he was making the best and only itinerary possible.

William Gibson has conveniently already summed this position up in his landmark Wired article Disneyland with The Death Penalty. While Gibson needn't have been so alarmist (I gleefully point out every bit of illegal gum stuck to the sidewalks, to which Malcolm less gleefully muses how he has to hear about the fucking gum from every foreigner he hosts), he wasn't wrong. All culture in the city/country seems to have been replaced by shopping malls. When I ask Malcolm what he recommends we do after our meal, he replies, "I guess we can see a movie?"

Which we do. We go to a mall and see Green Lantern with Ryan Reynolds, a movie which is not very good, no sir. Then he suggests we go swimming (Malcolm, not Ryan Reynolds), which we do, at the most eerily pristine swimming center I have ever seen:

Stanley Kubrick's The Shining II: Fun in the Sun!

And it's nice. Just like the mall was nice. Nice like your grandmother's couch that she won't take the plastic off of because you aren't to be trusted. Too nice. Disturbingly nice. Why are you so crazy about your couch, Grandma. Are you gonna fuck that couch? Did...did you see someone fucking a couch once, and vowed never again? Does this metaphor still work for the government? Stop thinking, just eat your damn impeccable food:

After what must have been our fifth meal together, I split off from Malcolm towards downtown. As a guy who's been known to finish a cocktail or two in his time, there's one last thing I'm interested in from this country: the Raffles Hotel, home to the original Singapore Sling. Also, it's 10:30 and this is all I have time for if I want to make it back to Malcolm's before the trains stop.

Why won't you be more cyberpunk, damn you! You have such potential!

Finding the famed Long Bar at Raffles is easy enough, just follow the scores of other tourists coming to have exactly one drink and leave.

I mean, who can bear staying a second longer in a dump like this.

What I find surprising is how old-school they've kept the place: while they no longer have quasi-slaves to fan you, they do have a mechanical setup with old timey-fans to provide the same experience. The bar's also got boxes of salted peanuts, of which it is both acceptable and expected to toss their shells on the floor, to be swept up by modern quasi-slaves. That's right, I went there SOCIETY. You can buy their peanuts at the hotel gift shop for extortionate prices afterwards, if that's the kind of person you've decided you want to be in your life.

Classy, with an emphasis on the assy.

The bar isn't anywhere near capacity, so I'm served fairly quickly. There's no sense to beat around the bush. He knows why I'm here, I know why I'm here. As I once said and then turned into a multi-billion dollar clothing empire, "No Fear".

"A Singapore Sling?" I purr. The bartender nods his head. "Of course, sir." Respect. Obsequience. Not what I normally receive from the kind of drinking establishments I frequent back home. I watch this guy in hungry anticipation, eager to see a master at work. What brands of brandy do they use? Are they the historical brands, or have they moved on? His technique was simpler: Grab a jug from a pre-stocked mini-fridge beneath the bar, slop the pre-mixed pink tipple into a highball glass, and top with pre-assembled garnish.

I see that jug, you goddamn monster.

He then promptly brings the receipt.

For everyone who is anti-illiterate (thus can't parse photos but instead can only read formatted text), the receipt was for an inhumane 30 dollars and 60 cents. Which, okay, might've been in Singapore Dollars so actually a little over 20 dollars USD, but that's still more than I would probably pay for a car. Probably, I don't really drive.

Admit it, this photo kind of makes you want to sit next to an old globe and say disdainful things about the colonies, followed by a long puff on your cigar and a furtive glance at the coat boy who meets your eyes with knowing interest, but you musn't ever let anyone know for such things are forbidden, why else did you come halfway around the world if not to escape the pain of these thoughts...

After eating way more salty nuts than I maybe should have just to make some sort of point, I return to Malcolm's not as a conquering hero, but...as a guy who had a drink that cost more than he thought it would and it tasted okay, but not worth anywhere near that, and at least if it tasted terrible there'd be more of a story from it. I think Camus once wrote something along those lines.

