Australia Horror Show/PERTH

When we last left our hero:

My skin was in the process of turning into crispy, delicious bacon. Oh, and I was in Australia, visiting one of the hottest and sunniest places in the country, because my friend here was inconsiderate enough to choose such a place to live before I got horrifically sunburned. I arrived in Perth in the middle of the night, having spent most of the flight with a napkin or some toilet paper in hand so I can dab away wherever my face had decided to spontaneously start leaking. Again, something I did not know was a thing that happened. I was picked up at the airport by my friend Jessie and taken to my sleeping digs for the night, her boyfriend's couch. Now, my plan had been to stay at Jessie's apartment, but I find out that thanks to her new job as an au pair, her apartment no longer exists. Or, it does exist, but its new residents probably wouldn't take kindly to me passing out on their couch. Either way, it looked like my imposing would have to be transferred to her kindly Australian beau Dan for the time being.

You might be wondering why I couldn't be bothered to find out beforehand the details of my sleeping arrangement, and that's understandable. Basically, plans are like sunscreen. I didn't have any, and by this point I was more pus than man so cut me some slack.

The next morning I shower, Jessie makes me french toast, and I'm told to get the fuck out. But, polite. There's a nearby hostel called Underground Backpackers that I check into, and discover that the price for a dorm bed starts at 30 dollars a night.

Now, that's 30 dollars Australian, so I would've been relieved, except I had also discovered this colorful Monopoly crap they call money was standing almost 1:1 with the the once-reliable-now-shameful US buck. 30 freaking dollars. I'm not entirely sure what "rue the day" actually means, but I'm pretty sure I was doing it, or Underground Backpackers should be doing it.

But O what opulence did 30 dollars buy...

I meet Dan and Jessie later for dinner, but not before stopping at a "Chemist's" (pharmacy) for some "plasters" (bandages) for my "blister" (still-oozing leg hole). Not being one for half-measures, I applied all of them and called it a day.

All fixed.

After eating we wander the city, and Dan gives me a brief rundown on life in Perth.

For one, there are no 24-hour stores. It's a silly government law, and it means that even grocery stores are only allowed to be open till 10pm. And I'm told that even 10pm is considered generous, and it used to be even earlier. Of even more concern is the lack of happy hours in the city. I was never able to find a proper explanation for this, other than the complete and utter breakdown of civilization in Australia. Once you take away affordable drinks, it's just Thunderdome from here on out.

Somewhere, Whitney Houston is strapping on chainmail shoulder pads because of these prices.

Then, there was the Bell Tower:

Home to some bells that were such-and-such centuries old, but mostly notable for representing the cock and balls of the guy in charge of the project. Or, since the tower was cut down in size due to budget controversy, it more accurately represents his shrunken and emasculated package.

Back at the hostel I get to put my own sheets on my top bunk in an effort designed to make me uncomfortable as possible, before falling asleep to the gentle sounds of the couple below me dry-humping.

A good deal of the following morning is spent picking at my sunburn, letting the peelings drift down to the bunk below me where the couple is one of those types that took an extra bedsheet so they could drape a privacy curtain around their bed. Basically, fuck them. A short list of things I notice about my body around this time:

My blisters had not stopped leaking, and were rapidly exceeding the absorption capacity of my bandages (as evidenced by the thick, white patches in the photographs). In some spots, the adhesive would give out and I would find the discharge running down my feet. Also, typing "discharge" nearly made me throw up just now.

And I found these fun orange/yellow lines running down my legs. I thought it was just my skin being wacky, and later doctors told me they were lines of infection. So, in a way we were both right.

Finally, the Australian sunscreen I bought is so thick that it sticks to all the cracks in my face and outlines them, leaving me looking a little something like this:

Now that I look like a bloodless lizard-person, I'm finally ready to face the day. Preferably, in a cool, shaded, and mirror-free environment. Jessie and I go to a bar that has a deal on pizza and a beer for 15 dollars, making a grotesque mockery of the word "deal". Afterwards, we arrange to meet for an outdoor movie later, and I scuttle back to a Chemist's for some spray-on sunscreen and dressings, because those packs of bandages are also 15 goddamn bucks.

