Things Get Weird/BRUNEI

While in the air to Brunei, I notice my passport is running dangerously low on stamp space. Still, I fancy myself a problem-solver: There's exactly enough room for the stamp on one page, and if I can get the immigration officer to put it right there then I'll have enough blank pages for the remaining countries. Easy. I'm kind of the best at Tetris.

The immigration guy is an asshole. He glares at me offended when I dare suggest where he should place his holy mark, and instead turns to one of the last fresh pages and lays his stamp smack in the middle. Now I'm going to have to find the American embassy and get more pages put in, which I'm sure costs at least a hundred billion dollars.

I can't find the bus from the airport, so I just start walking in the direction of the city. Brunei, or rather "The Nation of Brunei, The Abode of Peace," is pretty much one big city with a tangle of jungle and oil derricks on the outskirts. I'm pretty sure I remember reading an article somewhere that said hitchhiking here is easy, and worst comes to worst I can just hail a taxi. Or walk the whole distance, and be one of those kind of guys. Luckily, I'm barely walking twenty minutes before a sedan pulls over and picks me up.

The driver is Nelson, a local Bruneian of Malay heritage. He's very friendly, as you can imagine, and has one of those soft, "kind" faces. The kind of guy who pulls over and gives disheveled white boys a ride. In the passenger seat is a young boy, either teenage or early 20s, who doesn't talk the entire time and I just assume is Nelson's son.

I tell Nelson my story, and he mentions that hitchhiking is actually not that common. I'm a lucky duck! He goes on to offer to show me what he calls the King's Mosque, which is on the way. Hey, I've got nowhere to be. Let's reverently and respectfully tear that bitch up.

It's a gorgeous mosque in a country that I am sure is full of gorgeous mosques. It's got the four tower/pillar things around it that seem pretty integral to a mosque's mosqueocity, and the inside is all a stunning white, with beautiful stained glass filling the central dome.

The attendants make me wear what looks like a judge's robes before I can see the top floor, which seems like a quirky rule. Up there, they have a prayer room covered in ornate marble and glasswork. It's the sort of thing that makes you wish you were spiritual, so you could really kick things up a notch in the ol' veneration department. They don't allow photography, so you'll have to take my word for it. Or, like, go there. I'm not the boss of you.

After seeing the mosque, Nelson drops me off at Pusat Belia, Brunei's lone hostel. Before leaving, he mentions that he owns a spa, and offers me a job as a masseuse. I of course reply that I have no idea how to give a professional massage, and he says it won't matter, that weird Bruneian guys will pay extra just to have the exotic fingers of a white person clumsily rub them down. He also mentions that if the Pusat Belia is full, I can stay at his house, which has plenty of extra bedrooms. Apparently the silent enigma in the passenger seat is currently one of his guests.

Yes, Nelson could possibly be a sexual predator, picking up helpless backpackers and having them turn out handie-jays in his spa of horrors, but I am running pretty low on funds here. No one's perfect, right? He did show me that mosque, and he's behaved very respectfully towards me this entire time. Maybe his spa is legit, and the boy in the front seat isn't his catamite toyboy. As Nelson explained, Brunei is Muslim, so it makes sense that all his clients are male, as only male masseurs are allowed to massage men. Really, I'm probably just being disrespectful by having misgivings. I would like that money. Nelson says he'll come by at 7 tonight and show me how to give a massage, then drives off leaving me with his business card. It's probably fine. Hell, I could just blow him off if the bad vibes get to be too much, or I forget.

Pusat Belia, Brunei's lone hostel, is full. They tell me it never happens, but it's a holiday and students are on a trip, which comes as small comfort since the next cheapest place around here is a $30 a night hotel. Maybe I will definitely meet Nelson. I wonder if I could give a handjob for money? You know, totally hypothetically. Just...a thought problem.

Something to think about while staring wistfully into the distance. We've all thought about it, right?