I manage to sneak a peek at the Singapore Flyer on the way back to Malcolm's, mostly so I can claim to have seen all of Singapore's sights before I leave this snooze-cruise. Back at my temporary digs I'm psyched to see that my download of the Game of Thrones finale has finished. I'm pretty sure that's the most exciting thing going on in this country, and I'm super chuffed that it was from an illegal torrent. Suck it, you gum-fearing fascists.

I wake up to find my computer has crashed, and Windows won't start. That hurts right in the hubris. Why I still bother with this thing...Oh right, I have a problem specific to my generation and I shall use that to deny all personal responsibility for my techno-priorities. After a shower, Malcolm takes me for a breakfast of kaya toast and eggs, which instantly becomes my new favorite breakfast. Runny eggs on kinda-sweet toast just presses all my weirdo taste buttons. Malcolm isn't finished though, no sir. That's followed by Laksa, a delicious spicy noodle soup, Which itself is then followed by a curry puff, the curry perfectly spiced and the pastry just the right kind of flaky. Bless you, couch host angel. My gastrointestinal tract may weep disgusting tears, but my heart sings.

I would later find that you can get kaya toast in a lot of Southeast Asian restaurants once you recognize it on the menus. Treat yourself.

Laksa and a curry puff, duh.

I do. I really do.

To prove Singapore isn't all delicious food and sterile nothingness everywhere else, Malcolm shows me this street of kind of interesting German architecture. Indeed, it's kinda interesting, although it looks as fake and empty as everything else in this city-state.

Singapore: It's great if you don't enjoy much in life!

It being my last day, I pack up my things, but Malcolm surprises me with a stop at the Singapore Flyer, where he happens to tend bar. Apparently, he wants me rate his Singapore Sling against that of the vaunted Raffles.

This is the Flyer. I decided against riding it because I always feel like the bigger the Ferris Wheel the more I should ride it, but then the longer it takes to get off the damn thing once I remember how fucking boring they are.

It's a nice bar though.

It's good! Pretty much the same thing I'd say, but the Raffles didn't exactly set a high bar for themselves with that whole pre-made jug business. His is a bit sweeter, but the Raffles one has a more boozy kick that I prefer. On the other hand, Malcolm's is also 10 bucks cheaper for more or less the same thing.

Winner.

Should I have spent a day's wages trying two of these mostly-similar not-really-great cocktails? Not like there's much else to do here!

Except for whatever this space cocoon I could see from the window is. You could probably do something in there, like hang out with Pauly Shore or foil an X-Files plot or something.

Malcolm and I take some pictures to commemorate our time together, which was incidentally the only time I was enjoying the country so I was happy to oblige.

He's a good 'un, this guy.

Apparently the Singapore airport is supposed to be some hot shit, but instead of enjoying the amenities I end up spending my whole time at the airport using the wifi and trying to get Windows on my netbook working again. I must've made quite the deal about this, because Malcolm wrote me a CouchSurfing comment in which he wished me a safe trip, and my computer a speedy recovery. What the fuck is wrong with me. I eat a McFlurry and get to the gate with 10 mins to spare, which is not intended to be related to the previous sentence, it is simply a timeline of events.

I've finished my Bukowski book, so I'm in a singular mood when I find that my mp3 player has run out of my battery, and I've put my other book in my checked baggage. Nothing to do but sketch drawings of some lady across the aisle like a fucking creeper and write in my stupid journal. I'm ready for the SE Asia backpacker trappings again. I can't take another mall, and I need to be thinking about something more interesting than how disappointing Lost was, and I can't believe I drained my mp3 player watching a water-cooler show years after it ended. Singapore has a lot of malls, honestly incredible food, and nothing else. Caning is still a punishment, if that's a draw for you. It does have Malcolm, which is something for sure, but I need that old uncertainty back, the dirt, the noise, the bad tattoos of a country bitterly reliant on drunk and disorderly foreigners. I need a life that's slightly to the left. Bring back the chaos and let it reign.

To that end, where am I headed now? Why, the city of Angeles in the Philippines, famed sex tourism destination according to some blogs I swear I read after I had already bought my ticket because that's where Air Asia flies out of. Now there's a town that I bet's gonna have some gum on their streets.