By now most of my old bandages have solidified, so I have to cut away the soaked parts and cover up the blister with my new dressings. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to buy any tape. Instead, I fold up some toilet paper and tie it carefully around my ankle in an impressive display of Boy Scout ingenuity.

I didn't think it looked too bad, all things considered.

I hop on the bus for the outdoor theater in Warwick, and no sooner had I sat down than my toilet-paper tourniquette ripped into a pile of carefully-folded pieces. But I was getting used to these trials, and after digging around in my backpack, I finally tie the dressing off with a USB cord. There are no pictures of this, because I had finally descended from Boy Scout improvisation to Hobo levels of desperation and despair. My only hope was Australians would mistake it for some sort of American-chic cyberpunk fashion, which frankly didn't seem too unlikely given the sea of popped collars I found myself in. Sometimes two or three to a single douchebag.

I get lost trying to find the theater, have to ask directions multiple times, and finally stumble to the right place 20 minutes after the movie has already started. And since I hadn't asked Jessie beforehand, what movie should be playing, to reward all my efforts? Burlesque, starring Christina Aguilera and Cher. A movie so foul that it should count itself lucky I used up my quota for the word "discharge". I tell myself that this whole "no plans, no details" bullshit needs to end now, immediately. After the living abortion of a film finishes, I'm able to find Jessie and eat some leftover Domino's. On each Tuesday every Australian in the world orders Domino's, because you can get a whole pizza for 10 dollars and if you happened to miss it amidst all my pus-talk, Australia is fucking expensive.

Back in my hostel that night, I'm treated to the obnoxious howling of drunken Aussie card players while I try to read and nurse a growing national prejudice. I sleep angry.

The next day, however, I awake refreshed and optimistic. My peeling had started to subside, my face had shrunk back down to an acceptable level of thickness, and now I was going to make the best of a beautiful day. Sometimes an angry sleep is all you need (True?).

So I go for a walk. Damn the expense, I was going to have a good breakfast and really see the town.

I wander into the college district, sizing up cafes here and there, noticing the surprising number of internet cafes for a country that only just figured out that the internet is not, in fact, an invisible monster trying to steal their women, when I stumble; a sharp, wet pain runs along the length of one toe. I look down.

And wish I hadn't. The reason for the blood geyser now erupting from my foot was a meter-long open pipe welded into the middle of the sidewalk. Why? My best guesses involve either Mad Max, or the government, or both. Fuck everything holy and beloved. I look around for any open storefront in the immediate vicinity, and leave a literal blood trail as I limp to an Indian restaurant up the block.

I don't know how other people would react in this situation, but I remember the main thought in my head at the time was, "I feel really rude bleeding all over these peoples' doorway." I ask if they have a first aid kit. They don't. Of course. What they do have is a pitcher of water to rinse away some of the blood, and a roll of paper towels to wrap the toe in.

All fixed.

They recommend I go back down a couple blocks to a cafe I had passed earlier, where they would almost certainly have a first aid kit. I hobble back the way I came, amazed all the while that my foot has enough juice left in it to still be cartoonishly pouring out blood. The cafe does turn out to have a first aid kit, and in addition to more water and paper towels I'm given a roll of gauze to wrap the toe in, and they call me a taxi to the hospital. While stitches were certainly looking like a necessity, I was worried about the cost. I didn't have travel insurance. One of the baristas assures me I'll get free health care, "almost definitely". Okay then. To the hospital.

Fact: Americans do not get free health care in Australia. As an American in need of health care, I found this news particularly distressing. After giving my name and information I'm invited to wait for about an hour with my fellow emergency room refugees, then handed off from nurse to nurse, who each ask me "This is about your sunburn, right?" When I tell the final nurse that No, it's actually about my toe that seems to have come undone at the seam, she replies "Well, we'll take care of that too."

And at the same time, I find out. I'm guided to a bed to have one nurse administer stitches to my toe, and another nurse deroof my blisters. It is my special fate to be able to explain that "deroof" means she's going to cut away all of the skin around the blister, leaving nothing behind but a giant damp red patch around my ankle, like I've been playing footsie with a pack of lampreys.

In case you were wondering what my legs were looking like right about now. Disclaimer: Some of the images in this post might upset you. If you have an easily upset stomach, you shouldn't have just looked at that picture. Whoops on you!