There's not a whole lot to see or do around Bandar Seri Bagawan, Brunei's capital that I was smack dab in the middle of. There are a number of really nice mosques, a mall-flavored mall, and your usual streets full of modern but drab shops. It's clear the city has a lot of money and infrastructure, but not a lot of interest in impressing sightseers or tourists.

This is the most scenic photo of the city, sans-mosque, that I was able to get. There is one sculpture, and it is dull as hell.

My options are stay around my hostel, wasting what little funds I have in overpriced cafes, or...fuck it. I won't let my tombstone read "Here Lies Jamie, He Was Too Scared of Possibly Having to Give a Handjibber to Make Some Quick Cash and That Somehow Led to his Untimely Death." I walk over to Pusat Belia and sure enough, right at 7 there's Nelson's car. Something that never gets said enough for creepy dudes: their punctuality.

If this is some tawdry seduction attempt, he does a good job of hiding it. First, Nelson takes me to eat dinner at a Chinese restaurant his friend works at. The three of us chat and have a good time, and then Nelson covers the bill, which could go either way.

Next, he shows me some sights, but none of them match up to the mosque from earlier. There's an amusement park I can just about see over its fence, some royal palace, and then this giant sculpture installation that a member of the royal family built to symbolize his engagement.

Nelson says the diamond is real. Adorable.

Honestly, the most incredible sight I see is what gas costs in an oil state:

Trying to think in litres (sp!) is still half-witchcraft to me, but those numbers definitely don't seem as high as they should be.

Finally, he takes me to his spa. It's business time. Like for real business, because his spa is totally a legit spa. There are certificates all over the walls, and a general "kinda cheap but probably real" mise-en-scene.

It's definitely not a sex dungeon, but that could be my cultural bias talking.

Regardless of whatever happens here, at least I can rest easy knowing it's halal.

Nelson keeps hugging me, but that's probably nothing. Maybe he's just a really grateful employer. This whole halal business, dudes only allowed on dudes, it's still possible everything is totally normal to him. Like skinship in Korea, where guys are all about friendly touching and caressing. I just need to respect his culture. Nelson leads me into the massage room, and asks me to undress. I make a point to keep my underwear on, and I look for any sign of disappointment. No reaction. Alright.

There I am, face down and clad only in my skivvies, and Nelson starts to massage me. I'm not a big massage man personally, but I can tell that he's a professional, and the entire time he's giving me instructions. Where to start, which directions to go, how hard to push, important spots to hit, the whole works. It's very informative, and I found myself immensely relieved, embarrassed, and wishing I had taken notes. This could be a real skill! I just life-hacked my way into some free job training! Traveling, baby, I'm doing it right.

His hands are steadily working their way down from my shoulders to my lower back, and finally to my butt. Nelson sighs. "You will have to take this off. Is it okay?"

I know what you're thinking. I was thinking the same thing. Sometimes masseurs have gotta massage the butt. Now I don't get too many massages, but I imagine you can't do a real, proper butt massage with cloth in the way. It makes sense. With some hesitance, I drop my drawers. Now we're in flavor country.

He gives my buttocks a good working-over, but doesn't overstay his welcome and soon moves onto my legs and feet. I knew there was nothing to worry about. Just think of all that sweet cash I'm gonna be making taking advantage of weird racist Bruneians. Maybe I'll never have to go home, and instead travel the world as a wandering masseur. Back in reality, Nelson tells me to flip over. No problem.

Feeling reassured but still antsy, I repeat over and over in my mind: You will not get hard. You will not get hard. I don't care where you land on the Kinsey scale, you are not going to have an erection at this moment in time for any reasons whatsoever.

There isn't a lot to massage on the front side of your typical human, and after kneading my arms and hands a bit, Nelson arrives at my Fun Zone. The Pleasure Palace. The Vault of Secrets. And he dives right in.

His fingernails trace designs over my cock like it's the hennaed hand of a Hindu bride. He does it so matter-of-factly, and with such practiced skill, that it must still be part of the massage. It has to be, and I'm...I'm just really learning a lot about Muslim massage today.