Komodo Dragons and Komodo Burns/FLORES - RINCA - KOMODO - KUTA

I wake up at 5am, because apparently sleep is a luxury reserved only for better people than I, and meet my ride outside the guesthouse. My shoulder aches and my hand has blistered up, because something something about actions and consequences, which I get to ponder over while my driver pisses next to the car, then it's off to the airport. It's a forbiddingly tiny terminal, but at least there are free internet terminals (are you listening, Sea-Tac?!).

As we cross the tarmac to the plane, I get my first taste of a crowd that will become very familiar throughout Southeast Asia: the new flyers. These quaint folk start pairing off in front of the plane for photos, which is heartwarming until they can't figure out how to work the overhead bins, and soon you're dodging a mix of falling luggage, crying babies, and crushing body odor just trying to get to your seat.

This was also the first time for another, more ominous trend on my trip: being seated in an Emergency Exit row. Reading, and rereading, the emergency procedure literature helped distract from the weaponized levels of stink on this particular plane and the nagging feeling that the universe is very soon going to try and kill me.

But we land. Take that, Universe. We're now in Labuan Bajo on the island of Flores, which is the jumping point for any Komodo dragon tour. It's in the bathroom of the airport here that I started to realize how far I was from the Western world, through stickers on the toilets advising you to sit on the toilet seats, instead of crouching on top of them.


I was a slow learner myself.

I'm met outside the airport by another driver arranged by my tour, who takes me down to the pier where my boat awaits.



And there she was, in all her sea-faring glory:

A fun game to play with this picture is try to figure out where I was going to sleep on this "specially-equipped" boat, along with the 2 Indonesian crewmembers. If you guessed the ratty mattress in the middle of the wet deck, you just won yourself an awful, sleepless night!

But enough of my white-person-whining. The captain informed me I had some time before the boat would be ready, and recommended that I take in "the sights."


Pictured: the sights.

After wandering through the streets of corrugated steel street stalls and trash fires (and one curiously out-of-place Tae Kwon Do dojo), my interest became piqued by the repeated signs advertising "juc alvokat". Throwing my highly-trained linguistic skills into overdrive, I deduced this to mean avocado juice, or rather, an Avocado Milkshake. I like milkshakes. I have no big avocado qualms in my life. And I had time to kill.


Pictured: One delicious beverage. If you want to make one of these beauties for yourself, just combine ice, condensed milk, chocolate syrup, blend with avocado, and the secret ingredient:


Trash fire smoke.


Pictured here on the left is the cute little girl who made me my little slice of heaven, and then proceeded to turn her back and ignore me while I drank it.

That is, until the elderly local sitting across from me decided to act as matchmaker. With the girl and I both unmarried and without children, we were obviously perfect for each other. In the old man's own words: "No baby? You, she, baby!" His logic was as simple as it was brilliant.

However, by now the captain was finished readying the boat, and I had no time left for all the courtship and baby-making rigamarole. In quiet, pensive moments I can still wonder...what if.


Here's the captain making things "ready" in front of my lavish sleeping quarters.


Another fun game here: where in this picture is the boat's toilet? If you guessed "in a 3x3 closet crammed behind the cabin, with a roof so low you can't stand up", then you're really, really good at this game.

Finally we set off into the waters around Flores, as blue as the sky and filled depressingly with discarded Pringles cans.


My body was a'quiver with excitement and avocado chunks. At this point I noticed my fingernails had grown quite long, and I decided to keep growing them indefinitely, so as to better fit in when I tried to find an opium den later on in my travels. If you go to an opium den without opium-den fingernails, they know you ain't got no class.

I also decided to attempt realizing my life-long dream of developing sea scurvy. I probably wouldn't be on the boat long enough, but I would stay from orange juice just to be safe. I was making lots of plans. I was excited.


And yes, all the islands around here look like Jurassic fucking Park.


About halfway to the first island, I was given a lunch of hot tea and bananas, with the generous choice of either under- or over-ripe. The first mate stared at me as I ate.