I'm given laughing gas, and the two nurses set to work. One of them jokingly suggests they make it a race, so I say "Pew!" and mime a starting pistol going off, which they don't get, and it turns out it's really hard to explain when you're on laughing gas. Anyways, stitches win (there were only two stitches, so if you're the betting type that would've been the smart money). My legs are then dressed and bandaged, and I'm asked to come back the next day to change my dressings at the burn clinic.

You can hardly notice.

Before I leave, one of the nurses asks how I got so badly burned, because she's leaving soon on a trip to Indonesia, and wants to know exactly what I did so she can do the exact opposite. Already, I was helping people. Touching lives. That's what it's all about.

I'm not able to pay just yet because the cashier is only open 3 hours a day, so I eat in the hospital cafeteria and hop a train to meet Jessie. I had been forced to check out of Underground Backpackers that morning, because I was only paying day to day, and it turns out that unless you're extremely lucky (as I had been), all the dorm beds in all the hostels get completely filled every day unless you book ahead. All 30 bucks a night, yet not a single opening anywhere. So instead, I would be spending the night in a tiny room in a garage at the home where Jessie did her au pair...ing.

I was curious what kind of family can afford an au pair, and it's apparently the kind that can also afford a house with this view:

I checked but alas, their toilet paper was not in fact a giant roll of unwanted money.

The following morning I try unsuccessfully to shower without getting my dressings wet, then catch a ride with Jessie as she drops off her employers' daughter at school. At the time I noticed that the girl was extremely polite, getting out of the front seat to offer it to me, asking how I was doing...Later Jessie informed me the girl thought I had a skin disease and was going to get my legs amputated.

I make it to the burn clinic an hour and a half late for my appointment, where I'm given new dressings and a bag of replacements so I can change them myself. There are remarks about how they've never seen a sunburn so bad, blah blah blah. I find the hospital cashier, this time open for business, and discover that no, my normal health insurance does not cover this, and yes, I should've bought travel insurance, and oh that x-ray I said I didn't want or need but they gave me anyway was going to cost a boatload extra.

I also realize that since they never checked my ID, I could've given a fake name and address at the outset of all this and made a clean getaway. Once more, dammit, This Is The Last Time I Get Taken Advantage Of. Or, don't take advantage of an opportunity where I could take advantage of someone else. Something like that.

This little piggy has cost me a fucking fortune.

On the plus side, I'm told to take some paracetamol which leads to me finding out you can get still get codeine over the counter here:

So that's neat. Meanwhile, my legs were now covered up by even larger stockings that were supposed to apply pressure or something, but just itched like the dickens.

How DARE someone assume I have a skin disease.

That night I sleep again in the garage, after another fruitless round of hostel vacancy searching. In the morning it takes a full hour to remove my bandages, shower, put them back on, moisturize, and put on sunscreen. I spend the day looking for open hostels, and find nothing. I notice that I'm getting a rash on my arm where the burn has peeled.

But it was just going to have to wait its goddamn turn in the scheme of things.

In the evening I meet up again Jessie, her boyfriend, and a number of their friends for karaoke, which was actually pretty great. That is, until we're outside and a drunken slutty mess nearby happens to know someone in our group and starts flirting with him in front of her boyfriend. As I observed from a distance, her boyfriend confided in me that he had "too much testosterone and jealousy," and was almost definitely "gonna punch someone tonight."

But he didn't, so far as I saw. Which was probably a good thing, because if it was me he punched I think I would have simply disintegrated at this point. I spent the night once again on Dan's couch, trying to fill my head with images like this:

The happier, crepe-and-bubble-tea-filled side of Australia, as opposed to the fighting-drunk, toe-slicing nightmare I found myself in. Sleep did not come easy. But then, it never did.

A Day Long Crash/UBUD

My first official night of The Trip over and uneventful, I awoke at the unholy hour of 9 with one errand on my mind: buy some fucking shorts. Remember how I forgot to pack any? The Bali weather in March was not being kind to my un-acclimated, long pants-wearing ass. After eating I wander shops and practice my haggling, and ended up with some ugly clothing that did not make it out of the country.

On the plus side, I hit up the Art FuckTory again (possibly actually called the Flow Art Studio?):



This artist is my kind of alcoholic.


I also ran into a few of the numerous, numerous street dogs that roam, well, the streets.