I won't lie to you. It doesn't feel un-great. Regardless, my hetero leanings win out, and I remain as flaccid as Elton John watching a sex tape of Gloria Steinem. Heaven be praised. no difficult soul-searching and huge life decisions for me today! Nelson, on the other hand, is not so content.

"I know you are not gay," he says, looking me in the eye, "But I am." Oh no. "Would you like me to continue?"

Let's all take a moment and recognize: COULD'VE BEEN WORSE. What that in mind, I still need to keep things upbeat and friendly between attempted-handjober and handjobee. Hell, I know for a fact my dick looks great in this humidity, and in some respects old Nelson here is just another victim to its splendor. I didn't mention this earlier for narrative reasons, but Brunei doesn't really have public transportation, on account of everyone having a car 'cause oil state. I don't have a phone either, with which one could call a taxi service. Basically if I stormed out into the night, I'd be kind of fucked. Meaning, ultimately, I need this guy to give me a ride home.

I need to be Zenmaster Flash here. Do I want him to continue, he asked? "No, I'm okay." Your move, amigo. Hope it's friendly and boundary-respecting.

There's a lot of disappointment in those gay Bruneian eyes. Nelson's a stand-up weirdo though, and he drives me back to the hostel. Let me tell you about long, awkward car rides. You don't know shit about long, awkward car rides. That isn't to say we didn't have some interesting conversation, though. I'm curious about what it's like to be gay in an entirely Muslim country, and Nelson informs me there are plenty of gay Bruneians. "They hang out in cafes," he says. "You can smell them." Shine on, you creepy diamond.

I'm also curious about the pricing/ what I'm giving up by not being a halal sex worker. He says if I truly was still interested, I could get up to the princely sum of...50 dollars an hour. That doesn't even sound like a good deal for a person who isn't as white as a Fleet Foxes concert in a snow storm! My alabaster handjobs are worth more than your peanuts. Good day, sir.

After Nelson has dropped me off back in town, I get coffee at a nearby cafe and check the internet. I had previously sent out some feelers on Couchsurfing for a place to stay in Brunei, with no response. As it turns out, one of those hosts, a Zimbabwean expat named Prosper, replied and had been waiting for me all night. I send a message back that I'll meet him tomorrow. Have I got a great excuse for why I got held up!

And it wasn't because I went late-night mosque-sighting! (Sorry, but I have to break up these walls of text somehow. It's also the only way I can get people to look at my vacation photos. Sucker.)

I spend one uneventful night in the spartan (yet pricey) KH Soon Resthouse, where once again ordering a room for myself yields two beds, as an unending reminder of my own loneliness.

At least I get to keep up with a lot more TV shows.

But that's why I'm on Couchsurfing. Today, I'm meeting a local Bruneian named Chan who's going to show me the jungle on the edge of town, and hopefully nothing else besides that. He finds me at the Yayasan mall, which is mainly notable for their horrifying mannequins.

Chan turns out to be a lovely, heavy-set guy with a passion for introducing people to Brunei. He drives me in his car over to what I come to learn is actually a rainforest. Geographically, Brunei is located on the island of Borneo, the largest island in Asia, which it also shares with Indonesia and Malaysia. I bet they get up to some wacky sitcom hijinks! Borneo is also home to the Borneo rainforest, one of the oldest in the world.

The Borneo rainforest also happens to be the world's sole habitat of the proboscis monkey, which Chan says we'll find today if we're lucky. It's a monkey that has a ridiculously large nose to the point of obscenity. It's really something, and if you're ever in Brunei, you'll see its dumb face featured on a lot of marketing for cafes and such.

Alright, enough tension. It's not like the monkeys are making a play for my junk or anything. We see some in the trees, because sometimes things are nice and the rainforest will share its treasures with you. Chan and I celebrate our enjoyable time with some refreshing coconut water.

By "see," I mean we spot some vague shapes in the foliage that might possibly be in the monkey family.

Chan drops me off at the embassy, where I go through the most numerous and thorough security checks of my life for the privilege of paying $82 for new passport pages. The knowledge of a truly sweet zombie defense spot doesn't make me feel a lot better about that.