I spent much of the boat ride simply sitting on the open deck and watching the island scenery sail by under the noon sun. So, I'd like to take a moment to pass on a bit I wrote in my journal around this time: "I've hurt my shoulder, busted my shin, and blistered my hand, but I've only got two mosquito bites that I've found, and only lightly sunburned so far. Not quite a flawless victory, but I'll take it."

Oh, Jamie. You poor sweet dumb motherfucker.


After arriving at the island of Rinca, a man waiting at the dock ushers me along a path while my boat crew stays behind, hopefully not going through my things.


Just on the walk to the tourism center alone we passed a clearing filled with monkeys. By now I've had my fill of these little bastards, but at least these ones didn't try to rob me.


Pictured: one of the coolest things you're going to see all week. A display of all the skulls they've found of animals devoured by the Komodo dragons.

At the main building I pay an entrance fee and I'm issued a tour guide who'll guide me along one of the hiking trails and point out all the neat bits. I can almost taste those dragons.


Oh fuck yes. Turns out the scaly monsters were right outside, drawn by the smell from the kitchen. There's only thing left to do.


Ride the- I mean, take a picture a safe distance away from them. My guide was very insistent about this. I asked what would happen if one bit me, and he replied I would have to be air evac'd to Bali, where I would probably get a limb or two chopped off. Still, they look like they're just made for a saddle...

After me and the other few tourists around finished freaking out about the goddamn dinosaurs in front of us, my guide and I started our hike proper.


Here's a dumb old buffalo. At this point it was hard to think about animals in terms other than what they'd look like as a dragon-ravaged skull.


Here's some holes where Komodo dragons lay their eggs. Fun Fact: many of the holes are fake, to fool egg-snatching predators. Bonus Fun Fact: Komodo dragons are parthenogenic, which means the females can lay and hatch eggs without ever meeting a male. The eggs would hatch male, and then the males could mate with the mother, and produce male and female offspring, and repopulate an empty environment. You know, just in case (picture now, if you will, the Komodo dragon post-apocalypse). And provided the mother doesn't eat her children, because some of the adults do that. Cannibal lizard incest. The more you know.


"Yeah, I'll fucking do it. My mouth's got 57 different strains of bacteria, and they're all hungry."

Check out these trees, man. These trees are freaking punk.


And as we pass more trees, we find another morbid Komodo dragon trophy case. Fun Fact: Komodo dragons are also called Komodo monitors, by people who spend their professional and personal lives being lame.

But check out this island:

Seriously.

Jurassic Goddamn Park.


We finished the hike back at the main building, ready for more Komodo dragon pictures. And we were just in time for lunch! The National Park people talked a lot about how they didn't feed the Komodo dragons, and now they were going to feed the Komodo dragons. Plus, there were some adorable baby dragons running around. You know what they call them in Indonesian? Kodomo Komodo. I don't do this often, but hearing that... :)

Then my camera ran out of batteries. I did get to watch the video of the dragon-feeding that a German/Slovenian family had taken, and I could feel my hairline receding out of self-disgust. What I'm saying is, that video was amazing, the locals dangling meat on the end of poles out the windows, and dragons climbing and jumping off trees to try and get at it. Shit damn that was cool.

My hiking accomplished, I was getting ready to head back to the boat when the guy working the concession stand asks if I'd like a beer. Hey, don't have to twist my arm, buddy. Three beers later and I'm talking to two local Rincans using the true universal language: chicks. They discover I lived in Korea, and like most Southeast Asian dudes I've met they are hot as hell for Korean girls and want to know all about them. But when asked their favorite nationality for the opposite gender? One vote Russian, and one vote Uzbek. Huh. Alright. However, perhaps the biggest surprise these remote islanders had for me was they knew who Arcade Fire was. But, as is often the case, they said they prefer Michael Jackson.

That night, back on the boat we head to Kalong Island for something I had completely glossed over in the itinerary (mostly because it didn't have the word "dragon" in it), and that's the nightly display of flying foxes. A flying fox is basically a huge bat, and every night tens of thousands of them come out and fly around this island looking for food.