In front of every home and shop in Bali are offering boxes that contain some mix of flowers, incense, and a bit of food, all a sacred tribute to the spirits.




Which monkeys just goddamn love to eat.


As I mentioned previously, I went back to the Monkey Sanctuary (armed this time with a functioning camera), and was rewarded for my efforts by a monkey trying to steal my bracelet, and would only let go when I gave the little bastard my entrance ticket in exchange. He then either ate the ticket, or became a legal resident of the sanctuary. I don't know, I had places to be.

Like Ibu Oka, a restaurant famous (according to Wikitravel) for their spit-roasted pig.

Which was, you know, good. And so was Bintang, the local beer, pictured here half-drunk.

I also saw the Ubud market, the first of many, many Southeast Asian markets that guidebooks will always recommend you check out, but you do not need to, because they are all the same.

Pictured: The same market as everywhere else in Southeast Asia.

And so I continued to wander, passing disgruntled middle-aged white woman after white woman, all in brand new yoga pants and experienced sneers. It would be awhile before I realized why these harpies had descended on what was otherwise a fairly relaxed Balinese arts and culture center, but I'll let you in on the secret right now: The popular book (and movie) "Eat Pray Love" apparently had a section on Ubud, the same town I was in, and thus hordes of lame divorcees had stormed in, trying to find themselves or whatever junk that book is about.

But fuck those bitches; this is my story. And after getting some tapas and (delicious) black bean pudding at Nomad cafe, I was going to spend the day touristing it up. I would rent a scooter and visit Mt. Batur, an active volcano in the middle of Bali, and see the rice terraces of Tegallalang on the way.

Or, that was the plan. I had never driven a scooter before, but they seemed easy enough, especially when priced under 10 dollars for the day. I had driven ATVs before, how different could it be?

So I went back to my guesthouse, filled out a form, he gave me a map, showed me how to work the accelerator and brake, no problem, I took the controls, and immediately gunned it into the scooter shop across the street.

I recall the guesthouse worker yelling something at me as I tried to separate my scooter from the crash site, something disparaging no doubt, but I paid that noise no mind and drove off the second I was upright.

Yes, the throttle turned out to be a little more sensitive than I thought it would be, but I made it to Tegallalang:




And immediately after that photo, I was accosted by an old couple selling all the same shit as everywhere else, and before I knew it I had forked over 15 bucks for a couple of sarongs, vowing (again) This Is The Last Time I Get Taken Advantage Of.

Back where I had parked my scooter, another man was waiting, claiming I had to pay for parking. I fork over 50 cents American, and this seems to satisfy him.

Riding on, I decide to take a video. As you would, on your first drive, just after a crash. Confidence!

Of course, if you're holding a camera in one hand, that leaves no hands to work the brakes. Whoops!

I continue responsibly to Kintamani, a place I heard oft-mentioned when I talked about going to Batur, and when I arrive I pay another parking fine, this time giving the man a dime and a penny floating around in my wallet. It may seem cheap or heartless, but I am fairly certain that is actually about the amount he wanted in Indonesian Rupiah. So yeah, it was cheap. I then started to feel bad about giving the last guy a whole 50 cents, last time I get taken advantage of, etc.

Then I saw the view from Kintamani:


Wow, look at that! Mount Batur! Wait, that's the mountain I'm supposed to be on. So where the hell am I? Kintamani, apparently. Not part of Mount Batur. Instead, a viewpoint of said mount. I...guess that was worth crashing a scooter and buying some overpriced sarongs?

Of course, on the drive back I get ridiculously lost, a guy tries to point me in the right direction, I yell at him, and continue to get more lost. I finally arrive back at the guesthouse, freezing cold, and it isn't before long the guesthouse worker comes by demanding (asking politely, really) restitution. For crashing his scooter, into a bunch of other scooters, that he will probably have to fix, he wants...about 30 bucks. I've only got 25 on me. He accepts.

Not that I came out of that crash unscathed, mind you:




Look upon my works and despair.

Welcome Back/TAIPEI - UBUD

After my unintended and mostly awful night in Taiwan's capital, I was feeling self-destructive and decided to take a strange bus route back to the airport, different from the one I had used before. Despite my sporting attempt at confused self-defeat, I was able to (just) make my plane to Bali, and had a completely unremarkable flight besides watching both Robocop and The Jerk for the first time ever, on my netbook. Actually, I guess that would make it a pretty remarkable flight.