Prosper meets me at DeRoyalle cafe, where I've just been watching episodes of Luther on my netbook and drinking unremarkable and overpriced coffee. He takes me back to his house, which is a nice suburban 2-story that he receives (in addition to his car) as part of his job in network administration. Like many other people here I've met, including Nelson and Chan, he gives me a spiel about how great the jobs are here, and how much they pay and all the amenities they provide, but I'm just not sure if a dry country is for me.

Normally an expat can only bring two bottles of liquor and a case of beer into the country per month, but Prosper has a black market guy who keeps him well-stocked. Before long, the party train is pulling into good-times station. I'm introduced to Prosper's Polish girlfriend, Kate, and we sit down to eat a dinner he's cooked and drink wine. The food is delicious, and we start listening to music and talking about our jobs, our travels, and Brunei. Nelson comes up, and Prosper gets steaming mad. He wants details, and weirdly, I don't want to give them. I really was asking for it, in a way. I was playing Gay Chicken with a man who was actually gay. Or maybe I just have more empathy after my breakthrough experience. Mushrooms, ladies and gentlemen.

In the morning, I find another Couchsurfing request waiting for me, but this one is just an invitation to grab some food. After I pick up my passport from the embassy, I return to Yayasan to meet Puspita, an Indonesian flight attendant who uses Couchsurfing to kill time and meet people between flights. She's from Jakarta, and recommends I go. Alrighty. She also pays for dinner, which is just such a class move, especially because your boy is a stone cold poor person. Puspita has a car, but since she's a girl and can't get her cooties all over the nice Muslim steering wheel, she's got her own driver to go with, who has a really tough time trying to find Prosper's. We say our pleasant goodbyes, respecting the nonsexual purity of our internet meeting, and then I get drunk again with Prosper on honey whiskey. He plays a bunch of Zimbabwean music and gets nostalgic, which I find sweet and also educational. I play him a bunch of white boy backpack rap, which he seems to enjoy in return. They always do.

On account of Bandar having next-to-nothing of interest for an international rogue like myself, I find myself the next day hanging out yet again in a Coffee Bean while Prosper and Kate see X-Men: First Class.

I also hit up a McDonald's, where I find them trying to out-America America. The MEGA Mac would make a bald eagle weep tears of pride.

Prosper mentions something that does manage to tickle this scalawag's ears: according to him, there is in fact a club in town, but only expats are allowed entrance. It's the only place in town that one can procure booze, save for getting traditional liquor from the indigenous natives, which seems like a whole to-do.

Unfortunately, Prosper doesn't get any of my Skype calls, so he's unable to pick me up, and I have to take a van home. You can call it a private taxi if you want, but for my $15 it's a freaking van. No club tonight, and tomorrow I fly out. Whomp whomp.

Prosper, stand-up guy that he is, even drives me to the airport. He says: "If you're ever in Zimbabwe, let me know and even if I'm not there, I'll have my friends take care of you. They'll show you the best time of your life." Hot damn, now I just need to get to Zimbabwe!That's the one regularly used in jokes to refer to how close it is to everything, right?

I stop in KL for a layover before enjoying a longer, overnight layover in Bali. My destination this time: the newest country in the world, East Timor. I have done literally zero research into this mysterious nation other than to confirm that it is indeed a Southeast Asian country, and therefore I must see it.

Bali is a cinch this time. I immediately tell off the touts who try to carry my bags, and find some guys to share a cab with to Kuta. There, I'm able to get a bike taxi to Poppies Lane, where I find a cheap $10 hostel and schedule the driver for a pick-up to the airport tomorrow. Once he leaves, I wander around looking for food, liquor, and wifi.

Instead I found my spiritual awakening. Buy my book, please.

I take a break to grab some things from my room, and upon exiting I meet a group of Koreans staying in the room adjacent. Instead of eating dinner, I spend the night with them drinking beer, soju, and beer mixed with soju in a delightful concoction known as somek. Because I am smart and thrifty, and by now you should know this about me. I'm gonna crush East Timor.

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.