My camera is not the greatest, so out of those thousands I was able to capture maybe half a dozen in photo. You are welcome.

We ate a meager dinner on the boat, and I tried to sleep, an attempt which I'm sure brought a smirk to the lips of any divine forces out there.


The next morning our boat cruises into Komodo Island with my enthusiasm waning a bit, having already done my dance with the dragons.


Still, I suppose it couldn't hurt to just take a look around, could it? Actually, yes, it could hurt.


For today marked the beginning of The Omega Sunburn. Remember way back when I wrote that boastful journal entry about not having a sunburn? Turns out, "sitting on the open deck and watching the island scenery sail by under the noon sun" is pretty much the worst idea when you have no sunscreen.

Whoops! Meanwhile, my skin was turning redder than a virgin period.


Just in time for some more HIKING! Having paid a ridiculous amount to be here, I'd be damned if I was going to let my demon burn keep me from seeing the damn island. Still, I did opt for the medium trail, on account of whenever I walked, sat down, stood up, or really did anything that required motion my legs felt like they were full of deranged mutant fire ants. And they had tiny fire ant knives. And I had slept with all of their girlfriends.

But at least I had good shoes. So let's get on that trail, shall we?!


I started the hike on the last island through a quaint meadow filled with monkeys. This time, I find a giant spiderweb, and no animals, presumably because there is somewhere a giant spider that has murdered them all.


This is a picture of some bird that, I dunno, is probably endangered. I only took this photo because there was no other wildlife around, at all. None of the wild horses or boars I was promised. But surely the place must be teeming with its namesake dragons?


This here is one of the very few Komodo dragons I saw on Komodo Island. At least he was a big fella. Did you know Komodo dragons were the inspiration for the dinosaurs in the original King Kong?


Yeah, I can see this being Skull Island.


And I found another one. As cool as it is to pose next to Komodo dragons, it's also a nigh-unbearable pain to kneel when the skin around your knees has taken on the texture and elasticity of fried chicken. Moving on.


Some Komodo dragon shit. Better than nothing? (no)


Even the random decorations set up by bored islanders weren't as cool as the ones on Rinca. Big-ass shells? That wouldn't work at all for the cover of a metal album!

There was, however:

quite

a

decent

view.

I found one more Komodo dragon, and this time my camera had a full charge. I was gonna film the shit out of it.

The biggest lizard on Earth, ladies and gentlemen.

This time when I finished the hike and was making my way back to the boat, I was approached about buying the same carved Komodo dragon figurines you can find anywhere around here. No thanks. After I declined, the same guy then offered "what about dragon claw?"

Okay, now I'm listening.

He brings me over to a friend of his, who opens a Tupperware container full of twine, jewelry, and yes, Komodo dragon claws. I bargain down to about ten dollars for one of the necklaces, take my prize and head back to the boat, watching out for park rangers as Tupperware guy warned me to.

But then doubt sets in. Should I have bought the thing? I definitely didn't feel good about contributing to poaching, if that's what was happening. What if I was helping bring about their extinction by encouraging this trade?! What if a mama dragon was gonna have to fuck her kids to repopulate, all because of me? Plus, you know, it was reeeal illegal.

In the end, I chucked it overboard, telling myself that I couldn't get the metal around the claw through an airport metal detector, and if I hid it in my luggage that was guaranteed to be one of the few things the x-ray guys actually look for around here.


Still. I miss you.

The next and penultimate stop for the day was at Pink Beach. And despite my terrible armor of devil-skin, I was able to appreciate the place for what it was: simply the most incredible beach I've ever seen.



The boat moored about 500 yards from the shore, because there was simply too much coral to go any further, which is one of the greatest problems you'll ever hear. This meant I got to jump off the side of the boat, and snorkel all the way up to the beach. And, of course, the coral was absolutely stunning.

Of course, snorkeling is a bit trickier when your entire body is trying to reject your flesh like a hostile virus, and your muscles give out on you every few strokes. Still, I made it to the shore and proceeded to just lie in that perfect, perfect sand while the world simply stopped all around me. Very likely, making my sunburn worse all the while. I just...couldn't...care.