The in-flight movies were a little more confused and off-putting.

If you want to get jazzed up for international travel...there are better ways to do it, but I'll be damned if those combined films didn't make some kind of impact on my psyche.

And thus I entered into the Bali airport. Naive. Ill-prepared. I noticed lines queuing up for visas, and the people in said line had in their hands a lot of carefully filled out paperwork that looked worryingly official. I had no paperwork, official or otherwise. Even worse, I didn't see any place to get these papers, and it was becoming more and more obvious (and alarming) that people had already been equipped with these forms when they arrived. Now, I'd had a brief glance at the wikitravel page for Bali, and didn't see anywhere about needing extra visa preparation before arrival. It seemed for the first time in history, a person had been led astray by a publicly-edited website.

Right when I was about to find a desk to ask if I could pretty please just get back on the plane and see where that takes us, one of the airport workers stepped forward and asked if I needed help. I mumbled something about needing an ATM, thinking at the very least I might be able to bribe, and maybe cry, my way through, but it turns out that wasn't necessary. I mean, money was definitely necessary, but the second I had cash-in-hand this airport worker was taking me straight to the front of every line in the place.

Before I knew it, my passport was all visaed up, and as I would find, cost me 10 dollars extra. I was angry at myself for giving in so quickly to the scams, but then I looked back at all the travelers still stuck in that monster of a visa queue, and realized no one had even looked at my customs declaration form (the only actual form I had on me), and things felt pretty okay. That is, until another airport worker offered to carry my bag, and then demanded another 10 dollars after lugging it a whole 20 yards, knowing that new arrivals would only have big bills. Welcome back to Southeast Fucking Asia.

I didn't yet have to deal with the headache of airport taxis (spoiler alert: fuck airport taxis), since one of the very few things I had done in preparation for the trip was booking a guesthouse in Ubud, which included airport pick-up. So that was nice, and I was able to relax for the ride north. Until, you know, our car was rear-ended.

Truthfully, things could have been going better. Such were my thoughts as I watched a couple women smile-yell at my driver for about 10 minutes, which he returned in kind.


Angry smiles at the ready.

There were also some more panicky thoughts when we got back on the road, and I spotted a motorcycle driver ahead of us with some manner of automatic rifle strapped to his back, but what can you do.


Seriously.

These things...they are definitely there, and are things.

After checking into my guesthouse and generally feeling relieved that my driver didn't also try to hit me up for money (instead, I would later find out his fees had been tacked onto my room bill), I met my neighbors: a pair of German girls on their way to the nearby Monkey Sanctuary. Would I be interested in joining them, they asked? If you like, you can recreate in your head the moment I decided to book a guesthouse in Ubud, instead of the more popular Kuta: it was exactly when I read there was a nearby Monkey Sanctuary.

Of course, after a single photo of these damn monkeys, my camera died. MOTHERFUCKER. I know, right? Eff that ess. So if you'll excuse the anachronism, I'd like to present some photos AND VIDEOS of goddamn monkeys that I took the following day, with camera fully charged and monkeys continuing to do wacky monkey things:


Like, hanging out.


And hanging out next to people.


And hanging out next to water.


And going fucking insane in the water.


And being adorable and also kind of sad.


And this one was my favorite: he was chewing on a (lit) incense stick that he stole from an offering box, and it looked like he was smoking.


Which was, of course, hilarious.


This was not what it looked like. Probably.

Yeah, that'll do. After we gave the sanctuary a moderate exploration, the girls and I part ways, leaving me to nap and eat alone like a leper, and them to, I don't know, go live lives separate from mine, never to be seen again. Somehow it snuck up on me how brief backpacker connections can be.


It is way too early days to already be feeling crushing loneliness. You gotta tighten up, Jamie. Also maybe keep the talking to yourself to a minimum.

I was also to learn that almost the entirety of Ubud closes by 10pm, leaving no nightlife, and me with nothing to do except watch old episodes of Rescue Me on the netbook and watch the lizards crawl around on my ceiling. Which is a thing in Southeast Asia.


Indeed, nothing but the Art FuckTory seemed to be open.

Welcome back.