But eternity came to an end and I made it back to the boat after summoning what little energy was left in my pitiful mess of a body. I try to move as little as possible as the boat heads back to Labuan Bajo in Flores, the tour come full circle. After we dock, I'm taken to my hotel room for the night, cruelly situated at the top of what seems like all the stairs in this hemisphere. My driver asks if I'm okay, I ask where I can buy some sunscreen, or aloe vera. He's never heard of either. Goddamn tanned islander sons of bitches...

I'm given a free meal ticket for dinner, but I blow that off to sleep, and then sleep some more. When I wake up, it's night out, and I find that my sunburn has not disappeared within the last few hours.


Dang.

I finally eat at a place called The Lounge, because they have a sign saying they're recommended by Lonely Planet, and I was not in the mood to be flexed with right now. I was in the mood for brick oven pizza for tourists and some sort of tropical fruit smoothie, and that's exactly what I had before limping back to my room to lie perfectly still on my bed till morning. Except when I had to pee, which involved trying to massage the skin around my knees enough so that standing upright in one place hurt a little less than the worst pain de Sade would imagine upon his enemies.

When it's light out I attempt to shower, which feels like someone's replaced my water with battery acid that is also on fire. My driver for the airport shows up with some breakfast, and we motor off. At the terminal I overhear a Swedish guy talking about some anti-inflammatory medication he bought, and I hobble over to ask if I can buy some from him. He's out, but gives me an Ibuprofen. The flight back to Bali was fine, except for the child crying directly behind me, and the person seated next to me who thought I had a skin disease and was trying his hardest to minimize contact with me. S'okay. I'd probably do the same. When we land I look for the guy who's supposed to drive me into Kuta, the party center of Bali (me being in perfect condition to do such), but I don't see any signs for my name. Instead, a couple Swedish dudes (including the same one who gave me the Ibuprofen) ask if I'd like to share a cab with them. They're headed to Kuta as well, cab fare split 3 ways is dirt cheap, I say yes.


I'd also like to point out that by this point my burn was so bad that my face had swollen to twice its size. I did not know that was a thing that happened.

The Swedes get a room in a cheap guesthouse, where they let me stash my backpack. They've noticed that my face is, well, wrong, and I go with them to finally get some motherfucking aloe vera. While we eat some sushi, I just rub that shit all over. I would've drank it if i could.

I don't have a flight to catch till later that night, so I also join them in looking around town.


This is the Bali Bomb Memorial. We asked for directions to it, while standing right here.


This is a monkey riding a tiny motorcycle. Because sometimes the world is great.

But sometimes...

Your sunburn forms monstrous hell-blisters around your ankle. Imagine my surprise when during dinner I notice my socks are itching, pull them down, and find these.

The guys suggested I lance it in the bathroom. So I did.
And filmed it. Be thankful you can only see the process in silhouette.

We eat dinner at a touristy joint called Mojo's Flying Burritos, which happened to be playing a mix of Abba tunes all night, much to the delight of my new Swedish friends. At least in my suffering I was not alone. The rest of the time before my flight is spent with them back at the guesthouse, drinking copious amounts of Bintang beer and listening to Pixies and the Doors. The day had ended up being one of my worst mornings and best nights.

At the airport I'm actually stopped by the check-in woman for my flight to Australia, who noticed my ankles and asked with genuine concern if I was okay to fly. Of course, I responded. I was drinking lots of water, and had some aloe vera. What more do you need? Better aloe vera, for one. This shit had alcohol in it, which I later found makes aloe vera just plain not work.

The flight itself was underbooked, so luckily I was able to lay down across an entire row of seats and sleep in short, fitful bursts between the sounds of children crying and the flight attendants waking me up for awful fried rice I had pre-purchased. I was done with Bali, at least for the time being. My body was a wretched wasteland of open sores and skin that was hardening at a frightening rate, but in a few hours I would be in Australia. That would make things better.

Maybe.